66 Degrees North

Magnus grunted as he skimmed Arni’s notes on the interview with Bjorn Helgason. That too was brief.

‘Did Bjorn corroborate what Harpa said?’

‘Yes,’ said Arni. ‘And he was much more convincing. You are not suggesting we should go and see him in Grundarfjordur, are you? That’s at least two hours away. It would take a whole day to get there and back.’

Magnus knew that they should. There was a hole in Harpa’s story and Bjorn was a natural place to start looking for it. But Grundarfjordur was a fair distance away, on the Snaefells Peninsula on the west coast of Iceland. He had his own reasons for not wanting to go anywhere near that area if he could avoid it.

‘Maybe later,’ he said.

The Kria was heading home. It had been a rotten day and tempers were frayed. The crew couldn’t wait to get back to harbour and unload what little there was of the day’s catch, a couple of disappointing hauls of small haddock.

It was dark. To the right, Buland’s Head rose in massive blackness against the lighter darkness of the cloud- torn sky. Ahead was Krossnes light, the rhythm of its winking so familiar. The crew stood in silence. Gusti, the skipper, had screwed up. He had misjudged the effect of the tide on the seine net and it had drifted on to a known wreck on their third haul of the day, snagging. When Bjorn had seen where they were fishing, he had suggested they were too close, but Gusti had ignored him. Then they had spent the whole of the rest of the day trying to free the net, before eventually kissing goodbye to two hundred thousand kronur’s worth of equipment. Bjorn had suggested cutting it after an hour or so, at least then they could have used the spare net to salvage something of the day.

It was difficult being the skipper of a fishing boat. You had to be able to find the fish. And you constantly had to weigh up the risks of different courses of action. Bjorn had a knack for it. Gusti didn’t. And it was almost as if Gusti was determined not to take Bjorn’s advice.

Bjorn was as much a threat as a help to Gusti. Since Bjorn had lost his own boat he went out with any of the skippers he could either from Grundarfjordur or one of the little ports that lined the north coast of Snaefells Peninsula: Rif, Olafsvik, Stykkisholmur. The Kria didn’t belong to Gusti, but to a fishing company, and although Bjorn was ten years younger than the skipper, everyone in Grundarfjordur knew what a good fisherman he was. Gusti was afraid for his job. Bjorn had to be careful or there was a good chance that Gusti wouldn’t take him on as crew again.

Still, the small catch meant it wouldn’t take long to unload the boat and clean up. Then he could be on the road down to Reykjavik to see Harpa.

She was getting to him in a way that no woman had ever got to him before. She wasn’t his type at all, and he was beginning to realize that that was the reason why she had such an effect on him. He liked self-assured women; women who knew what they wanted and what they wanted was sex with him. He was happy to oblige, and when things got a little complicated, a little heavy, a little emotional, as they inevitably did, he moved on. Some were upset: most had always known that was the deal. He had lived with a woman for two years once, Katla, but that had only worked because they had managed to keep their emotional distance despite sharing the same bed and roof. As soon as the relationship had developed into something more, it finished.

But Harpa was different. She was smart – he actually liked talking to her. Like him, she had been screwed by the kreppa, even if in an entirely different way. She was vulnerable and there was something about the vulnerability of such a capable woman that Bjorn found appealing. She needed him in a way that no woman had needed him before, and rather than running a mile, he responded to it.

He didn’t have to ride the best part of two hundred kilometres to see her that night, but he was happy to do it. It was worth it.

She was worth it.

CHAPTER NINE

MAGNUS WAS IN a good mood as he parked the Game Over on Njalsgata, opposite his house, or rather Katrin’s house. ‘Game Overs’ were what they were calling Range Rovers these days: Magnus had bought his at a knockdown price from a bankrupt lawyer who owned two, but couldn’t really afford one. It was a gas guzzler, but once you got outside Reykjavik a good four-wheel-drive was a must.

The quick couple of beers he had had at the Grand Rokk were partly responsible for his mood. The Grand Rokk was a bar just off Hverfisgata. Warm, scruffy, populated during the week by men and women who liked to drink, it reminded Magnus of the places he and his buddies would unwind after a shift in Boston. That kind of thing was much less common in Reykjavik, except on the weekends when everyone went crazy. In fact, weekday drinking was frowned upon. Which kind of added to the allure of the Grand.

On occasion when he had first arrived in Iceland a couple of beers had turned into many more, plus uncounted chasers, which had got him into trouble. But these days he had things under control.

It wasn’t just the beer, though. It felt good to be doing straightforward police work again. And the case was piquing his interest. He wasn’t sure whether they would find an Icelandic link to Oskar’s death, but if they did he was willing to bet that it would be through Harpa. It was to be expected that she should be upset after her ex- boyfriend topped himself. But Harpa’s agitation was more complicated than that: she was hiding something.

And Gabriel Orn’s suicide didn’t make sense. So far they had found no signs of suicidal thoughts or actions, or of extreme depression. And if he did want to commit suicide, walking three miles to the sea and jumping in seemed a very strange way to do it, especially on a cold night. Why not drive? Take a taxi? Or just stay at home and take some pills?

It may be that further investigation would reveal a suicidal side to Gabriel Orn that would make sense of it all.

But Magnus wouldn’t be surprised if it didn’t.

As he took out his house keys, the door opened and his landlady appeared, in full regalia.

Katrin was tall with short dyed-black hair, white make-up, and metal sprouting from her face and ears. She was wearing black jeans, T-shirt and coat. She looked a little like her brother Arni, but where Arni’s features were weak, hers were strong. Under her arm was a tiny bird of a girl with short blonde hair.

‘Hi, Magnus,’ Katrin said in English. She had spent some time in England and liked to speak to him in that language. ‘We’re just going out. This is Tinna, by the way.’

‘Hello, Tinna,’ said Magnus. ‘How you doin’?’

Tinna nodded, smiled, and leaned into her taller companion’s side.

Magnus wasn’t yet familiar enough with the conventions of female friendship in Iceland to be sure of what exactly he was witnessing.

Katrin noticed his confusion. ‘I’ve gone off men, Magnus. They smell and they lie. Don’t you think so?’

‘Well…’ Magnus said.

‘Tinna is much nicer,’ Katrin said, squeezing the small blonde.

Tinna smiled up at her friend and they kissed each other quickly on the lips.

‘Oh, don’t tell Arni, will you, Magnus? I wouldn’t mind, but it will only upset him.’

‘I won’t,’ said Magnus. One of the reasons Arni had installed Magnus with his sister was so that Magnus could spy on her. This was something Magnus was not prepared to do. He liked Katrin, she made a good house mate, even if they didn’t see very much of each other. Perhaps because they didn’t see very much of each other.

As he entered the hallway, he smelled cooking. He checked the kitchen, wondering if Katrin had left something on the stove. There was Ingileif, pushing some scallops around a frying pan with a wooden spoon.

‘Hi,’ she said, leaving the stove and coming towards him. She gave him a long, lingering kiss.

‘Hi,’ said Magnus, smiling. ‘This is a bit of a surprise.’

‘You’ve been to the Grand Rokk, haven’t you? I can smell it on your breath.’

‘Does it bother you?’ said Magnus.

‘No, of course not. I think that dive suits you perfectly. Just don’t try and drag me in there. Do you like scallops?’

‘I do.’