‘The neighbour saw Bjorn come back home yesterday evening. About six o’clock. He was driving his pickup. She saw him as she was getting out of her own car. She remembers it because she saw his girlfriend fast asleep in the front seat.’
‘Asleep?’
‘That’s what she said.’
‘And she recognized Harpa?’
‘Yes. Dark curly hair. She’s seen her around a couple of times. Her kitchen looks out over Bjorn’s driveway and she saw Bjorn putting stuff in the pickup. He drove off about a quarter of an hour later.’
‘What sort of stuff?’
‘Food. A sleeping bag. She assumed they were going off on a camping trip together. She didn’t actually see a tent, but then she wasn’t watching Bjorn’s every move.’
‘She was pretty close,’ said Magnus. ‘Thank God for nosy neighbours.’ He thought quickly. ‘OK, see if you can find him. Your regional HQ is Stykkisholmur, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll get people here to talk to your superintendent.’
Magnus considered what to do. The inactivity here was killing him. He’d love to have a go at Sindri himself, but he knew it would be very frustrating to be second fiddle to Baldur. Or third fiddle. He might not even be allowed into the interview room.
And if Sindri had any sense he wouldn’t say anything, especially if there was another target. Harpa was the only one who would talk. And she was with Bjorn.
All Magnus’s instincts told him to go to Grundarfjordur.
‘Pall, I’ll be with you in a couple of hours.’
He hesitated a moment, grabbed the Benedikt Johannesson file, and headed for the door.
Arni drove up the narrow street of Bakkavor, one of Reykjavik’s most exclusive, leading up from the western shore of Seltjarnarnes. The houses were much less grand than the rich people’s homes he had seen in America, and indeed to an American eye they were nothing special, but in Reykjavik, a city of small, unpretentious, wind-battered dwellings, they were something.
The street was split into two. On one side, the houses were bigger, the sea views slightly better. Many of these properties belonged to the newly wealthy, including the owners of a multinational food company which they had named ‘Bakkavor’. On the other side of the street were slightly more modest homes, with the view of the sea partially hidden. Many of these were owned by the quota kings.
Arni stopped outside one of these and rang the bell.
The door was answered by an older and plumper version of Harpa.
‘Good morning,’ Arni said. ‘My name is Arni and I am with the Metropolitan Police. I am looking for Harpa.’
‘Oh, hello. Come in,’ the woman said frowning. As Arni took off his shoes he saw Harpa’s son staring at him. There was an unmistakeable resemblance to the late Oskar Gunnarsson.
Harpa’s mother, whose name was Gudny, led Arni into the kitchen. Her grandson disappeared into a living room.
‘Has something happened to her?’ Gudny asked.
‘No,’ said Arni. He almost added, ‘at least we don’t think so,’ but thought better of it. ‘Do you know where she is?’
‘She’s gone off with Bjorn, her boyfriend.’
‘Oh, I see. And do you know
‘Is she in trouble?’
‘We just need her help with an inquiry. The death of Gabriel Orn Bergsson.’
‘Oh, that.’ The frowned deepened. ‘No, I don’t know where she is. My husband went to drop off Markus at her house around the corner and found a note. It just said she had gone off with Bjorn for a few days.’
‘It didn’t say where?’
‘No.’
‘Have you been in touch with her?’
‘No,’ said Gudny, still frowning.
‘What about Markus?’ Arni asked. ‘Hasn’t she wanted to talk to him? Say good night last night?’
‘No. I tried to call her on her mobile, but it was switched off.’
‘Do you think that’s strange?’ Arni asked.
Gudny sighed. ‘Yes. A little. I mean, she always gets in touch when she is away with Bjorn. To speak to Markus as much as anything else. Is she all right?’
‘We don’t know,’ said Arni. He watched as Gudny’s eyes widened. ‘We believe she is in Grundarfjordur with Bjorn. Or she was. Bjorn was seen loading his truck with supplies. Where do you think they might have gone?’
‘I don’t know. Camping perhaps? Perhaps he has taken her out on a boat? I don’t know.’
Arni considered the woman’s replies. They seemed to reflect genuine ignorance of where her daughter was.
‘Has she had a row with Bjorn, do you think?’
‘No,’ said Gudny. ‘At least not that I know of. I don’t think they ever row.’
Arni raised his eyebrows. Couples always rowed, in his experience.
‘Harpa looks up to Bjorn,’ Gudny said. ‘She relies on him. She has had a very bad year. First losing her job, then her boyfriend killing himself. Bjorn has been a rock the whole time.’
Arni was pretty sure he wouldn’t get anything more out of Harpa’s mother. It was clear that Harpa had kept her in the dark about what was really worrying her. ‘You say your husband found the note?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is he around somewhere?’
‘Oh, yes, he’s fiddling about in the garage.’
‘Can I speak to him?’
Gudny led Arni out of the kitchen towards the back of the house. ‘He’s tying flies,’ she said. ‘He’s a very keen fly-fisherman. He can’t go sea-fishing any more, so fly-fishing is the next best thing. He just came back from a few days in the north.’
Einar, Harpa’s father, looked very little like her. A squat strong man with grey hair, blue flinty eyes and the familiar weather-beaten face of one who had spent decades on the North Atlantic waves.
There was something about the man’s body language when they were introduced that suggested to Arni that he knew more than his wife about Harpa. This wasn’t a surprise visit. He knew his daughter was in trouble.
‘Do you mind if I speak to your husband alone?’ Arni said.
Gudny hesitated and then left them to it.
Arni looked over Einar’s shoulder, where there were indeed signs of fly tying – he saw something in a vice and a magnifying glass. Arni examined it: a few drab feathers wrapped around a hook.
‘Doesn’t look much like a fly to me,’ he said.
‘You’re not a salmon,’ said Einar.
‘That’s true.’
‘Have you ever been fly-fishing?’ Einar asked.
‘No. It always seemed a bit expensive for me,’ Arni said.
‘It’s got cheaper in the last year or two, with the
‘Your wife said you had just come back from a trip. Any luck?’
‘Some. It’s more of a challenge when there are fewer fish to catch, and that’s fun in its own way. As long as you catch some. Which I did this time. Have a seat.’
Arni sat on a plastic chair, while Einar removed a small coil of wire from another one and sat opposite him. Arni scanned the garage. There was no room for a car: it was full of tools and other clutter, including a set of golf clubs in a corner – a bolthole for a practical man in retirement who needed things to do with his hands.
‘How much do you know?’ Arni asked the man in question.
‘About what?’
‘About the trouble Harpa is in.’
