‘I think I’m going to go to Germany, Magnús.’
Magnus was about to say, ‘don’t do that,’ when he stopped himself. He couldn’t stop her: she could do what she wanted. ‘That would be a shame.’
‘You said there’s a good chance you’ll be going back to the States. Why should I stay for you if you won’t stay for me?’
Magnus nodded. ‘That’s true.’
‘Well, then?’ Ingileif’s expression softened. ‘It’s not just you, Magnús. I should go. It would be a good opportunity for me. And it would be good to get away from this country for a bit. That stuff earlier this year with Agnar’s murder, all the things I learned about my father, my brother, I need to put that behind me.’
‘I thought I helped you with that,’ Magnus said.
‘I thought so too. But part of me holds you responsible for it. It’s not fair, but it’s true. I need to leave, Magnús.’
Magnus looked at Ingileif. The familiar grey eyes, the little nick above her left eyebrow, the smaller scar on her cheek. He had been lucky to know her, to love her even. But he couldn’t control her. He couldn’t keep her, he shouldn’t keep her. Why should someone like her stay just for him?
‘Do what you have to do,’ he said. And he turned and left the gallery.
Ísak walked out of the small shop with a plastic bag full of half a dozen items: bits and pieces of fishing tackle and a sharp knife that one could use for gutting a fish.
Or for something else.
The other items were just cover: to make it less likely that the shopkeeper would take note of a stranger coming into town to buy a knife, and just a knife.
His phone beeped. He pulled it out. A text message from Sophie asking where he was. He had no intention of replying. A shame about Sophie. She was cute but that relationship had no future. She would figure out eventually what he was up to, and she was too much of a good girl not to tell someone.
The back of his mother’s Honda was filled with his parents’ camping equipment. Ísak had parked it under the rocky outcrop upon which the church at Borgarnes stood. The town was about a third of the way between Reykjavík and Grundarfjördur. He pulled out a map and examined it.
Björn had talked about a hut on a mountain pass behind Grundarfjördur. Grundarfjördur was on the north coast of the Snaefells Peninsula, the backbone of which was a range of mountains. There was no pass directly to the south of Grundarfjördur, but there were two candidates a little further away, one to the east and one to the west. Ísak would check these first.
He felt tense and strangely excited. Gabríel Örn’s death had genuinely shocked him. But over time he had got used to the idea, and his anger with the Icelandic establishment, including his father, had grown. When he, Björn and Sindri had met that summer to talk about taking things further, intellectually he had been all for it. But, like the other two, he hadn’t been ready to pull the trigger himself. They had found someone else to do that.
But now, after Óskar and Julian Lister, Ísak was ready to do the deed himself.
And there was no doubt in his mind Harpa had to be killed.
He had spent so long reading and arguing about ideas such as ‘the end justifies the means’, and ‘the vanguard of the people’, it was exciting to find himself actually living by those precepts. Lenin, Trotsky, Castro, Che Guevara, they had all begun their careers like him, young intellectuals with ideas and enthusiasm but no experience of violence. And then at some point ideas had become action. That point for him was now.
He knew Björn had given up hope of getting away with it, and he suspected that Sindri had too, but he still thought there was a good chance that they might escape prosecution. None of the three of them had actually killed anyone and there was no evidence suggesting they had. Conspiracy would be much harder to prove, especially if the police had no idea who had actually been pulling the trigger. Which Ísak was pretty sure they didn’t.
Sindri was naïve hoping that the time of revolution was now. It would come, it might take years, but civil society would eventually break down under the weight of the contradictions of capitalism. And when it did, Ísak would be ready for it. He would spend the coming years building up an elite cadre of revolutionaries, a true vanguard of the proletariat who would be able to lead people like Björn to a better world.
It would come. He was young. He could be patient.
Everything would be fine as long as they all stayed quiet. He thought he could trust Björn and Sindri to do that. But not Harpa. Harpa would talk.
He would have to be careful. Killing Harpa would of course lead to its own inquiry and he would be a prime suspect. He would have to be sure not to leave any forensic evidence in the Honda. It would be important to dispose of the body miles away from Grundarfjördur, or anywhere he had been seen.
He wouldn’t be able to set up a perfect alibi, but he had spent the previous night in a small campsite just outside Reykjavík on the road to the south-east, taking care to give the owner his name. He had got up early that morning and doubled back, driving north. Once Harpa was out of the way, he planned to drive across Iceland, through the night if necessary. If he was seen camping in Thórsmörk, well to the east of Reykjavík, the morning after Harpa’s death, the police might believe that he had spent the whole time in the area.
Ísak trusted his own intelligence. He would be able to figure it out.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
VIGDÍS LOOKED AT the nineteen-year-old boy opposite her. His eyes were rimmed with red and he looked miserable.
He hadn’t talked after his night in the cells, and Vigdís was surprised. She had done her best to coax something out of him, to make him feel good about confessing to whatever he wanted to confess to. She had mentioned Gabríel Örn, Sindri, Björn and Harpa. Nothing.
Ingólfur Arnarson. Nothing.
Then Árni had tried. His histrionics, including a bit of shouting at Frikki and banging on the table had been, quite frankly, embarrassing. For a moment Vigdís thought that she had exchanged a half-smile of amusement with Frikki, but then it was gone. She fervently hoped that they wouldn’t have to play back the videotape. There was no doubt about it: Árni watched too much TV.
There was a knock at the door and one of the duty constables from the front desk appeared. ‘Vigdís? There’s someone to see you.’
Vigdís left Árni to it and followed the constable into an adjoining interview room. There sat a dark-haired woman of about twenty.
‘I am Magda, Frikki’s girlfriend,’ she said in English.
Vigdís remembered that Árni had mentioned a girlfriend when he had picked Frikki up from his mother’s house. ‘Do you speak Icelandic?’ Vigdís asked.
‘A little. Can I talk to him?’
‘I’m afraid not. We are interviewing him in relation to a very serious incident.’
‘Please. Just for five minutes.’
Vigdís shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. But perhaps you can help. Do you know anything about the death of Gabríel Örn in January this year?’
Magda shook her head. ‘I was in Poland then.’
‘Has Frikki spoken to you about it?’
Magda hesitated. There was silence in the small interview room. Vigdís waited. She could almost see the wheels turning in Magda’s head as she tried to come to a decision.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, he has. But it is better if he talks to you directly about it.’
‘I agree,’ said Vigdís. ‘But he won’t.’
‘Let me talk to him, then,’ said Magda. ‘Alone.’
Vigdís considered it. As a rule, it was best to keep witnesses separate, pin down the differences in stories, prevent them from conferring. But this case was different. She nodded.
Ten minutes later Magda knocked on the door of the interview room. Vigdís opened it.