There. Two decisions.
What about the writing? The moment he had asked himself the question whether he could write again, his subconscious had screamed yes, yes he could. But what? What could he write in six months that would make a difference? Two years, maybe he could force himself to come up with the great Icelandic novel, something to rival Halldór Laxness, something to ensure his name was remembered.
But who was he kidding? If he could write that book, he would have done so already.
The cigarette was fast disappearing. His cheeks stung in the cold air. But the wind brought clarity to his confusion.
Moor and the Man wasn’t a bad book. It might even be his best. He would have time to finish that. And maybe a short story or two. But what, in the last few months of his life, could he tell the world?
Suddenly it came to him. He would tell the truth. After forty years he would finally tell the truth.
He stubbed out the cigarette, stood up and scrambled back towards his car. He needed to get back to his desk. There was no time to lose.
Monday 21 September 2009
‘Did you see the news about Julian Lister?’ Vigdís asked Magnus as she arrived for work, dumping her bag by her desk.
‘Yes, poor bastard.’
‘They say they don’t think he’ll make it.’
‘Yeah.’ Magnus had listened to the morning news as well. Lister had been operated on overnight at a hospital in Rouen. The doctors rated his chances as slim.
‘Do you think there’s a connection?’
‘With Óskar?’ Magnus looked at her sharply. ‘I wondered about that.’
‘Some Icelanders would be very happy to see him dead,’ Vigdís said. ‘Not the majority, not even a minority, but it would only take one.’
‘Or two, or three.’
‘You mean Björn and Harpa?’
‘And Ísak, possibly.’
Vigdís raised her eyebrows. ‘We don’t have any concrete link between him and the other two.’
‘OK, if not Ísak, maybe somebody else.’
‘So we’re saying there is a bunch of nutters out there who want to shoot bankers and politicians?’
‘Who they think are responsible for the kreppa.’
Magnus and Vigdís looked at each other. ‘If we raise this, the shit really will hit the fan,’ Vigdís said.
‘I know,’ said Magnus.
‘And I mean not just with Baldur. With Thorkell. And the Big Salmon himself.’
‘I know.’
‘We haven’t got any evidence, have we? I mean, none at all.’
‘I know.’
‘So what do we do?’
Magnus had been thinking. ‘Let’s just keep an open mind for now. Baldur told me to go back to the police college today, and I have a lecture to give there at eleven o’clock. But I have an idea.’
‘Yes?’
‘Did the police take surveillance videos during the demonstrations in January?’
‘Sure.’
‘Dig them out for the day Gabríel Örn was killed. See if you can see Harpa. And Björn. See what they did. See who they talked to. Maybe you’ll be able to figure out whether they really did meet then for the first time.’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Vigdís.
‘Let me know what you find. In the meantime, how do I get hold of the file on a murder from 1985?’
‘Which case?’
‘Benedikt Jóhannesson.’
‘The writer?’
‘Yes. Do you know anything about it?’
‘I was only a kid at the time. But we studied it at police college. Stabbed in his home, I think. The crime was never solved.’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Has this got a connection to Óskar?’
‘Not really.’
Vigdís frowned. Magnus remained impassive. Vigdís decided not to push it. ‘It won’t be scanned on to the system, but Records will have the original file buried away somewhere. It will probably take them a while to locate it.’
‘Thanks, Vigdís.’
While Vigdís made some calls to rustle up the surveillance video, Magnus composed an e-mail to one of his buddies in the Homicide Unit in Boston, asking to check with the US Citizenship and Immigration Services for immigration information for July 1996. Then he called Records.
Árni breezed in. ‘Morning, Magnús. Good weekend? All quiet here?’
‘Talk to Vigdís,’ Magnus said. ‘You’ve got some work to do.’
Ísak popped the toast out of the toaster, and spread on butter and marmalade. It was an English habit that was growing on him. The house off the Mile End Road which he shared with four other students ran on toast. And instant coffee. The kettle boiled and Ísak made himself a cup.
‘Hey.’
He turned to see his girlfriend Sophie slope into the small kitchen in pyjama bottoms and an old Save Darfur T-shirt.
‘I thought you didn’t have any lectures until twelve?’
‘I decided I really have to go to the library,’ she said. ‘I can’t put it off any longer.’ She perched herself on his lap and kissed him quickly on the lips. ‘Good morning,’ she said, and kissed him again, deeper.
Ísak smiled and let his hand brush over her breast. She wasn’t wearing a bra.
She left it there for a moment, but then she extricated herself and stood up. ‘No. Discipline. I need discipline.’ She opened the cupboard and started rummaging around, looking for bread. Ísak had finished off the loaf. ‘Do you want another slice of toast, Zak?’
‘Yeah, OK. Thanks.’
The doorbell rang.
‘I’ll get it,’ said Sophie. The bell rang again. ‘All right, all right. You’ll wake everyone up,’ she complained, but in a voice too quiet for whoever was outside to hear.
Ísak heard the door open.
‘Police,’ an authoritative female voice said. ‘Detective Sergeant Piper from Kensington CID. Is Ísak Samúelsson here?’
Ísak tensed.
‘Er. I don’t know,’ said Sophie, taken aback.
‘It’s OK, Sophie,’ Ísak said, moving into the hallway. ‘Come in.’ He led the detective into the kitchen. ‘Sit down. Can I make you some coffee?’
‘No thanks,’ Sergeant Piper said, taking the chair Sophie had been occupying.
Sophie sat down next to her and scowled.
‘What is this about?’ Ísak asked, as coolly as he could.
‘Do you mind if I talk to Ísak alone?’ Piper said to Sophie.
‘I bloody well do,’ said Sophie, suddenly waking up. ‘Like, where do you get off? This is our kitchen.’
Piper sighed.
‘It’s OK, Soph,’ said Ísak. ‘I don’t know what this is about, but I’m sure it won’t take long.’
‘All right,’ said Sophie, grumpily. ‘But I want my toast.’
After she had left the room, Ísak smiled. ‘Sorry about that. We’re doing a course on European Human Rights at the moment. And Sophie is a member of Amnesty. She gets excited about that kind of thing.’
‘Breakfast is important,’ said Piper with a smile. ‘I’d like to ask you about last week.’
‘I was in Reykjavík,’ said Ísak.
‘We know.’
‘This is about Óskar Gunnarsson, isn’t it?’ said Ísak. ‘My mother told me the police in Iceland had been asking about me.’
Piper asked Ísak a series of questions about what he had done the previous week. Ísak answered clearly and calmly. He had been out with some old friends from high school on Wednesday night, otherwise not much. Piper took down flight times, names and addresses.
‘Did you know Óskar Gunnarsson?’ she asked.
‘No,’ said Ísak. ‘I mean I know who he was. But I’ve never met him.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Piper, leaning forward.
‘I guess I saw him at the annual Thorrablót of the Icelandic Society here in London,’ Ísak said. ‘But I didn’t talk to him.’
‘Thorrablót?’
‘It’s a winter festival. A big feast – lots of traditional food. You know, sheep’s heads, whale blubber, rams’ testicles, rotted shark. It’s a big deal for Icelanders.’