Michael Ridpath - 66 Degrees North

‘What do you mean?’ Magnus asked.

‘Björn was vague about the timing. Yet he was expecting a text when everything was ready. What did he mean by “ready”?’

‘I get you,’ said Magnus. He followed Harpa’s idea through. It could be that there was someone else. Unlikely but possible. Or Einar could have found a spot where he was watching a target and waiting for the ideal time to shoot. In which case, why would he go back home?

What threat was there that would apply while a killer was safe and sound in his own living room?

Poison? No. A bomb?

A bomb.

If there was a bomb primed and ready somewhere in Reykjavík they really were in trouble. They had no clue which of the Outvaders was the intended victim.

Magnus had an idea. He called Páll, but no reply. Which meant he must still be by the hut, out of reception. With the help of one of the uniformed constables he got hold of him on the police radio.

‘Páll, where are you?’

‘Securing the scene.’

That made sense. The hillside was the scene of a murder, after all.

‘Can you check the hut? See if there’s a notebook or anything.’

‘Shouldn’t I wait for forensics?’

‘No, do it now. We know who killed Björn. We need to know who the next target is.’

Páll hesitated. ‘OK.’

‘Let me know what you find.’

The car pulled into the car park outside the police station on the edge of Stykkishólmur. Magnus let the others go ahead and waited in the car for the call back. Four minutes, maybe five. He was feeling nauseous. It was a sensation he remembered from football games in high school. The after-effects of concussion.

His phone rang.

‘OK. I checked the hut. There are no notes anywhere.’

‘Nothing? Not a laptop?’

‘No. There’s a book, that’s all. Looks like he was reading it.’

Magnus was disappointed. ‘OK. What’s the book?’

‘ Independent People by Halldór Laxness.’

‘That figures,’ said Magnus. He sighed. ‘All right, Páll. Can you do one more thing? Einar might have sent Björn a text, in which case he probably hasn’t received it yet. Can you get his phone and go back up the pass until you get reception?’

‘Roger.’

Independent People. Magnus remembered the painting of Bjartur in Sindri’s apartment. Sindri had obviously encouraged Björn to read the book too. It was a shame that such a good book could be used to justify such twisted ideas.

Magnus had read it when he was about eighteen. He probably hadn’t appreciated it then, he should reread it.

His phone rang. It was Árni, not Páll.

‘What’s up? Have they got Einar yet?’ Magnus asked.

‘Not yet. They’re waiting for the Viking Squad.’

‘How long will that take?’

‘Don’t know,’ said Árni. ‘I’ve been ordered back to headquarters. Did you find Björn?’

‘I did. I’ll explain later,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to go now, I’m expecting a call.’ He cut Árni off.

Páll came back on the radio.

‘Got the text. It was from Einar. One word. “Ready.”’

‘Thanks,’ said Magnus. He got out of the police car, his brain racing. So Einar was ready. But ready for who? Who the hell was the next victim?

Wait a moment.

Independent People. Wasn’t one of the characters in the book called Ingólfur Arnarson? Yes, that was right.

Who was he? The son of the local landowner Bjartur had worked for? Something like that. Magnus strained to remember. The boy had been named after the first settler of Iceland by his mother, who was a nationalist and a bit of an intellectual snob.

Sindri was talking about the character in Halldór Laxness’s book, not the man who had landed in Reykjavík a thousand years ago.

OK, so which of the Outvaders was he? Magnus couldn’t remember much about Laxness’s Ingólfur Arnarson, except that he became rich.

He needed to find out quickly. Who would know?

Ingileif. It was one of her favourite books.

He took a deep breath and dialled her number.

She answered quickly. ‘Hi, Magnús.’ Her voice was flat. Not pleased to hear from him.

‘Ingólfur Arnarson,’ Magnus said. ‘I know who he is. Or at least which character. He’s the man in Independent People . The landowner’s son.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Ingileif. ‘That makes sense, I suppose.’

‘I don’t remember the book well. How can we figure out which one of the businessmen he represents?’

‘Well, I’m not sure he represents any of them,’ Ingileif said.

‘What do you mean? He must do. He was very rich, wasn’t he? Didn’t he buy a new car or something? The first in the region?’

‘Yes, he was rich. But he was involved with the Cooperative movement. That’s where he got all his influence. Hardly a greedy capitalist, in fact the merchants were his rivals. He put them out of business. Then he went off to Reykjavík.’ There was silence on the phone.

‘Ingileif?’

‘Oh, my God. I know who they mean!’

‘Who?’

‘In Reykjavík Ingólfur Arnarson became a director of the National Bank, and then its governor. And then Prime Minister.’

‘Ólafur Tómasson!’ The Prime Minister until the pots-and-pans revolution. The former leader of the Independence Party. And onetime governor of the Central Bank.

‘That’s right,’ said Ingileif. ‘But, Magnús?’

‘Yes?’

‘Can you wait a moment? Just a minute. I need to talk to you. I think I will go to Hamburg. I’m just about to call Svala now.’

‘Look, I’m sorry, Ingileif, we’ll have to discuss this later,’ said Magnus. ‘I’ve got to go.’

For a second he wondered whether he had made a mistake cutting her off like that.

Then he called Baldur.

He outlined his fear. That the next victim was Ólafur Tómasson and the means could be a bomb.

‘Are you sure?’ Baldur asked.

‘Of course I’m not sure,’ said Magnus. ‘But you need to tell him to be careful. Does he have protection?’

‘He did until two months ago. Then we pulled it. Cost savings.’

‘Well, you had better get it back, pronto,’ said Magnus and hung up.

He was standing alone in the car park. The Stykkishólmur police station was a more substantial building than its Grundarfjördur counterpart, as befitted a regional headquarters. A small white concrete office block, shared with the district court.

He hesitated before entering. There was nothing more he could do, was there? He would have to rely on Baldur to get the message out. That might take several minutes, even longer if there were approvals to go through, people to talk to, decisions to be dithered over. Maybe they would decide once again that Magnus was operating on no more than a hunch.

Magnus remembered that the former Prime Minister lived in one of the houses on the shore of the Tjörnin, the bird-strewn lake right in the heart of Reykjavík. If Árni was driving from Seltjarnarnes to police HQ, he was right there.

Magnus called him.

‘Árni, where are you right now?’

‘On the Hringbraut, just coming up to the university.’

That was just a few hundred metres from the Tjörnin.

‘OK. Listen closely and do exactly as I say.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘You know where Ólafur Tómasson lives?’

‘Yes.’

‘All right. We believe he is the next victim. Probably from a bomb. I want you to go to his house and get him and his family out of there. Don’t let him touch any packages and above all don’t let him get in his car. You got that?’

‘Are you sure about this, Magnús? He’s an important guy.’

‘Which is why they want to blow him up.’

‘I’m on my way,’ said Árni.