‘Frikki wants to talk,’ Magda said.
Vigdís was sitting at a table at the back of the coffee shop on Hverfisgata, just a few metres from the police station. At moments like this, outside the police station, Magnus had trouble remembering she was Icelandic and not American. An attractive black woman in jeans and a fleece, she could easily be one of the detectives from the Boston Police Department.
After seeing Ingileif he had walked the streets aimlessly. He had nowhere to go: he couldn’t face the classroom at the police college, and it was clear Baldur wouldn’t welcome him at the station. His thoughts bounced between Ingileif and the Óskar Gunnarsson case. Both depressed him. He came up with no great ideas about either problem.
There seemed an inevitability about Ingileif’s decision. The case involving her father’s death in the 1990s had been very painful for her. Although it had brought Magnus and her together, he could see how she associated him with it. He could understand how she might want to run away. Start again somewhere new. She was doing what she felt she had to do.
But the Óskar Gunnarsson case was different. Although he had been sidelined, he was confident that he was right.
And he could never let a case go.
So when Vigdís had called him on his cell phone, he had hurried to the café.
‘What have you got?’ he asked her.
‘Frikki talked.’
‘The night in the cells did its stuff?’
‘More his girlfriend. She persuaded him.’
‘And?’
‘And you were right. Gabríel Örn’s death wasn’t suicide.’
‘Who killed him? Björn?’
‘Possibly Frikki. Probably Harpa.’ Vigdís explained everything that Frikki had told her. About the night in January. The drinking at Sindri’s flat. Harpa calling Gabríel Örn, tempting him out. The scuffle, Harpa hitting him over the head. And the plan to cover everything up, a plan which Frikki had little directly to do with.
‘Got them!’ said Magnus in triumph. ‘What about Óskar? And Lister?’
‘Frikki didn’t know anything about them,’ Vigdís said. ‘He suspects something, much as we do, but he has no evidence.’
‘Any clue about the identity of Ingólfur Arnarson?’
‘He has never heard of him. We checked the phone directory, by the way. There are a dozen real Ingólfur Arnarsons listed. Róbert is checking them out now.’ Róbert was another detective in the Violent Crimes Unit.
‘Has Frikki seen any of the others since Gabríel Örn’s death?’
‘Only Harpa. He bumped into her in the bakery in Seltjarnarnes. He told her his theory that Sindri and Björn might have shot Óskar and the British Chancellor. She wasn’t impressed.’
‘Meaning she’s involved?’
‘Frikki didn’t think so. Neither did his girlfriend, for what it’s worth.’
‘So are you arresting them now?’
‘Baldur’s dithering. He’s in with Thorkell discussing it.’
‘But surely there’s a case for murder here? Or manslaughter at the very least. Baldur can’t hide from that.’
‘Yes, the Gabríel Örn case will definitely have to be reopened. But there’s also the question of whether you were right all along. Whether there is a link with the Óskar investigation.’
‘We can’t prove that until we get the ID on Ísak from London,’ said Magnus. ‘But we should get these people in custody right away. Before anyone else gets killed.’
‘Maybe,’ said Vigdís. ‘Look, I’ve got to get back. If they do take a decision to make some arrests, they’ll be looking for me.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Magnus said. ‘Well done, Vigdís. And thanks for keeping me in the loop.’
Magnus finished his coffee as Vigdís left the café, leaving hers untouched. He smiled to himself. It felt good to be vindicated, there was no denying it. And he was absolutely sure now that there was a link between this little group and the recent shootings.
His phone rang. Sharon Piper.
He picked it up. ‘Hey, Sharon. Ísak’s ID come through?’
‘Soon,’ said Sharon. ‘The witness’s husband has been in touch with his office and we’ve just e-mailed the photo to him. We haven’t heard back from his wife yet.’
‘Why the hell not? Tell her to pull her finger out. It’s important.’
‘Steady on, Magnus, hold your horses. There is some news from Normandy.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘A girl in a bakery in a village a few kilometres from where Lister was shot served a customer the morning before the shooting. He was wearing a light blue jacket and he drove a motorbike with Dutch licence plates.’
‘The same guy the farmer saw?’
‘Sounds like it.’
‘Did she give a better description?’
‘Yes. But the really interesting thing is the coin the man gave her for change. At first she thought it was twenty cents, but then it turned out to be something else.’
‘Let me guess. Icelandic krónur?’
‘You’re right. A fifty-krónur piece.’
‘Jesus. So what’s the description?’
‘Good-looking guy. Dark hair, unshaven. Blue eyes. Slim but strong. About thirty, thirty-five. Fairly tall, maybe one metre eighty-five. That’s about six-foot one.’
‘I know.’
‘It’s not Ísak,’ said Sharon. ‘But is it Harpa’s boyfriend, Björn?’
‘Could well be,’ said Magnus. ‘The description fits.’
‘OK, I’ll tell SO15 that.’
‘SO15?’
‘The Counter Terrorism Command. There’s a lot of people getting very excited over here. I think your guys are going to hear from our people pretty soon. Or from the French. Can you send over a photo of Björn?’
‘Yeah. Maybe.’ Magnus thought it through. ‘I’m technically off the case and out of the police station. The Icelanders are going to be real sensitive about this. You know what cross-border cooperation can be like once things get political.’
A year before, in Boston, Magnus had been investigating a case involving a Canadian citizen in Montreal. The RCMP had been much less helpful than usual. The Canadians had taken exception to their informal help in another case leading to a terrorist suspect being arrested and taken to Guantánamo Bay. Since then everything had had to go through official channels. A pain, but Magnus could see their point.
‘Your guy can expect to hear from someone shortly,’ said Sharon.
‘Thanks, Sharon.’
So it was Björn who went to Normandy. Via Amsterdam, probably. Hired a motorcycle there, or stole one. Or borrowed one. Got hold of a rifle. Drove to Normandy and buried it.
And it had been Ísak who had done similar legwork in London. Located Óskar’s address. Perhaps got hold of the gun, the motorbike.
But for whom? Neither of them had shot anybody. Nor had Sindri: he was in Iceland the whole time. There was someone else. Someone who could use a gun, who wasn’t afraid of killing, but who wasn’t able to make his own preparations. Perhaps wasn’t well travelled enough. Perhaps didn’t speak English.
Who could it be? Magnus had no idea.
It should be straightforward to check whether Björn flew to Amsterdam the previous week, though.
Magnus had to see Baldur right away. He hurried out of the café and into the police headquarters.
‘Where’s Baldur?’ he asked Vigdís.
‘With the Commissioner. I think Thorkell is in there too. They are discussing whether to arrest Björn and Sindri.’
‘I’ve got to see him.’
‘I don’t know how long he’ll be.’
‘Then I’ll interrupt him. Árni, check and see whether Björn was on any flight to Amsterdam last Thursday and Friday, and if he came back to Reykjavík on Saturday.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘He’s the guy the farmer saw the day before Lister was shot. The Dutch guy. Except he wasn’t Dutch, he had Icelandic coins in his pocket. Vigdís, come with me. I may need your help.’
Magnus noticed a thin file on his desk. He glanced at it. The pathologist’s report on Benedikt Jóhannesson’s murder. He left it there and headed for the door.