Michael Ridpath - 66 Degrees North

Not nearly enough to make the mortgage payments though.

She thought again about Óskar’s death. And Gabríel Örn. The familiar anxiety wriggled in her stomach. She stopped. Faced the breeze coming in from the sea. Took some deep breaths. And wept.

Björn. She needed to see Björn. He was always up early, looking for work on a fishing boat. She pulled out her phone and dialled his number.

He answered quickly. ‘Hi, Harpa, how are you?’

‘Not good.’ She could hear the sound of engines and waves in the background. Sometimes he could get reception on his mobile when he was out at sea. ‘Are you fishing?’

‘Just on our way out. What’s up?’

‘Did you see the news. About Óskar Gunnarsson?’

‘The banker? Yes. Did you know him?’

‘A bit.’

‘Wasn’t he one of the bastards who fired you?’

‘I suppose so, yes. But…’

‘But what?’

Harpa gulped. ‘But it just brings the whole Gabríel Örn thing back.’

‘Yeah.’ Björn’s voice was sympathetic. ‘Yeah. I can see that.’

‘Björn? I hate to ask you this, but can you come down to Reykjavík?’

‘That’s going to be a bit difficult. We’ll be back in harbour tonight, but I’m going out again for a couple of days tomorrow afternoon. Maybe on Sunday?’

‘Any chance you could come late tonight? I really need to see you.’ It was two and a half hours from Grundarfjördur, although Björn could do it considerably faster on his motorbike. Seltjarnarnes was still a long drive after a full day’s fishing.

‘Yes,’ Björn said. ‘Yes. I’ll be there. Late. But I’ll be there.’

‘Thank you, Björn.’ She could feel the tears coming again. ‘I really need you. You are the only one I can speak to about this.’

‘Hey, Harpa, I understand. Believe me, I understand. I’ll see you tonight. I’ll give you a call when I’m on my way.’

‘I love you,’ said Harpa.

‘I love you too.’

‘GOOD MORNING, MAGNÚS.’

Baldur’s tone was icy as he welcomed Magnus into his office. Two other detectives, Árni and Vigdís Audarsdóttir were already waiting.

It had proved remarkably easy for Magnus to get assigned to the case. The biggest problem had been summoning up the courage to call Chief Superintendent Thorkell back.

Thorkell had been businesslike on the phone, although he did start off the conversation with a dig. ‘Ah, Magnús, you took longer than I had been led to believe.’

‘Look, I’m sorry, Chief Superintendent,’ Magnus began. ‘You see I dropped the phone and-’

‘I want you on the Óskar Gunnarsson case,’ Thorkell interrupted.

‘Good,’ said Magnus.

‘That was what you were calling about, wasn’t it?’

‘Er, yes. Yes.’

‘OK. Be in Baldur’s office downtown at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. He will be expecting you. I’ll square it with the police college director.’

‘Very good. Thank you.’

Thorkell hung up, but Magnus heard the beginnings of a guffaw just before the line went dead. Somehow Magnus thought that Thorkell would not keep his earlier eavesdropping confidential.

Oh, well. Magnus glanced at Árni. No smirk yet: he hadn’t heard. Vigdís, the other detective, was much too professional to betray gossip. And he would soon find out whether Baldur knew.

‘A little tired this morning, are we?’ Baldur said with the tiniest of smiles. He knew. It wasn’t really a smile, more of a twitch on one side of his thin mouth. Baldur had a long lugubrious face and a high dome of a forehead. Not one of the Metropolitan Police’s greatest jokers.

‘Fully refreshed,’ said Magnus, trying not to think too much about Ingileif still curled up in his bed, and more about the task at hand.

‘I spoke to an officer from the British police in London yesterday,’ Baldur said. ‘Her name was,’ he paused as he examined his notes, ‘Detective Sergeant Sharon Piper. At this stage she has no reason to think that there is an Icelandic connection. Which is surprising when you think that the British believe we are all a bunch of terrorists.’

Baldur was referring to the British invocation of anti-terrorist legislation the previous October to seize the London assets of one of the Icelandic banks. It still rankled, a year later, especially with the controversy over the Icesave repayment negotiations.

‘Did she give you any details of what happened?’ Magnus asked.

‘Not much, it is still very early in the investigation.’ Baldur’s English wasn’t very good. Magnus wondered whether he had understood all of what Piper was saying. ‘You should call her this morning, see if she has turned up anything new.’

He dictated a phone number which Magnus wrote down.

‘Árni, Vigdís, what did you find out last night?’

‘Óskar has no criminal record,’ Árni said. ‘I did check with the Financial Crimes Unit and he is under investigation by the Special Prosecutor.’

‘What for?’

‘Market manipulation and securities fraud,’ Árni said, confidently.

‘And what does that mean?’ Baldur asked.

‘I’m not sure,’ Árni admitted. ‘Something about lending money to people who bought their shares. Or sold their shares. Or something.’

Baldur shook his head in despair. ‘Vigdís?’

Vigdís was a conscientious detective of about thirty. She was wearing a white Keflavík basketball sweatshirt, and her disconcertingly long legs were clad in jeans. ‘Óskar is thirty-nine. Until last October he was chairman of Ódinsbanki. He is also a major shareholder, through the family holding company OBG Investments, which is registered in Tortola, in the British Virgin Islands. As you know, he was one of the most successful of the Viking Raiders, the businessmen who built up big foreign operations for their companies.’

‘And dumped us all into this shit,’ Baldur muttered.

‘He was well respected amongst his fellow bankers, at least until the kreppa broke last year. Since then he has spent most of his time in London. He was forced to resign as chairman of Ódinsbanki last November.’

Magnus noticed that Vigdís had a photograph in the file in front of her.

‘Can I take a look?’ he asked. She slid the print over to him.

A good-looking man with dark floppy hair stared confidently into the camera. He had large brown eyes and a square, cleft chin. He looked successful but approachable.

‘Is he married?’ Baldur asked. ‘Sharon Piper mentioned a girlfriend was with him when he died.’

‘Married Kamilla Símonardóttir in 1999, divorced 2004, two children. He did have a Russian girlfriend, Tanya Prokhorova. Was it her?’

‘She didn’t give me a name,’ said Baldur. ‘Good work so far. I don’t think we need go overboard on helping the British on this, but I do want to make it clear that there is no Icelandic involvement. Of course, if you do turn up anything, let me know.’ He said this in a tone that made clear he was sure they wouldn’t.

They left Baldur’s office. Magnus commandeered an empty desk in the Violent Crimes Unit. He felt invigorated: it was good to be involved in a real investigation, even if he was only on the periphery of the inquiry and a thousand miles from the body. Vigdís and Árni joined him as Magnus made the call to London.

‘DS Piper.’

‘Hi, there. This is Magnus Jonson. I’m with the Reykjavík Metropolitan Police.’

Magnus realized he had introduced himself using his American name. He had two identities. In Iceland he had been christened Magnús, pronounced ‘Magnoos’. His father was Ragnar, and his grandfather Jón, so his father was Ragnar Jónsson and he was Magnús Ragnarsson. So far so simple. Except that when he arrived in the States at the age of twelve the bureaucracy couldn’t cope with the fact that he had a different surname to both his father and his mother, whose name was Margrét Hallgrímsdóttir, and like so many immigrants before him he had changed his name to something easier on the American ear. He became Magnus Jonson. On returning to Iceland he had reverted to Ragnarsson, but that sounded strange when he was speaking English.