‘And Sindri and Ísak. And the kid Frikki.’
‘I don’t care about them. Well maybe I care about the boy. I certainly don’t care about me. But I do care about you.’
Björn smiled. He was touched. He was beginning to think he really could persuade her. Later.
‘Can you help me think how to do it? I mean, if there is a way I could warn the police without getting you thrown in jail? I’ve been thinking about an anonymous tip-off, but I’m not sure how I can do that without giving them details that would incriminate you.’
‘That’s why I came down here,’ said Björn. ‘To come up with a plan. But first there is someone I want you to meet.’
He gulped down his coffee. Harpa still hadn’t touched hers. What was wrong with the woman? She always drank her coffee. Especially when she was wound up.
‘Who?’
‘You’ll see.’
Harpa sipped some of her coffee. Björn took her hand. ‘We’ll figure this out, Harpa. I know we will.’
Harpa looked up and smiled. ‘God, I hope so.’
‘Come on, finish your coffee and let’s go.’
Harpa hastily emptied her cup. ‘OK. Wait a second. I just need to make sure it’s OK with Dísa to leave early.’
Björn waited for Harpa as she had a quick word with her boss. ‘All right, let’s go,’ she said. They went outside. Harpa saw Björn’s pickup. ‘No motorbike?’
‘It’s being serviced,’ Björn said.
They climbed in and Björn headed off towards the ring road. He headed east. He didn’t have any specific destination in mind. Just drive. Rohypnol was a sedative and one of the most popular date-rape drugs because it was tasteless and could induce amnesia, especially when mixed with alcohol. The guy who had given it to him had said it was supposed to take effect within twenty minutes to half an hour, but that could only be an approximation. And of course Harpa hadn’t drunk any alcohol. Björn didn’t trust the guy at all. He hoped he’d got the dosage right.
Björn slipped a CD into his player and turned the music up. Nirvana. He wanted to keep small talk with Harpa to a minimum.
After fifteen minutes, she yawned. ‘God, I feel sleepy. How far are we going?’
As far as it takes, Björn thought. ‘Probably another half hour.’
‘Why won’t you tell me where we are going?’
‘You’ll see.’
Ten minutes later, Harpa was leaning against the side of the door of the pickup. Five more minutes and she was asleep.
Magnus sat at the back of the class, listening to the lecturer, a police superintendent, talk about fraud and the Penal Code. Magnus was wearing the uniform of a sergeant in the Boston Police Department. Everyone at the National Police College wore uniform, lecturers and students, unless they were civilians, of course. The superintendent in charge of the college had thought it appropriate for Magnus to wear a BPD uniform rather than that of a police cadet, so Magnus had brought one back with him after his brief trip to the States for a few days back in May to pack up his life and move it to Iceland. Hadn’t taken long.
He knew he should focus; the last thing he wanted to do was to fail his exam and have to retake. Except now it looked like he would be on a plane back to the States before he even had a chance to take the damn exam.
Part of him wanted to forget about Harpa and Björn and Sindri. If Snorri didn’t want to listen to him that was his problem.
Except Magnus couldn’t think like that. If he was right, and he was damn sure he was right, then the people who had shot Julian Lister and killed Óskar and probably Gabríel Örn would go free. And worse, there was a chance some other poor bastard, with a family, perhaps with kids, would end up dead, probably in the next few days.
The phone vibrated next to his hip. Magnus surreptitiously slipped it out of his pocket to check it. He felt like a schoolboy. Vigdís.
It was strictly forbidden to take cell phone calls in class, or to leave the class to take them. Magnus quietly headed for the door.
The superintendent paused. ‘Magnús?’
‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ Magnus said with a smile. He was out in the corridor before the lecturer could reprimand him.
‘Yeah, Vigdís, what is it?’
‘We’ve identified the kid who was being treated for tear gas. Fridrik Eiríksson, known as “Frikki”. He used to be an assistant chef at the Hotel 101. Got laid off back in December. We’ve got an address in Breidholt. Shall we pick him up?’
Magnus appreciated Vigdís asking him. ‘Yes. But check with Baldur first. And let me know how the interview goes.’
‘Speak to you later,’ said Vigdís.
Magnus smiled apologetically as he took his seat in the classroom.
He was in his car heading back home when he got a text from Vigdís. Frikki was out somewhere with his girlfriend, his mother didn’t know where. They would let Magnus know when they picked him up.
He bent down to look at the magnified image on the screen of the camera resting on its tripod. The long lens was pointing out across the Tjörnin, the large lake in the centre of Reykjavík and a hub for international bird travel in the North Atlantic. In its pale blue waters, reflecting the pale blue sky, swans, geese, many species of duck, terns, coots and a host of other birds, paddled, glided and swooped, busy, busy, busy.
There was a particularly noisy cluster down at the far end of the lake, behind the parliament building and the futuristic glass, steel and chrome box that was the City Hall. This was where locals and tourists gathered to feed the birds. Beyond that, the murmur of the crowd gathering in the Austurvöllur square for the Icesave public meeting drifted towards him.
But despite the appearance he was eager to give, he wasn’t watching the waterfowl. He was examining one of the large white houses on the far shore of the Tjörnin.
He had been observing the house for a couple of hours already. He was convinced there was no protection, no police cars loitering outside, no men in uniform or out of it patrolling the garden. He was pleased to see that the target’s car, a black Mercedes SUV, was parked up by the side of the house, almost out of sight of the road. Behind it was a hedge and some small trees. A possible entry point. Worth checking out later.
As he watched and waited a plan settled in his mind.
The target emerged from the front door of the house and walked around to his car, climbed in, and drove off.
He unfastened the camera, took down his tripod and left.
He knew what he was going to do.
Ingileif pushed through the crowd in the square outside the Parliament building, searching for the large frame of Sindri. There were a few hundred people there. The atmosphere was different to that of the demonstrations Ingileif had attended over the winter. The crowd was more serious. The anger was there, but it was more muted. There were no pots and pans, no foghorns, no anarchists in balaclavas, and very few police. Less excitement, more quiet determination.
Ingileif soon spotted Sindri’s brown leather hat and grey pony-tail and pushed herself into a space beside him. Sindri was chatting randomly to those around him when he noticed her.
‘Ingileif?’
She turned and gave him a big smile. ‘Sindri! I’m not surprised to see you here.’
‘It’s an important issue,’ Sindri said.
‘Very,’ said Ingileif. ‘Do you know who the speakers are?’
‘Old windbags,’ Sindri said. ‘I don’t know why I bothered to come. They’ll talk about refusing to pay the British, but that’s all it will be, talk.’ He gestured at the crowd. ‘Take a look around you. I was hoping for some revolutionary spirit. People who are prepared to do something. This lot look like they’re at church listening to a sermon.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Ingileif. ‘We need to scare them.’