It was difficult being the skipper of a fishing boat. You had to be able to find the fish. And you constantly had to weigh up the risks of different courses of action. Björn had a knack for it. Gústi didn’t. And it was almost as if Gústi was determined not to take Björn’s advice.
Björn was as much a threat as a help to Gústi. Since Björn had lost his own boat he went out with any of the skippers he could either from Grundarfjördur or one of the little ports that lined the north coast of Snaefells Peninsula: Rif, Ólafsvík, Stykkishólmur. The Kría didn’t belong to Gústi, but to a fishing company, and although Björn was ten years younger than the skipper, everyone in Grundarfjördur knew what a good fisherman he was. Gústi was afraid for his job. Björn had to be careful or there was a good chance that Gústi wouldn’t take him on as crew again.
Still, the small catch meant it wouldn’t take long to unload the boat and clean up. Then he could be on the road down to Reykjavík to see Harpa.
She was getting to him in a way that no woman had ever got to him before. She wasn’t his type at all, and he was beginning to realize that that was the reason why she had such an effect on him. He liked self-assured women; women who knew what they wanted and what they wanted was sex with him. He was happy to oblige, and when things got a little complicated, a little heavy, a little emotional, as they inevitably did, he moved on. Some were upset: most had always known that was the deal. He had lived with a woman for two years once, Katla, but that had only worked because they had managed to keep their emotional distance despite sharing the same bed and roof. As soon as the relationship had developed into something more, it finished.
But Harpa was different. She was smart – he actually liked talking to her. Like him, she had been screwed by the kreppa, even if in an entirely different way. She was vulnerable and there was something about the vulnerability of such a capable woman that Björn found appealing. She needed him in a way that no woman had needed him before, and rather than running a mile, he responded to it.
He didn’t have to ride the best part of two hundred kilometres to see her that night, but he was happy to do it. It was worth it.
She was worth it.
CHAPTER NINE
MAGNUS WAS IN a good mood as he parked the Game Over on Njálsgata, opposite his house, or rather Katrín’s house. ‘Game Overs’ were what they were calling Range Rovers these days: Magnus had bought his at a knockdown price from a bankrupt lawyer who owned two, but couldn’t really afford one. It was a gas guzzler, but once you got outside Reykjavík a good four-wheel-drive was a must.
The quick couple of beers he had had at the Grand Rokk were partly responsible for his mood. The Grand Rokk was a bar just off Hverfisgata. Warm, scruffy, populated during the week by men and women who liked to drink, it reminded Magnus of the places he and his buddies would unwind after a shift in Boston. That kind of thing was much less common in Reykjavík, except on the weekends when everyone went crazy. In fact, weekday drinking was frowned upon. Which kind of added to the allure of the Grand.
On occasion when he had first arrived in Iceland a couple of beers had turned into many more, plus uncounted chasers, which had got him into trouble. But these days he had things under control.
It wasn’t just the beer, though. It felt good to be doing straightforward police work again. And the case was piquing his interest. He wasn’t sure whether they would find an Icelandic link to Óskar’s death, but if they did he was willing to bet that it would be through Harpa. It was to be expected that she should be upset after her ex-boyfriend topped himself. But Harpa’s agitation was more complicated than that: she was hiding something.
And Gabríel Örn’s suicide didn’t make sense. So far they had found no signs of suicidal thoughts or actions, or of extreme depression. And if he did want to commit suicide, walking three miles to the sea and jumping in seemed a very strange way to do it, especially on a cold night. Why not drive? Take a taxi? Or just stay at home and take some pills?
It may be that further investigation would reveal a suicidal side to Gabríel Örn that would make sense of it all.
But Magnus wouldn’t be surprised if it didn’t.
As he took out his house keys, the door opened and his landlady appeared, in full regalia.
Katrín was tall with short dyed-black hair, white make-up, and metal sprouting from her face and ears. She was wearing black jeans, T-shirt and coat. She looked a little like her brother Árni, but where Árni’s features were weak, hers were strong. Under her arm was a tiny bird of a girl with short blonde hair.
‘Hi, Magnus,’ Katrín said in English. She had spent some time in England and liked to speak to him in that language. ‘We’re just going out. This is Tinna, by the way.’
‘Hello, Tinna,’ said Magnus. ‘How you doin’?’
Tinna nodded, smiled, and leaned into her taller companion’s side.
Magnus wasn’t yet familiar enough with the conventions of female friendship in Iceland to be sure of what exactly he was witnessing.
Katrín noticed his confusion. ‘I’ve gone off men, Magnus. They smell and they lie. Don’t you think so?’
‘Well…’ Magnus said.
‘Tinna is much nicer,’ Katrín said, squeezing the small blonde.
Tinna smiled up at her friend and they kissed each other quickly on the lips.
‘Oh, don’t tell Árni, will you, Magnus? I wouldn’t mind, but it will only upset him.’
‘I won’t,’ said Magnus. One of the reasons Árni had installed Magnus with his sister was so that Magnus could spy on her. This was something Magnus was not prepared to do. He liked Katrín, she made a good house mate, even if they didn’t see very much of each other. Perhaps because they didn’t see very much of each other.
As he entered the hallway, he smelled cooking. He checked the kitchen, wondering if Katrín had left something on the stove. There was Ingileif, pushing some scallops around a frying pan with a wooden spoon.
‘Hi,’ she said, leaving the stove and coming towards him. She gave him a long, lingering kiss.
‘Hi,’ said Magnus, smiling. ‘This is a bit of a surprise.’
‘You’ve been to the Grand Rokk, haven’t you? I can smell it on your breath.’
‘Does it bother you?’ said Magnus.
‘No, of course not. I think that dive suits you perfectly. Just don’t try and drag me in there. Do you like scallops?’
‘I do.’
‘That’s lucky.’
‘Um. How did you get in here, Ingileif?’
‘Katrín let me in. Oh, by the way, did you meet Tinna? Cute, isn’t she?’
‘Um. Possibly,’ said Magnus. He wasn’t quite sure what he thought about Ingileif talking herself into his house without asking him.
‘I’ve been invited to a party on Friday night. Jakob and Selma. Do you want to come?’
‘Is he the little guy with the big nose?’
‘More of a big guy with a little nose. You have met him. They are two of my best clients.’
Ingileif ran a fashionable gallery. Ran it very well. Her clients were some of the wealthiest citizens of Reykjavík, beautiful people, who owned beautiful art and dressed beautifully. They were all perfectly friendly to Magnus, but he didn’t fit. For a start he didn’t have the right clothes, there was not a designer T-shirt or a designer suit in his wardrobe. His two favourite shirts were by LL Bean, but he didn’t think that counted, and neither did his suit from Macy’s. The main thing, though, was that all these people had known each other since they were kids.
‘I don’t know,’ said Magnus. ‘I expect I’ll have work to do on the Óskar Gunnarsson case.’
‘OK,’ Ingileif said. She didn’t seem bothered. She never seemed bothered that she went out without him.