Michael Ridpath - 66 Degrees North

‘God. That’s dreadful,’ she said. ‘How did you cope?’

‘I was a tough little kid, I suppose,’ Magnus said. ‘I used to think about my father. I knew he would want me to stand up for Ollie, so I did. And I knew that one day he would come over from America to rescue us. And one day he did. But only after my mother had driven her car into a rock.’

‘It’s amazing you are not totally screwed up.’

‘No one goes through that kind of thing unscathed,’ said Magnus. ‘Like my mother and my grandfather I have tendencies to drink, which worries me. And sometimes I get so angry I just want to beat the shit out of people. Bad people.’ He paused. ‘I have got myself in trouble for that a couple times. It’s not the kind of thing you should do if you’re a cop. I scare myself sometimes.’

‘Ollie must have been a mess. He must still be a mess.’

‘He was pretty bad when he came to the States. My father did his best. Took him to see a shrink – that helped a lot. But Ollie’s had problems all through his life, with relationships, with jobs, with drugs. I think he still sees a shrink.’

‘Did you?’ Ingileif asked.

‘See a psychiatrist? No. No need.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Magnus said. ‘That I should get help with my issues. But frankly I’m quite happy burying all this stuff. I managed very well for twenty years without thinking about it.’

‘Sure. You obsessed about your father instead.’

‘Maybe,’ said Magnus. ‘I set him up as my saviour. He was my saviour. And then some bastard killed him.’

For the first time, Magnus’s voice faltered.

‘Come here,’ said Ingileif. ‘Come here.’ He rolled over into her arms and she held him tight.

MAGNUS, VIGDÍS AND Árni were crowded around Árni’s computer. With some difficulty, Árni had managed to get hold of footage from RÚV, the national TV company, of the demonstration.

They were looking at a segment taken in the dark. Faces were indistinct.

‘OK, that’s the three of them there,’ said Árni. ‘You can see Sindri’s ponytail silhouetted against the flare.’

Magnus squinted at the figures – a big man, a thinner man and a woman. ‘Yes, you can see the curls on Harpa’s hair. And that must be Björn.’

‘And you see there’s a guy next to them, with no shirt on, talking to Sindri?’

‘Yes, but you can’t make anything out of his features. It’s not Ísak, though, is it? Too tall.’

‘No, it’s not Ísak,’ said Árni. ‘But let’s go back a bit.’

‘OK.’ Árni played the footage in reverse. Harpa and Björn walked backwards away from Sindri and the tall newcomer, who plunged his head into a bucket of water and put on his football shirt. Then he stretched himself out on the ground in front of the camera. A nurse was treating his eyes. The TV crew’s lights picked up the features here. The man was not much more than a kid, eighteen or nineteen perhaps. He had spiky red hair. The nurse treating him had a round face, pink cheeks and a button nose. You could just make out Sindri in the crowd surrounding them. He seemed to be shouting encouragement to the kid.

‘I see,’ said Magnus. ‘But we know Sindri spoke to lots of people at the demo. He says he always does. What’s so special about this guy?’

‘Hang on a minute,’ said Árni. ‘And you will see.’ He tapped away at his keyboard and called up the police surveillance video. ‘OK. Here are the three of them leaving the demonstration, and I think that’s Ísak with them.’

‘You can’t really see, can you?’

‘No, but the build and the hairstyle is right when you compare it with the picture Sharon took.’ Árni held up a print of the photograph she had taken of Ísak outside his house in London.

‘OK, it’s possibly Ísak,’ said Magnus.

‘Probably,’ said Árni. ‘But look just a couple of feet behind him. There’s the kid with the spiky hair. He’s taken his shirt off and he’s waving it around his head.’

‘Are you sure he’s with them?’ Magnus asked. ‘And not just walking along near them.’

‘Not absolutely sure. He pauses here and shouts something to someone. The others get away from him, which is why we didn’t notice they were together before. But then he turns back, realizes that they are moving off, and jogs after them.’

‘Show me that again,’ said Magnus.

It wasn’t conclusive. Indeed, without the earlier footage of the kid talking to Sindri and walking off with him, it wouldn’t arouse suspicions at all.

‘OK, so who is this kid?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Árni.

‘I don’t recognize him from those anarchist files,’ said Magnus. ‘Do you, Vigdís?’

‘No. But I can go back and look again.’

‘We might have more luck with the nurse. Get the best still you can from that, Árni, and go off to the National Hospital. See if you can track her down. Maybe she got the kid’s name.’ Magnus smiled. ‘Well done, Árni. Good work.’

As Vigdís returned to her desk, Magnus thought of something. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be in New York?’

‘I cancelled,’ said Vigdís.

‘Why?’ Magnus asked.

‘This.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. There was no need to follow me on my wild goose chase.’

‘This is no wild goose chase.’

‘What about the poor guy in New York?’

Vigdís shrugged. ‘That’s what you get for dating a cop.’

Magnus went back to his desk, feeling guilty. Vigdís could have gone on her vacation, they would have coped. But he was pleased that she didn’t seem to think it was all a wild goose chase. And they were making progress. If they could find another conspirator, everything would begin to slip into place, although the kid looked a little too immature to be an international assassin.

The more he thought about it, the more Magnus was convinced there was another conspirator. The other alibis were just too convenient. Supposing Ísak was the man the French woman had seen in Kensington, asking for Óskar’s precise address. He must have been preparing the ground. Ísak lived in London, he knew the city, he could do the necessary reconnaissance, perhaps watch Óskar, confirm his habits, his routine, perhaps get hold of the gun and the getaway motorbike. Get everything ready for someone else. Someone who flew in from Iceland just to do the job.

The man who actually pulled the trigger. The assassin.

And who the hell was that? The kid with the spiky hair? Or someone else.

Magnus remembered Björn’s brother, Gulli.

‘Árni! Before you go!’

Árni paused on his way out. ‘Yes?’ Vigdís looked up from her files.

‘Do you remember much about Björn’s brother Gulli from when you interviewed him?’

‘No,’ said Árni. ‘Just that everything he said about Björn and Harpa staying with him that night seemed to stack up. Why?’

‘I tried to see him on Saturday. He wasn’t in. A neighbour said he was away on holiday and had been for a while.’

‘You think he might have gone to London?’ Vigdís asked.

‘Or Normandy?’ said Árni.

‘Or both,’ said Magnus.

‘Do you want me to see if he is back?’ said Vigdís.

‘Yes.’ He checked his notebook and gave Vigdís the phone number from Gulli’s van. ‘And if he is back, find out where he has been. If he isn’t, have a word with all his neighbours. See if any of them have a better idea of where he went.’

Magnus scanned his computer. There was an e-mail from Boston. His buddy in the Homicide Unit had been in touch with the USCIS and the State Department. There was no trace of an Icelandic citizen named Hallgrímur Gunnarsson entering the United States in June or July 1996.