Michael Ridpath - 66 Degrees North

He had been shocked by her response. He had hoped she would at least understand his point of view. Perhaps she still would, given time. He knew how important he was to her, how much she trusted him.

After about forty minutes he went back in.

Harpa had pushed herself over against the wall of the hut, and was slumped against it.

Björn untied her. ‘Sit down on the chair,’ he said. It was more of a suggestion than a command.

Harpa ignored him. So he sat down next to her against the wall.

‘Can I leave you untied?’ Björn asked. ‘There’s nowhere you can really go. It’s several kilometres to the main road.’

Harpa nodded.

In the end she spoke, as he knew she would. ‘So what happened? Did you all get together right after Gabríel Örn died? I thought we agreed we would keep away from each other. So the police wouldn’t be able to make a link.’

‘Not right after. I think it was in June. I went to a bar with my brother one evening, the Grand Rokk. I bumped into Sindri there. I met him with Ísak the following day.

‘We all felt the same way. That what had happened to Gabríel Örn wasn’t actually that bad. That he deserved it. That others deserved it too.’

‘So you went to France. But if you didn’t shoot Julian Lister, what were you doing there?’

‘Preparing the way. Sindri’s drug-dealing friends had contacts in Amsterdam who could get hold of a rifle and a motorbike. I needed to talk to them and pay them. Then I checked out Julian Lister’s home in Normandy and buried the gun. Ísak had done the same kind of thing in London.’

‘Pay them? Where did you get the money?’

‘Most of it from Ísak. I don’t know where he gets it. Parents maybe?’

‘And you won’t tell me who pulled the trigger?’

‘No.’

Silence. ‘But don’t you realize it is murder, what you’ve done? What you’ve all done.’

Björn sighed. ‘I don’t think it is, Harpa. Not really.’

‘How can it not be?’

‘People have always died in Iceland. It’s a dangerous place. Farmers die in snowdrifts looking for their sheep. Fishermen drown at sea.’

‘Not any more, they don’t,’ Harpa said. ‘It’s years since a farmer died of exposure. And my father never lost anyone on his boat.’

‘He was lucky,’ said Björn. ‘I lost my elder brother and my cousin on my uncle’s boat when it sank. He survived with two others.’

Harpa raised her eyebrows. ‘I didn’t know that.’

‘I was fourteen,’ said Björn. ‘I should have been on the boat too, but our football team had an important cup match. I have felt guilty ever since.’

‘You never told me.’ Björn saw a flicker of sympathy in Harpa’s eyes and then it died. ‘But these people weren’t murdered.’

‘Not directly. But they died trying to put food on their families’ tables. Unlike the bankers who never ran any risks at all.’

‘That’s no justification, Björn.’

‘My point is, people die, Harpa. And Gabríel Örn and Óskar died for a better cause than my brother.’

‘I don’t see that.’

Björn’s patience snapped. ‘These people destroyed our country! They have put us and our children and our children’s children into debt for a century. And they are getting away with it! Not a single one is in jail. Someone had to do something.’ He fought to control himself. He wanted to win Harpa over, not shout at her. ‘It turned out that was us.’

Björn took a deep breath. There was more he could tell her, something that would persuade her, but now wasn’t the time. Not yet. Not until Ingólfur Arnarson had been dealt with.

‘I have to make a phone call,’ he said. He took hold of the rope. ‘I’m going to tie your hands together, and your feet. I’m sorry, I won’t be long.’

He tied two complicated knots around Harpa’s wrists and ankles. He made them tight, confident that she wouldn’t be able to untie them herself. And even if she did, where could she go?

He grabbed his phone, her phone and the knife he had brought with him, and went out to the pickup truck. He drove up to the top of the pass, and down the other side. In front of him, bathed in sunshine, stretched a magnificent view: the whole of Breidafjördur dotted with its islands, the holy bump of Helgafell and beyond that the town of Stykkishólmur to his right, the mountains of the West Fjords in the distance, and in the foreground the Berserkjahraun tumbling down towards the sea.

On the ridge above him stood the lonely figure of the stone troll herself, her head only a couple of metres below heavy cloud.

He got out of the truck and checked for a signal. There was one.

He made his call and was about to return to the hut, when he paused. He could hear the sound of a car. He looked down and saw a small hatchback climbing the potholed road towards him. A car like that was not robust enough to make the cratered track down to the hut. Probably a tourist wanting to check out the troll.

Björn decided to wait and watch.

The road was a nightmare. Ísak was amazed that this could ever have been the main route in to Stykkishólmur. He did his best to navigate around the craters as the Honda heaved and jolted its way up the pass, but it was impossible to avoid them entirely.

He was only a couple of hundred metres away when he spotted Björn’s red pickup, and Björn himself leaning next to it, watching him.

Think.

Ísak slowed. There would be no way that Björn would be able to recognize him as the driver yet.

He stopped. Executed a jarring three-point turn, and slowly headed down the hill, as though he had given up in the face of the bad road.

He drove slowly, his eyes flicking constantly up to the mirror where he could see the pickup behind him. Sure enough, after a minute or so, Björn climbed in and turned around, heading back over the pass. Another minute and Björn’s vehicle was out of sight.

Ísak waited a couple of minutes more, turned his car around yet again, and followed his co-conspirator.

He made his way carefully, getting out of his vehicle before each bend to peer around it on foot: he didn’t want Björn to see his car suddenly appear in the open. After half an hour or so of very slow progress, Ísak put his head around a boulder and saw the hut, standing alone on a knoll in the valley of stone, rock, moss and water, with Björn’s truck parked outside it.

Harpa had spent much of her childhood untangling fishing nets. She had strong nimble fingers and knew how fishermen tied knots.

She had watched closely as Björn tied the rope around her wrists and ankles. He knew what he was doing. She couldn’t reach the knot on her wrists, and the one on her ankles would be extremely difficult. In fact she suspected that Björn himself would have to use a knife to cut it.

But she could only try. She tugged, pulled, pushed and puzzled. Eventually, she made progress and she could feel the whole knot loosen. But just as she was about to pull it apart, she heard the sound of Björn’s vehicle approaching.

She hesitated, and then tightened the knot again.

Next time.

ANNA ÖSK SET her little pony off at a canter around her bedroom. She had had the pony for three weeks now, since her birthday, and she still liked to play with it all the time.

Her mother said she could have a real one when she was nine. Her daddy wasn’t so sure. He was worried about money. He was always worried about money. Silly man. Mummy had told her that they were rich. It was obvious: they had a really big house right in the middle of Reykjavík by the lake.

But when she got her pony they couldn’t keep it at home. Apparently their garden wasn’t big enough. Which was also silly. Their garden was really big, much bigger than the one belonging to Anna Ösk’s best friend Sara Rós.