Free 66° North by Michael Ridpath Page B

bit. The guv’nor wants me to go to Iceland, if that’s OK with you guys.’
    ‘Sure,’ said Magnus. ‘Glad to have you. When are you coming?’
    ‘Probably tomorrow. I’ll let you know when I’ve booked my flight.’
    ‘Do that. I’ll meet you at the airport.’
    ‘I’ve never been to Iceland before,’ Piper said. ‘A bit parky is it?’
    ‘Parky?’
    ‘You know. Cold. Chilly.’
    ‘There’s no snow on the ground yet, but the latitude is sixty-six degrees north. You can safely leave the sunscreen at home.’
    ‘Baldur’s going to love that,’ said Árni when Magnus had hung up. ‘A British bobby on his patch.’
    ‘I’ll look after her,’ said Magnus. It did seem a bit of a waste of time, but it would be nice to have a native English speaker around.
    ‘So what now?’ said Vigdís.
    Magnus leaned back in his chair and thought. It was quite likely that there was indeed no Icelandic connection, but they had to keep an open mind; more than that, they should operate on the basis that there
was
a link, otherwise they would definitely miss one if it did exist.
    There were still people to talk to, files to read. But he asked himself the key question: from what he had learned so far, what felt wrong?
    ‘Árni?’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Tell me more about Gabríel Örn’s death.’
    ‘I’m sure that doesn’t have any relevance.’
    ‘Tell me.’
    ‘OK,’ said Árni. ‘It was last January, right at the peak of the demonstrations. The department was stretched to the limit. We were all out there on the lines, even the detectives, we were working round the clock. We were knackered.
    ‘Anyway, a body washed up on the shore at Straumsvík by the aluminium smelter. It was naked. The clothes were found ten kilometres up the coast, just by the City Airfield, next to that bike path that runs along the shore. It was Gabríel Örn Bergsson. It turned out he had sent two suicide texts before he went for a swim, one to his mother who raised the alarm, and another to his ex-girlfriend, Harpa Einarsdóttir, who didn’t, or not until the following morning.
    ‘I went to interview Harpa. She had some story about how she was supposed to meet him at a bar, but he never showed up.’
    ‘And you didn’t believe her?’
    ‘She had an alibi. She was seen at the bar, waiting. In fact she got in some kind of argument there. But no, it didn’t seem quite right.’
    ‘Why not?’
    Árni scrunched up his face, frowning deeply, painfully. ‘I don’t know. Nothing I can put my finger on. That’s why I said it was irrelevant.’
    ‘Were they sure it was suicide?’
    ‘The pathologist had some slight doubts, I think. As did Baldur. But they were pretty much squashed from on high.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘There was a revolution going on,’ said Vigdís. ‘And up till then it was peaceful. If Gabríel Örn had been murdered on the night of those demos, it would have put an entirely different flavour on the whole situation. The politicians, the Commissioner, everyone was shit scared that things would turn seriously violent. We all were.’
    ‘Árni, let me tell you something,’ Magnus said. ‘If your gut tells you something, listen to it. It may turn out to be wrong, it often will, but every so often it will be the best evidence you’ve got.’
    Árni sighed. ‘All right.’
    ‘Where does this Harpa woman live?’
    ‘Seltjarnarnes. I can call her to see if she’s in?’
    ‘No, Árni. We are going to surprise her.’

CHAPTER EIGHT
     
    H ARPA LIVED IN one of a row of identical white houses facing the bay. Small, but expensive enough in the boom times, Magnus thought. Not now though.
    When she answered the door Magnus got the firm impression that she had been expecting to hear from the police. For a second she looked panicked, before badly feigned surprise kicked in.
    She was in her late thirties, with pale skin, pale blue eyes and dark curly hair reaching down to her shoulders. She had been pretty once, and no doubt could be