66° North (23 page)

‘And you don’t want to bump into him?’

‘No. I don’t.’

They drove on to Grundarfjördur. Magnus pulled over on the shore of the sheltered fjord a kilometre outside town and called Constable Páll. The sun glimmered off the quiet grey waters of the sheltered fjord.

Páll answered on the first ring. Apparently Björn had driven his pickup truck down to the harbour, and was working on a boat down there. Magnus drove through town and pulled up outside the police station, which was only a few metres away from the harbour. Páll was waiting for him, in uniform.

Magnus introduced Ingileif. ‘I’ll just go for a walk around town,’ she said. ‘Give me a call when you’ve finished.’

Magnus was glad to have the constable with him. He was still in a legal limbo-land, since he hadn’t yet graduated from the police college, and he wanted Páll to take notes. If Björn gave them any useful evidence, he didn’t want it questioned by a defence lawyer.

Páll was very happy to oblige.

There were a few boats of various sizes in the harbour. For a small town it had some serious fishing industry – several large buildings for processing the fish, a market, storage sheds and numerous empty pallets guarded by fork-lift trucks.

And the whole thing was watched over by the tower of rock that was Kirkjufell. In Iceland it was difficult to believe that such features were just random movements of geology. Icelandic mountains had personality and purpose. This church of rock completely overshadowed the white building with the little cross on a hill above the town. It was as if it provided the town’s inhabitants with not just physical shelter but spiritual strength as well.

Páll led Magnus towards a fishing boat tied up against the quay,
Bolli
. ‘Hello, Siggi!’ he shouted. ‘May I come on board?’

Two men in thick sweaters poked their heads out of the cabin. One was an overweight balding forty-five, the other was lean and in his early thirties.

Björn, no doubt.

Páll greeted the older man and asked if they could have a word with Björn. Björn stepped off the boat and joined them on the quay. ‘A new navigation system,’ Björn said. ‘I was just helping Siggi install it, but it keeps crashing. I swear these days you need to know as much about computers as about engines to keep a boat running.’

They sat on a wall, a short distance from the boat, the captain peering at them curiously from the cabin window. A couple of seagulls landed on the quay a few feet away, hoping for scraps.

‘So what’s this about?’

‘We want to ask you some questions about Gabríel Örn Bergsson and Harpa Einarsdóttir.’

‘Harpa told me you had been talking to her,’ Björn said.

‘Oh, have you seen her recently?’

‘Yes. I went down to Reykjavík a couple of days ago. You left her quite upset.’

‘It’s unavoidable in these circumstances,’ Magnus said. ‘Are you and she together?’

‘You could say that. I go down to see her whenever I can. She comes up here sometimes. I like her. I like her a lot.’

‘Harpa didn’t mention that you and she still had a relationship.’

Björn shrugged. ‘It’s not a secret. As I said, she was upset. You probably didn’t ask her.’

‘No, we didn’t,’ Magnus admitted. But he still had the impression Harpa had been trying to hide it. ‘Had you two met before the night Gabríel Örn died?’

‘No. We first met at the demo that afternoon. I had come down from Grundarfjördur for it specially. I had been to one of the Saturday protests before Christmas and, well, I thought it was important to be there. I wanted to be heard. I wanted the government to resign.’

‘Tell me about that evening.’

Björn’s story tallied pretty closely with Harpa’s. He was vague on the details, arguing quite reasonably that the whole thing had happened nine months before. Magnus took him backwards and forwards over the same ground and tried to trip him up.

Nothing.

So Magnus changed the subject. ‘Has Harpa told you about Óskar Gunnarsson?’

‘Yes,’ Björn said. ‘She said you thought she was linked in some way to his murder.’

‘We were just asking questions.’

‘You should be careful how you ask them,’ Björn said. ‘Harpa has never got over Gabríel Örn’s suicide. From what she tells me about him the man was a jerk, but I think in some ways that makes it worse for her. She feels guilty about going out with him, about breaking it off. She’s a mess. Your questions don’t help.’

‘Do you think she had anything else to feel guilty about?’

‘No,’ said Björn calmly.

‘Had you ever met Óskar?’

‘No,’ said Björn.

‘Has Harpa told you anything about her relations with him?’

‘No. I didn’t think there were any.’

Magnus took out a photograph of Óskar. ‘Do you know who this is?’

