Far North - Michael Ridpath [111]
Snorri had then begun to interview every burglar who had ever been arrested in Reykjavík; a major undertaking that had taken weeks. Magnus was amused to see that Baldur Jakobsson’s name appeared on the bottom of many of the reports of these interviews. There was no mention of any interviews with anyone at Bjarnarhöfn. Why should there be? It was decades since Benedikt had lived at Hraun.
Snorri could not find a single hard lead. No suspects, nothing. Twenty-five years on, the murder of Benedikt Jóhannesson was still a complete mystery.
Magnus tucked the file away in his briefcase, and left the café. There was one more thing he wanted to check about his grandfather.
The National Registry was right on Borgartún. As befitted the very heart of the national bureaucracy, it was the scruffiest building on the street. Magnus had some difficulties with the clerk, who regarded his Boston Police Department badge with scepticism. He still hadn’t got himself an official Reykjavík Metropolitan Police badge, and he wouldn’t until he graduated from the police college. However, the clerk smiled when he mentioned that he was working with Vigdís Audarsdóttir, whom she clearly knew, gave Vigdís a quick call at police headquarters, and then asked Magnus what he wanted.
It took her only a moment to confirm what Magnus had suspected. Although Hallgrímur Gunnarsson of Bjarnarhöfn in Helgafellssveit had a kennitala, or national identity number, he had never been issued with a passport.
Björn ordered himself a second cup of coffee from the counter. This place was expensive. You’d never pay that much for a cup of coffee in Grundarfjördur.
He took it back to the table he had been occupying for the last twenty minutes. He was in the café in the upper reaches of the Pearl, a grey bulbous building squatting on top of Reykjavík’s hot-water storage tanks. It was situated at the summit of a small hill overlooking the whole city. It had been chosen because the approach road up to the building from the main thoroughfare was open and empty. Impossible not to spot a car following you.
It had taken him a little longer to reach Reykjavík in the pickup than on his motorbike, but Björn had driven fast. He tended to drive fast when he was tense. And there was no doubt he was tense. He would soon be face-to-face with Harpa. He hoped he had the courage to see his plan through.
Through the broad expanse of glass he looked west out across to the sea, itself gleaming a pearly grey in the sunshine. In the foreground was the irregular crossed triangle of the runways of the Reykjavík City Airfield. And the spot where Björn had dumped Gabríel Örn’s body nine months before.
But before he faced Harpa, Björn had some people to see. Where the hell were they?
‘Björn! How’s it going?’
Björn felt a heavy pat on his shoulder, and turned to see Sindri and behind him the neat figure of Ísak.
‘Let me get some coffee,’ said Sindri. ‘We have a lot to talk about.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
‘WERE YOU FOLLOWED?’ Sindri asked Björn as he sat down with his coffee.
‘No. You were right, this is a good place.’
‘We’ve got to make sure the cops don’t see us together,’ said Sindri.
‘I don’t understand what Ísak’s doing here,’ said Björn, frowning.
‘He just arrived back in Iceland yesterday,’ said Sindri.
‘Why?’
‘The British police might be on to me,’ Ísak said. ‘One of them came to my house to interview me. Wanted to know whether it was me who had been asking Óskar’s neighbours where he lived. She didn’t push it, but she’s suspicious. So I thought I’d come back here. Make it that bit more difficult for her.’
‘The cops here are asking awkward questions too,’ Sindri said. ‘There’s a big red-haired bastard called Magnús who won’t leave us alone. Some kind of American.’
‘I told my mother things were getting on top of me and I needed to get away for a few days,