Michael Ridpath: 66 Degrees North

HARPA SAT ON the floor examining the man who, until a couple of hours before, she had loved more than any other. She knew her stare was discomfiting him, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care about him at all.

Because suddenly, for the first time in a year, she felt strong again. The confusion, the mistrust, the guilt, the self-doubt, all those destructive feelings that had swirled around inside her head for a year now, were gone.

She knew what was right and what was wrong. And she knew what she had to do.

Compared to the agonies that she had gone through about her own role in Gabríel Örn’s death, and in the cover-up, what Björn had done was much simpler. He had conspired to murder someone. That was unequivocally wrong. It was her duty to do all she could to right that wrong.

She couldn’t bring Óskar back to life, but maybe, just maybe, she could save whoever the next target was, and then perhaps bring Björn and Sindri and Ísak to justice. And whoever else was their accomplice.

She knew what she had to do and she was determined to do it.

Escape.

When Björn next left the hut, it would take her less than a minute to untie the rope around her ankles. She would have to cope with her wrists tied together, but she would be able to run. She had tried to recall the geography of the Snaefells Peninsula. She was pretty sure she knew where they were, and that a modern road ran through a parallel pass not far away. What she couldn’t quite remember was whether it was to the west or the east. She guessed the west.

Her plan was to clamber up the side of the valley and over the top to the road on the other side and then flag down the first car that came past. Anyone would stop immediately for a woman standing in the middle of the road with her hands tied.

But first Björn had to leave the hut again. She had no idea when that would be, and she was afraid to ask him in case he suspected something.

She thought about what she would tell the police. It would be good to give them the names of the next victim and the assassin. Björn had been reluctant to tell her: she would see what she could do about that.

‘So when you have dealt with the next name on your list, will you let me go?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Björn. He looked as if he was pleased with the question. ‘It depends. On you.’

‘Hmm.’ Harpa let the silence hang there. She knew that Björn wanted to believe that she could be persuaded to agree to keep quiet for a few days. ‘And when will that be?’ she asked him.

‘I can’t say.’

‘Today? Tonight? Tomorrow? Next week?’

‘This afternoon, possibly. Probably this evening. Almost definitely tomorrow morning.’

‘How will you know?’

‘A text.’

‘Which is why you need to go and make your phone calls?’

‘Once I have heard everything is ready, then all I will have to do is wait for the text.’

‘From?’

Björn shook his head. ‘ I can’t tell you, Harpa.’

‘OK. At least tell me who the target is.’

Björn shook his head. Harpa could see that his earlier pleasure in her talking to him was waning.

‘I don’t see why you won’t. After all there’s nothing I can do about it, is there? You may as well tell me now.’

‘I’ll tell you when it’s done.’ Björn’s voice was firm.

Harpa didn’t want to push him any more in case he realized what she was planning. ‘Suit yourself,’ she said.

They were silent for five, maybe ten minutes. Through the window, Harpa watched as the clouds swirled across the valley, bringing thick fog one moment and sunshine the next.

Fog would be good for evading Björn. But it would make it very easy to get lost on the mountain. She would just have to seize her opportunity whenever it came.

Björn checked his watch. ‘I’m going to go and check for that text.’

Harpa grunted.

Björn glanced at Harpa’s ankles and wrists and left the hut. A few seconds later Harpa heard the engine of his pickup starting up and the sound of the vehicle bumping down towards the track.

She bent down and attacked the knot. It wasn’t coming, damn it! And she was sure she had nearly untied it.

Slow down, Harpa. She stopped, took a couple of breaths, examined the knot, thought about it, tugged the rope here, pushed there.

She was free!

She scanned the room for her phone, or a knife, but couldn’t see either. No time to mess about. She pulled open the door with her bound hands and ran outside.

Ísak saw Björn leave the hut. His heart rate quickened as he watched the pickup clatter its way down to the track, and then up the pass. A patch of cloud drifted down the valley, fingers of moisture stretching ahead of it as it clutched at the rocks and the boulders, silently hauling itself forward. The head of the pass was obscured. Excellent. He would wait until Björn’s pickup disappeared into the mist before making his move.

The vehicle was swallowed up by the cloud. Ísak hesitated. Gripped the knife in his gloved hand and set off towards the hut. He had barely gone five metres when he heard the door open again, and a moment later he saw Harpa rushing down the knoll towards the stream at the floor of the valley.

She was escaping! He broke into a run. She hadn’t seen him yet. He tried to run softly so as not to scare her. The closer he could get the better. Then one final sprint.

But Harpa was running as fast as she could already. She tore down the side of the knoll, crossed the track and forded the stream, slipping once and falling in, uttering a small yelp as she did so. She clambered out, turned and saw Ísak.

Ísak hesitated. Perhaps if he didn’t scare her she would mistake him for a rescuer. They had only met once, in January, and she might not recognize him from a distance.

He slowed to a walk. ‘Are you all right?’ he shouted.

Harpa hesitated. ‘Who are you?’

‘I was hiking through the pass and I saw you run,’ Ísak called. ‘Are you OK?’

Harpa approached him gingerly. Ísak was close to the stream now. He gripped the knife in the pocket of his coat.

‘Ísak! You’re Ísak aren’t you?’ Harpa shouted. She took a couple of steps back and then ran up the slope.

Ísak leaped into the stream. The water was freezing and more powerful than he expected. He slipped on a rock and rolled over once, his head striking another stone. The shock of the cold water seemed to squeeze the air out of his lungs. For a moment he panicked. Fast flowing mountain streams in Iceland were much more dangerous than they appeared. He fought for air and grabbed a stone, pulling himself to his feet.

He could see Harpa scampering up the rocky side of the valley a few metres ahead, hurrying towards the base of the cloud.

Then he heard the sound of a vehicle behind him.

Björn was thinking about Harpa as he drove up into the mist towards the head of the pass. Her calm unnerved him. He was used to her confused, panicky. This sense of purpose was new. It didn’t bode well for her changing her mind and keeping quiet once he let her go.

In which case, what was he to do with her?

He glanced down at his phone. A couple of bars flickered. Maybe he could get reception here without going all the way over the head of the pass. He stopped the car. He was right at the point where the road disappeared behind a boulder, but he couldn’t see back to the hut because of the fog. The two bars flickered and died. He stepped out and moved around the black volcanic dirt at the side of the track, trying to get reception, but there was nothing.

He was surrounded on three sides by thick moisture, but above him, through a thin patina of white, he could see the blue of the sky.