‘That’s him, isn’t it? I’ve seen his picture in the paper.’

‘That’s right. Now, does he remind you of anyone?’

Björn studied the picture. ‘Looks a bit like Hugh Grant perhaps. Darker hair.’

‘No. Someone you know.’

Björn shook his head.

‘Markús.’

Björn looked at Magnus in surprise. ‘What? Harpa’s Markús?’ He studied the picture more closely. ‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘No, it’s not. Didn’t you know?’

‘What do you mean, didn’t I know? Know what? What are you suggesting?’

‘I’m suggesting that Óskar was Markús’s father.’

‘That
is
ridiculous.’

‘Harpa confirmed it.’

‘When?’

‘Yesterday.’

Björn studied the photograph more carefully.

‘She didn’t tell you then?’ Magnus said.

‘I still don’t believe you.’

‘Did she say who the father was?’

‘No. I asked her once, she didn’t want to answer, and so I never asked her again. It was none of my business.’ He handed the photograph back to Magnus. ‘It’s still none of my business.’

Magnus had to admire Björn’s composure. A couple of fishermen strolled past, nodded at Björn and Páll, and stared at Magnus, the stranger from out of town, with undisguised curiosity.

‘Did you know that Harpa travelled to London recently?’ Magnus asked.

‘Yes. A couple of months back. Just for a few days.’

‘Do you know why?’

‘She said she needed a break.’

‘How could she afford it?’

Björn shrugged. ‘I don’t know. She used to be a banker. She’s probably got savings. It’s true she’s usually careful with money, but she deserved a treat.’

‘Did she tell you she saw Óskar?’

‘No,’ said Björn.

‘Are you jealous?’ Magnus asked.

‘Of course I’m not jealous!’ Björn said. ‘Look. If there’s one person in this world I trust, it’s Harpa. Who she saw before she met me is none of my business. I had no idea that Óskar was Markús’s father, and frankly I still don’t believe you. But if he was, maybe Harpa went to see him, I don’t know. And if she did, I’m not surprised she kept it a secret from me.’

‘Does it make you angry that Harpa keeps secrets from you?’

Björn stared hard at Magnus. His blue eyes were remarkably bright. And angry. But Magnus got the impression it was with him, not with Harpa. ‘No.’

‘Björn. Where were you on Tuesday night?’

‘Let me guess. Was that when Óskar was killed?’

‘Just answer the question.’

‘I was out at sea that day. Got back about seven. A good catch, lots of mackerel. Helped unload and clean up. Came home.’

‘And Wednesday morning?’

‘Went out again, early in the morning. Same boat. The
Kría
. She’s out right now, but she’ll be back later this afternoon. One of the regular crew had flu. Gústi is the skipper. Páll knows him.’ He nodded to the constable. ‘He can check with the crew. And actually on Tuesday night I went to the fishing company’s office to pick up some pay they owed me. You can ask Sóley, she’ll tell you. In fact they probably have it written down.’

He stared at Magnus. ‘So I wasn’t in London shooting bankers.’

‘Did you get what you needed?’

Magnus and Páll were walking back along the quayside towards the police station.

‘He’s a cool customer,’ Magnus said. ‘It’s hard to say whether he’s telling the truth. If he wanted to lie, he could do it well, I’m sure.’

‘I’ll check out his alibi,’ said Páll. ‘But I bet it will stand up. Which means he can’t have shot that banker.’

‘You’re probably right,’ said Magnus. ‘But be thorough. In a small town like this, people could easily cover for their friends.’

‘Gústi is an honest man,’ said Páll. ‘In fact, I’d have to say that Björn has a very good reputation here.’

‘Tell me,’ Magnus said. ‘Do you know him well?’

‘Quite well. As you say, this is a small town. He had his own boat, the
Lundi.
Bought it off his uncle. He was very successful, bought up more quotas, worked long hours. But he did it all on borrowed money, and when the
kreppa
came he had to sell. Since then he’s been crewing on other people’s boats whenever he can.’

‘Have you seen Harpa around?’

‘I think so. Curly dark hair? About one eighty high?’

Magnus was only just getting used to thinking metric again. Heights still confused him, but that sounded about right. ‘That’s her.’

‘She’s been here a couple of times.’

‘Does Björn ever get into trouble?’

‘No. Not here at any rate. I think he used to go down to Reykjavík to party every now and then. He stays with his brother Gulli down there.’

