Harpa smiled broadly as the relief surged through her. ‘Thanks, Dad. There’s no doubt about it is there?’
‘No. I spoke to the harbourmaster and to Gústi. I couldn’t get hold of Siggi, but the harbourmaster sounded confident. Apparently Björn had a visit from the police on Sunday as well.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Harpa. ‘Thank you so much, Dad.’
Einar leaned forward so that Dísa couldn’t hear. ‘So no need to go to the police then, eh?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe I still should?’
‘Oh, come on, Harpa. You’ll just get yourself in trouble.’
‘OK,’ she said, nodding.
‘Good girl. See you later.’
‘Nice to see you smiling for once,’ said Dísa after the door closed behind Einar.
‘Yes,’ said Harpa. The relief was making her giddy. How could she ever have suspected Björn?
‘That your Dad?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Because he didn’t pay for his kleina.’
‘Oh, sorry,’ said Harpa. ‘I’ll pay. We were a little distracted.’
‘I could see that.’
Harpa smiled to herself. Her father had come through for her. Again. To the outside world, to some of his crew for instance, she knew he came across as a tough irascible bastard. But she had always known he was a good man. And it was so comforting to know that that toughness and strength was on her side.
He would do anything for her, and for his wife and for little Markús.
But within a few minutes the euphoria wore off, elbowed aside by a nagging worry. Yes, it was good that Björn wasn’t involved in a plot to murder Óskar and Julian Lister, but that didn’t mean that Sindri wasn’t. Harpa was beginning to regret the promise she had made to her father. He was right, it was none of her business, but if Sindri had killed two people he could kill three. She had to let the police know about her suspicions.
But they were just that, suspicions. What if the police checked them out, discovered Sindri was totally innocent, and also decided to ask more questions about Gabríel Örn? Then she would have achieved nothing and still end up in jail.
But what if she was right? And perhaps jail was where she should be. She had committed a crime, she should pay for it.
Whatever she had told her father, she knew the right thing to do. Tell the police. But first she should speak to Björn. At least now that she knew he was innocent she could talk to him properly about it.
The bakery was quiet. She told Dísa she was going outside to make a phone call.
It was a lovely morning. Above the city the light grey concrete of the Hallgrímskirkja gleamed almost white through its sheath of scaffolding. The bay sparkled. She took a deep breath, dialled Björn and told him what she had decided. He wasn’t happy.
‘Do you still think I flew off to London?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Harpa. ‘I’m sorry I suggested that. I believe you. But I am worried that Sindri is responsible in some way.’
‘You know if you speak to the police they’ll reopen the Gabríel Örn business?’
‘Yes, I know, I’ve thought of that.’
‘OK, so when they do, are you going to tell them what really happened that night?’
‘No. I’ll say that we all went back to Sindri’s apartment. And then I’ll say I called Gabríel Örn and he didn’t show up.’
‘They’ll be all over you,’ said Björn. ‘Once you admit you lied to them, they won’t give up until they break you.’
‘Well, then I just won’t answer their questions,’ said Harpa.
‘They’ll charge you.’ Björn said. ‘You’ll go to prison.’
‘I didn’t intend to kill Gabríel Örn,’ Harpa said. ‘Maybe the judge will understand that. Perhaps I should be in prison.’
‘But, Harpa, there are two crimes here. There’s Gabríel Örn’s death. We know that was accidental and maybe a judge would agree. And then there’s the cover-up. We did that on purpose, you, me, Sindri, the student guy, the cook. They’ll get us for that. All of us.’
Harpa sighed. ‘Maybe I’ll try to tip them off anonymously. But I must find a way of warning them.’
‘Look,’ said Björn. ‘I’ll come right down to Reykjavík now and we can discuss how you do this.’
‘You won’t be able to talk me out of it.’
‘I understand. But don’t do anything till I get there.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE SHOP WAS one of several with Til Leigu signs displayed on Laugavegur, meaning ‘For Rent’. Vigdís remembered the location: it had been the site of a high-end boutique, way beyond Vigdís’s pocket. And everyone else’s in Iceland nowadays, she suspected.
She had spotted the blue VW Transporter outside with Gulli Helgason’s name and number on it, parked on a side street a few metres away, the front wheel half a metre outside the marked parking bay. She walked in to the shop. Three men were stripping the walls of bright orange paint. A radio was playing Jay-Z loudly.
‘Gulli?’
One of the three men turned towards her. He was older than the other two, probably in his early thirties, with dark hair cut very short and strong tattooed arms. He would have been quite attractive, if it wasn’t for his belly thrusting out aggressively beneath his painters’ overalls.
The man raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m Detective Vigdís from the Metropolitan Police. I called earlier. I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.’
The man laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘You’re not a cop.’
‘And why not?’ said Vigdís.
‘It’s obvious. You’re black. You can’t be a black policewoman. So who the hell are you?’
Vigdís fought to control herself. She was used to people doubting her identity, but rarely so blatantly. She pulled out her ID, and thrust it in his face. ‘See that? A black face. My face.’
Gulli raised his hands in mock surrender and then held out his wrists as if he was about to be handcuffed. ‘OK, OK. I’ll come quietly.’
‘Very funny.’ Vigdís turned to the other two younger painters who were watching with grins on their faces. ‘You two, outside. And turn the radio off as you go.’
‘Hey! They’ve got work to do,’ Gulli protested.
‘I said, outside.’
The men looked at their boss and then at Vigdís. They shrugged, turned Jay-Z off, and sauntered out into the street.
Vigdís scanned the room. It had been cleared of everything except dustsheets, brushes and tins of paint, as yet unopened. There was nowhere to sit, so they remained standing. ‘Now, where have you been this past week?’
‘Away. On holiday.’
‘Oh, yes? Alone?’
‘No. With my girlfriend.’
‘And where did you go?’
‘Tenerife. In the Canary Islands.’
‘I see. When did you get back?’
‘Yesterday. We started in here this morning.’
Vigdís pulled out her notebook. ‘All right. I want your girl-friend’s name and address, and details of your flights and which hotel you stayed at.’
Gulli shrugged and gave them to her. ‘What’s all this about?’
‘We’re taking another look at the death of Gabríel Örn Bergsson last January.’
‘But why do you want to know where I was last week?’
Vigdís ignored the question. ‘So, on the twentieth of January your brother Björn stayed with you in Reykjavík?’
‘That’s right. He came down about lunchtime. He wanted to go to the demonstration outside Parliament, so I said he could crash at my place.’
‘Did you go to the demo?’
‘No.’ Gulli snorted. ‘I have no interest in that stuff. A waste of time. And look what happened. We got rid of one lot of politicians and now we have another lot who are just as bad.’
‘Did you see your brother that day?’