Michael Ridpath - 66 Degrees North

‘That’s true.’

‘Have you ever been fly-fishing?’ Einar asked.

‘No. It always seemed a bit expensive for me,’ Árni said.

‘It’s got cheaper in the last year or two, with the kreppa . But then people have less money to throw around. I can’t afford the good rivers any more.’

‘Your wife said you had just come back from a trip. Any luck?’

‘Some. It’s more of a challenge when there are fewer fish to catch, and that’s fun in its own way. As long as you catch some. Which I did this time. Have a seat.’

Árni sat on a plastic chair, while Einar removed a small coil of wire from another one and sat opposite him. Árni scanned the garage. There was no room for a car: it was full of tools and other clutter, including a set of golf clubs in a corner – a bolthole for a practical man in retirement who needed things to do with his hands.

‘How much do you know?’ Árni asked the man in question.

‘About what?’

‘About the trouble Harpa is in.’

‘What trouble?’ The question was more of a challenge than the response of a worried parent on hearing bad news. Einar’s face was rock hard. Impassive.

‘I think you know that Harpa is in trouble,’ Árni said. ‘I think you know more than your wife. We can discuss this with her. Or you can tell me. How much do you know?’

Einar sighed. He smiled grimly. ‘Quite a bit. I went to drop off Markús the other day and I found Harpa collapsed on the floor, weeping. She told me everything.’

‘What did she tell you?’

Einar looked uncomfortable. ‘I can’t say. It’s up to her to talk to you.’

‘You don’t want to incriminate her?’

Einar shrugged. His square shoulders stiffened. An immovable object.

‘Did she tell you about Gabríel Örn? About what really happened to him?’

Einar didn’t reply.

‘Look. Einar. We need to locate Harpa urgently. We know she is with Björn. Do you have any idea where they might be?’

Einar shook his head.

‘We know that Gabríel Örn’s death wasn’t suicide. We know your daughter struck him, and he fell and hit his head. I don’t want to ask you about that, at least not now. We can discuss it later. But we believe that some of the people she was with that night were involved in the shooting of Óskar Gunnarsson and Julian Lister, the British government minister.’

Now Árni did get a reaction. ‘That’s ridiculous! I know Björn. He’s a good man. In fact…’ Einar hesitated.

Árni waited.

‘In fact Harpa asked me to check where Björn was when those two people were shot. I did that. He was out at sea the first time, and in Grundarfjördur harbour the second.’

Árni decided not to point out that Björn had actually been to France the day before the ex-Chancellor was shot. But it was interesting that Harpa herself had been suspicious enough to get her father to check out her boyfriend.

‘Einar, although we know that Björn did not carry out the shootings himself, we believe he was involved,’ Árni said. ‘In which case your daughter might be in some danger. Wherever she is. Now do you have any idea where that might be?’

‘I can’t believe it of Björn,’ Einar said.

‘I’m sorry, but it’s true. Now, where is Harpa?’

‘I don’t know,’ Einar said. ‘The note just said they were going away for a couple of days. It didn’t say where.’

‘Who signed the note?’ Árni asked. ‘Was it Harpa?’

‘No,’ said Einar. ‘It was Björn.’

MAGNUS WAS MAKING good time. The road beyond Borgarnes was virtually empty, and there were long straight stretches where he could put his foot down.

To his left, in the distance, the sea glinted in rays of sunshine filtering through the clouds. To his right, a lava field rolled all the way up to the road. Beyond that, through partings in the grey curtain of mist, he could see the flanks of mountains, grey battlements with moist green valleys in the gaps between their turrets.

In front of him, growing steadily larger as he approached it, was the Eldborg crater, a perfect circle of raised grey stone thrusting up out of the plain.

It wasn’t just the urgency of arresting Björn that was propelling Magnus forward at such speed. It was Ingileif. His grandfather. Benedikt’s murder. His own father’s murder. Ollie’s distress. Thoughts all crowding in on him, requiring his attention.

But he needed to focus. On Björn. On Harpa. And on Ingólfur Arnarson, whoever he was.

He wished he had a gun; he felt naked without it. He doubted Björn was armed, but he could be. They had used a handgun in London, a rifle in Normandy, why shouldn’t he have a firearm in Iceland? A cop without a gun wasn’t a real cop, as far as Magnus was concerned.

After a couple of kilometres of straight road, a bend rushed towards him faster than he expected, and the Range Rover nearly overturned as he took the corner.

He eased his foot off the accelerator a touch.

His phone rang. He glanced at the display before he answered.

‘Hi, Sharon.’

‘Ísak’s gone.’

‘What?’

‘We went to pick him up. His girlfriend said he left the country yesterday. Had to go back to Iceland to see his sick mother. She’s getting worse apparently, or at least that’s what he told her.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘The girlfriend called his mother in Iceland, who said she was fine.’

‘Had his mother seen Ísak?’

‘Briefly. He arrived home and then he went off again. Apparently he’s gone on a camping trip alone. To sort himself out.’

‘Where?’

‘His mother didn’t tell the girlfriend. I suggest you get someone to ask her.’

‘We’ll do that. Thanks, Sharon.’

Ísak was in a bit of a quandary. He had checked both passes leading towards Grundarfjördur, and had seen no sign of Björn’s pickup. It had been a lot of driving and he returned to Grundarfjördur unsure what to do next. The map didn’t show any other passes with roads through them directly to the south of the town. Indeed Grundarfjördur itself sat in a horseshoe-shaped cove, with green slopes rising smoothly to cliffs the whole way around. Lots of waterfalls, but nothing remotely resembling a pass. There were other possibilities further away, but which to try?

He cruised slowly through the little fishing port. Although his fuel gauge still showed half full, he pulled into a petrol station.

The guy at the counter was reading a book. He was about Ísak’s age, maybe a year or two younger. He was a little flabby, with long wispy fair hair and pasty skin. Ísak didn’t know how people like him survived stuck in the middle of nowhere all their lives. It would drive him mad: he would be out of there as soon as he could afford the bus ticket to Reykjavík.

He paid for his petrol. ‘Can you help me?’ he asked the guy. ‘I’m looking for a mountain pass near here. A friend of mine said there is an old hut that is worth looking at.’

‘There are no passes here in Grundarfjördur,’ the guy said. ‘You have to go to Ólafsvík or over towards Stykkishólmur.’

‘I’ve tried those,’ said Ísak. ‘I couldn’t see any old huts.’

‘Sorry.’ The man went back to his book. The Grapes of Wrath , Ísak saw.

Ísak headed towards the exit.

‘Wait a minute,’ the man said. ‘There is the Kerlingin Pass. Where the troll is.’

‘Troll?’

‘Yes, haven’t you heard of the Kerlingin troll?’ The man tutted, amazed at the ignorance of these people from Reykjavík. ‘It’s just to the east of the new road to Stykkishólmur. There is an old hut there, I am pretty sure.’

Björn sat outside the hut, listening to Harpa inside. The screams turned to sobs, and eventually to silence.