They walked on.

‘Magnús?’

‘Yes?’

‘I can’t imagine Björn murdering anyone.’

Magnus paused and looked at the constable. He had a bit of a belly and an imposing moustache, but he had kind eyes. And they were troubled.

‘Is Björn a friend of yours?’ Magnus asked.

‘No. Not exactly. But…’

‘But what?’

‘Did you have to tell him about his girlfriend’s son? I mean that the father was a banker? What does that really have to do with the police? Isn’t that a secret she has a right to keep from her boyfriend if she wants to?’

Magnus felt a flash of irritation. In a town like this, with a population of a thousand people, two thousand max, the loyalty of the local cop was more likely to be with his buddies than with a detective parachuted in from the big city.

But then Magnus needed Páll.

‘Murder is always painful. To the victims, to their friends and family, obviously, to all kinds of other people. Murder investigations hurt witnesses. I know you like Björn, and I hear what you say about him being a good guy. But we’ve just got to ask the questions. Every now and then we piss people off, good people. Although, unlike you, I’m not convinced Björn fits into that category.’

Páll grunted.

They got to their vehicles, Magnus’s Range Rover parked next to Páll’s police car outside the wooden police station.

Ingileif was waiting. She had that air of barely suppressed excitement that Magnus knew well.

‘Good interview?’ she asked.

‘OK, I guess,’ said Magnus. ‘What is it?’

‘Páll, isn’t it?’ said Ingileif, giving the constable her best smile.

‘That’s right.’

‘I assume the town library isn’t open on Sundays?’

‘No.’

‘But you know the librarian?’

‘Yes. She’s my wife’s cousin.’

‘Is there any chance that you could get her to open it up for us?’

Páll glanced at Magnus. ‘Why?’

Ingileif looked at Magnus, her eyes shining. ‘When I was wandering around, I remembered something. A Benedikt Jóhannesson short story. I think it’s called something like “The Slip”. I need to show it to you.’

‘Is this police business?’ Páll asked Magnus.

‘No,’ Magnus said.

‘Of course it is!’ said Ingileif. ‘It’s about a murder. At Búland’s Head, fifty years ago.’

Páll raised his eyebrows. ‘I can’t get the library open for you, but my wife is a keen reader of Benedikt’s. She’s from around here, and he used to live over by the Berserkjahraun. We’ll see if she’s got the book you want.’

The policeman’s house was on the edge of town: it took all of five minutes to drive there. His wife’s name was Sara, and she did indeed have a copy of Benedikt Jóhannesson’s short stories. Eagerly, Ingileif found “The Slip”. It was only five pages.

She skimmed it and then began to read out loud. A boy was riding a horse along a cliff. He met the man who had raped his sister riding the other way. They squeezed past each other and the boy gave the other man’s horse a shove. Man and horse fell into the sea below.

‘Well?’ said Ingileif, her eyes shining.

‘You think Benedikt pushed my great-grandfather into the sea at Búland’s Head?’

‘Don’t you?’

Magnus glanced at Páll and his wife and their poorly concealed expressions of curiosity. He had blurted out his family’s secrets in front of these strangers without thinking, but it would be useful to learn if there was any local gossip that might cast some more light on those events. So he explained how his great-grandfather had died, and also the chapter in
Moor and the Man
that suggested that Gunnar had killed Benedikt’s father.

‘I remember that,’ said Sara. ‘It caused a little local scandal when that book came out. I was about fifteen at the time, I remember my parents discussing it. The mysterious disappearance of the farmer at Hraun was still talked about around these parts, even though it had happened fifty years before. And Benedikt’s book hinted at a solution, one that the locals noticed right away. He was murdered by his neighbour. And that was your great-grandfather?’

‘Yes. He lived at Bjarnarhöfn. I hadn’t heard anything about it until recently.’

‘And then of course Benedikt himself was murdered soon afterwards. But that was down in Reykjavík. I don’t think they ever caught whoever did it.’

‘Were there any rumours of a local connection?’

‘No, certainly not. That’s the kind of thing that happens in the big city, isn’t it? Nothing to do with people from around here.’

‘And nothing about Gunnar’s death on Búland’s Head?’

‘No. There were occasional accidents up there, especially in the old days before the road was improved. And of course there were lots of stories about trolls throwing people into the sea.’