‘In that case you have nothing to worry about,’ said Magnus.
‘You were fired from Ódinsbanki, weren’t you?’ asked Sharon.
‘Yes,’ said Harpa.
‘Did you hold Óskar responsible?’
‘No. Not directly.’
‘What do you mean, not directly?’
‘Well, it was him who led the expansion of the bank. He grew it too fast, borrowed too much money from the bond markets. That’s why it went bust eventually, and why I lost my job.’
‘So who did you hold directly responsible?’ Magnus asked.
Harpa’s eyes held his. She then closed her own. ‘Oh, God, here we go.’
‘Gabríel Örn?’
Harpa nodded. ‘I’ve told you that.’
Magnus glanced at Sharon. It was too early to do a full-blown interview with Harpa. Apart from anything else, such interviews had to be in Icelandic if they were going to provide admissible evidence. Also Baldur would disapprove. But there was one last question he had to ask. ‘Harpa, where were you on the night Óskar was killed?’
Harpa flinched. ‘He was killed in London, wasn’t he?’
Magnus nodded.
‘Well, I was in Iceland.’
‘Can you prove it?’
‘Yes, of course. Um, I came in to work here early the following morning. You can check with Dísa if you want.’
Three-quarters of an hour later, Magnus pulled up outside the airport terminal.
‘Thank you for introducing me to Harpa,’ Sharon said. ‘I appreciate the difficulty.’
‘Her alibi was good for that night,’ said Magnus. ‘But I do think there is some link. I just thought you should know what her story is. In case something turns up your end.’
‘Óskar was an interesting man,’ Sharon said.
‘The press here hate him,’ Magnus said. ‘And his banker buddies.’
‘I can understand that,’ said Sharon. ‘But the people who actually knew him seemed in awe of him.’
‘I guess that’s how he got people to follow him,’ Magnus said. ‘He had success written all over him. But I can’t help getting the feeling that’s why he died.’
‘Are you suggesting he deserved to die?’
‘No, not at all. That’s not for us to judge, is it? And I’ve investigated the murders of far more unpleasant people than Óskar; I’m sure you have too. He hasn’t actually killed anyone himself, has he?’
‘No, but he bankrupted a whole country. Him and his mates.’
‘Yeah,’ said Magnus. Of course Óskar and his buddies hadn’t destroyed the economy on purpose. It wasn’t what you’d call premeditated, more accidental. Manslaughter rather than homicide. But people went to jail for manslaughter.
‘What are you going to do now?’ Sharon asked. ‘Drop the investigation?’
‘Baldur wants me to. But Gabríel Örn’s suicide just doesn’t sound right to me. I’m off duty this weekend. I think I’ll nose around, maybe speak again with some of the people we interviewed after his death.’
‘Keep in touch,’ Sharon said.
‘I will,’ said Magnus. ‘And good luck with Charlie.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
HAFNARFJÖRDUR WAS A fishing port on the edge of the lava field just outside Reykjavík, on the way back from the airport. Magnus drove past the enormous aluminium smelter at Straumsvík, where Gabríel Örn’s body had washed ashore back in January. A golf course ran alongside the road, winding higgledypiggledy through the lava, each green like a vivid crater. Magnus turned off the highway.
The harbour was surrounded by a ring of low hills. The town had become a popular location for Iceland’s wealthier middle classes, and some of the houses had exchanged hands at sky-high prices a couple of years before. But not any more, of course.
Magnus drove along the ridge until he came across a development still under construction. There was even a crane standing motionless over a half-finished house. Somehow Magnus didn’t think anyone was going to finish the house in a hurry.
Some of the dwellings at the far end of the development were occupied, and it was outside one of these that Magnus checked the copy of the interview with Ísak Samúelsson that Árni had conducted after Gabríel Örn’s death. Once again, Árni’s notes were sketchy. They stated Ísak was a student, although Árni hadn’t recorded where, and that he lived with his parents, one of whom, Samúel Davídsson, was a government minister, or had been in January when the interview had been conducted. Presumably not any longer, since the pots-and-pans revolution.
Magnus got out of his car and walked up to the white singlestorey detached house. It was well designed, with a great view of the harbour, and would have been an attractive place to live, had it not been for the construction site a hundred metres away.
He rang the bell. No reply. He waited a minute and tried again.
The door was opened by a thin woman wearing a headscarf. At first Magnus thought she was an old lady, but as he looked closer he realized she was probably not much older than fifty.
She smiled, a brief flicker of life in a weary face.
Cancer.
‘My name is Magnus, I am with the Metropolitan Police,’ Magnus said, fudging his official status a bit. Fortunately the Icelandic police were less scrupulous about introducing themselves and flashing badges than their American counterparts. ‘Can I speak to Ísak?’
‘Oh, he’s not here,’ the woman said. ‘He’s at university.’
‘On a Saturday?’ Magnus asked. ‘Is he in a library?’ Magnus hoped he was: it would be easy enough to track him down.
‘Oh, no.’ The woman smiled again. Magnus warmed to that smile. He hoped that her condition was a result of chemotherapy rather than the cancer itself. Of course there was no way of knowing and he couldn’t ask. ‘He’s in London.’
‘London? He’s at university in London?’
‘Yes. At the London School of Economics. He has just started his final year.’
Magnus inwardly cursed Árni. He wondered whether Reykjavík’s finest detective had never found out where Ísak went to university, or had found out but decided that it wasn’t important enough to make a note of. Either eventuality was pretty bad. Moron.
‘I assume you are his mother?’
The woman nodded.
‘Do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions? It’s in relation to the death of Gabríel Örn Bergsson back in January.’
‘Of course, come in,’ the woman said. ‘My name is Aníta. Let me get you some coffee.’
‘Please don’t bother,’ said Magnus.
‘Nonsense. It’s one of the few things I can still do. My husband is playing golf: he won’t be back for hours.’
Magnus took off his shoes and followed Aníta into the kitchen where a pot of coffee was waiting. Agonizingly slowly she poured a cup for him. They sat at the kitchen table.
The woman seemed to be tired out already. Magnus resolved to get through his questions as fast as possible. ‘So Ísak was a student in London last year?’
‘Yes. He came back home for Christmas. And he was very interested in the demonstrations. Although term had started at the LSE he came back just for the opening of Parliament. He said it was a historic moment and he wanted to be there. I suppose he was right.’
‘So he went to the demonstration the day Gabríel Örn was killed?’
‘Yes. His father was furious, of course. He lost his job as a result of the protests.’ Aníta hesitated. ‘You said “was killed”. Didn’t the poor man commit suicide?’
‘Er, that’s what we thought,’ said Magnus. ‘So your son and your husband disagree politically?’
‘You can say that again. Samúel has been a member of the Independence Party since he was eighteen, and Ísak is a committed socialist. They disagree on everything: climate change, the aluminium smelters, Europe, you name it. It’s ironic, really, since they are both so fascinated by politics.’
‘How radical is Ísak?’ Magnus asked.
Aníta paused. ‘That’s an interesting question,’ she said. ‘By today’s standards, I suppose he is radical. I mean most of his friends want to go off and become bankers or go to law school. Or at least wanted to until this year. But Ísak still reads Marx and Lenin, although I don’t think he’s a communist or anything. Compared to my generation he’s just mildly to the left. Iceland has changed, hasn’t it?’