‘Sounds revolting.’
‘It’s an acquired taste. Actually, the food is usually pretty good at the London one.’
Piper seemed to be examining Ísak closely. ‘You didn’t try to deliver something to him a couple of weeks ago? The Friday before last?’
‘Deliver something?’
‘Yes. A witness saw someone matching your description going from house to house in Onslow Gardens looking for Gunnarsson’s address?’
‘That wasn’t me.’
‘Are you sure?’
Ísak nodded. ‘I’m absolutely sure.’
Piper waited. Neither she nor Ísak said anything for a long moment. Then she stood up. ‘OK, that’s all for now. Thank you for answering my questions.’
Ísak stood up. ‘No problem.’
‘Are you going in to college today?’
‘I’ve got a lecture in an hour or so. I’ll have to leave soon.’
Piper handed Ísak a card. ‘Well, if you do remember anything about Óskar Gunnarsson, give me a call.’
Magnus had just turned off the main road out of Reykjavík into Árbaer where the National Police College was located, when his phone rang. He picked it up.
‘Magnus, it’s Sharon.’
‘Hi. How are you doing?’
‘I just spoke to your friend Ísak.’
‘And?’
‘And he was in Reykjavík last week. He gave me some names and numbers of who he saw there. Basically he stayed at home most of the time, but went out on Wednesday night.’
‘E-mail the names to me, we’ll check them out,’ said Magnus. ‘Did he say why he came home?’
‘He said things were getting on top of him at uni, he needed to chill.’
‘That sounds like bullshit to me,’ said Magnus. ‘It’s too convenient. Almost as if he was giving himself an alibi.’
‘Possibly,’ Sharon said. ‘There is something else.’
‘Oh, yeah?’
‘He fits the description we have of the courier who was looking for Gunnarsson’s house. Early twenties, five nine, broad face, blue eyes, dimple on his chin.’
‘Interesting,’ Magnus said. ‘Can you get a firm ID?’
‘I’m outside his house now. He’s got to go to a lecture pretty soon, so I’ll get a photo. Show it to our witness. She’s on the ball; if it’s him she’ll tell us.’
‘Excellent. Um… Sharon?’
‘Yes?’
Magnus took a deep breath. ‘Is there any chance you can talk to him again?’
‘I suppose so. I can grab him after he comes out, once I’ve got his photo.’
‘Could you ask him where he was yesterday? Check that he was in London.’
‘Why?’ Then the penny dropped. ‘You mean Julian Lister?’
‘Maybe,’ said Magnus
‘You think he might have shot Lister?’
‘Not really. It’s an outside possibility. You heard how unpopular Lister is in Iceland when you were over here.’
‘Have you got any evidence?’
‘No. None at all. It’s only a hunch, not even that. Please don’t mention it to anyone else. It’s just that if it turned out our student friend went to France for the weekend, that would be interesting.’
‘I’ll say.’ Sharon paused. ‘Look, if there is any chance there is an Icelandic angle, I’m going to have to tell someone.’
‘Don’t do that, Sharon. We’re not at that stage yet. Once the Icelanders start thinking the British believe they are terrorists, there will be a new cod war, believe me.’
‘I don’t know…’
‘Look, there’s no evidence, no suspicion, even.’
‘But you would like me to talk to Ísak?’
‘Yes.’
There was a pause on the phone and Magnus could hear Sharon sigh. ‘OK. I’ll let you know what he says. Oh, by the way. Turns out the Metropolitan Police had thirty million quid invested in an Icelandic bank.’
‘Oops.’
Magnus hung up and drove into the parking lot of the police college on Krókháls. It was on an industrial estate and shared the car park with a software company and a sports shop. As he turned off the engine his phone rang again. It was Vigdís.
‘Magnús, can you get back to the station?’
‘When?’
‘Now. There’s something you should see.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MAGNUS, ÁRNI AND Vigdís were crowded around Vigdís’s desk, watching her monitor. The sound was off: they didn’t want to attract Baldur’s attention unnecessarily.
Magnus had seen snatches of the protests on the news, but never more than a few seconds at a time. Austurvöllur, the square outside Parliament, was full of a seething mass of people, young and old, male and female, shouting and banging. The pots and pans were very much in evidence, as were wooden spoons, tambourines, flags and placards. The camera panned from face to face, each one flushed with varying combinations of anger, excitement and cold. Apart, that is, from those that were hidden by scarves and balaclavas.
‘Look, there’s Harpa,’ Vigdís said. Sure enough, Magnus saw her banging diligently at her saucepan. ‘And there’s Björn.’
The fisherman was only a few yards away from Harpa, yelling his head off and shaking his fist. For a second the camera focused on his face. Björn had seemed a cool customer to Magnus, but at that moment his face was contorted into a fury that verged on hatred.
‘See, they pass within a metre of each other, and they don’t recognize one another,’ said Vigdís.
It was true. Harpa moved in front of Björn, banged her saucepan and then moved on.
‘So this really was when they met?’
‘Hold on, I’ll show you.’ Vigdís fast-forwarded. In jerky movements the crowd surged, missiles were thrown at the police lines and pepper spray canisters were raised.
‘Is that you, Árni?’ Magnus asked.
‘Yes.’ Vigdís paused, and they admired Árni in his black uniform, a look of determination on his face as he raised his yoghurt-splattered shield.
‘That can’t have been fun,’ Magnus said.
‘Especially not since I knew the kid who threw that skyr,’ Árni said. ‘An old girlfriend’s younger brother. I swear he recognized me.’
‘OK, we start spraying the pepper,’ Vigdís said, providing a commentary, ‘Harpa falls over and there! Björn picks her up. From here on they stick together.’
Even from the poor image it was clear from the way Harpa looked at Björn that she was taken with him.
‘All right, this is from maybe quarter of an hour later. See. There they are.’
‘Who’s that guy they are with?’ Magnus asked. Harpa and Björn were moving about together with a tall man with a grey ponytail sticking out underneath a broad-brimmed hat. The man was chatting to all around him, laughing and then shouting slogans. Magnus thought he looked vaguely familiar.
‘That is Sindri Pálsson.’
‘OK, I’ve heard of him somewhere haven’t I?’
‘He’s famous here in Iceland,’ Vigdís said.
‘Everyone’s famous in Iceland.’
‘He was lead singer of the punk rock group Devastation in the early eighties. Then he became an all-round troublemaker. Serial protester. Anarchist. Wrote a book about the evils of capitalism. Heavily involved in the protests against the Kárahnjúkar dam. You know, they dammed up a valley to provide hydroelectricity for an aluminium smelter.’
‘I know,’ said Magnus, although that was barely true. He had heard of the controversial project but knew nothing of the details. Once again he felt his ignorance about his own country.
‘He tried to turn the protests violent, but the organizers wouldn’t have anything to do with it. Threw him out.’
‘Criminal record?’
‘Only drugs offences.’
‘But you have a file on him?’
‘Oh, yes. He’s one of the people we identified as capable of trying to turn the protests into a revolution. A violent revolution.’
‘And here he is making friends with Harpa and Björn,’ said Magnus.
Vigdís took Magnus through the rest of the demonstration. As light fell, so did the quality of the images. But there was no doubt that the three kept together.