Far North - Michael Ridpath [12]
Her little house was right on Nordurströnd, the road that ran along the north-eastern edge of the prosperous suburb of Seltjarnarnes, which was perched on its own promontory sticking out into the bay. The house had been expensive because of the view, but Harpa had been able to take out a big mortgage to cover the cost, a mortgage that she had been easily able to service with her banker’s salary. She should have taken a straightforward repayment mortgage, but like many other Icelanders she had chosen a loan where the principal was linked to inflation. The advantage was that the monthly payments were lower.
The disadvantage was that when inflation was high, for example after a massive devaluation of the currency, the value of the loan soon overtook the value of the house.
She had no banker’s salary any more so she couldn’t afford the payments. The house was now worth less than the mortgage. She was going to lose it, that was inevitable. The only reason she hadn’t lost it already was the government’s temporary edict that the banks had to delay foreclosures until November.
What would happen then? Perhaps the bank would be lenient. Or perhaps she and Markús would end up living with her parents like some teenage mother just out of high school.
If her parents could keep their own house, that is. She knew they had financial difficulties – she was after all responsible for them – she just didn’t know how bad they were. And she was too afraid to ask.
Why had she taken out that stupid mortgage? She had an MBA from Reykjavík University. She knew there was a theoretical risk. She had just been sucked up in the mindless optimism of jam today, jam tomorrow that had swept Iceland.
She switched on the news. Something about ministers threatening to resign over the agreement the government had made to repay the four billion euros it had borrowed from the British government to bail out depositors in Icesave, the London Internet operation of one of the Icelandic banks.
Then she heard a name that was all too familiar.
‘The Icelandic banker, Óskar Gunnarsson, former chairman of Ódinsbanki, has been murdered in his house in London. He was shot.’
Harpa froze, the hot water running over the dish she was rinsing.
‘Óskar Gunnarsson was under investigation by the authorities in Iceland over alleged fraud at Ódinsbanki prior to its nationalization nearly a year ago. It is not clear yet whether his murder had anything to do with the alleged fraud.’
Harpa grabbed her laptop and opened it up, looking for more information. As she waited for the computer to boot up, she thought of the charismatic banker. But she also thought of Gabríel Örn. One murdered banker. Another murdered banker.
Would there ever be a time when she didn’t think of Gabríel Örn?
She checked the BBC website. There were a couple more details. The house was in Onslow Gardens in Kensington. Harpa remembered Óskar buying it just before she finished her two-year stint in London in 2006. At that time he was based in Reykjavík, but spent a lot of time in Britain. Someone had entered the house the night before and shot him. His girlfriend was in the house at the time, but was unharmed.
‘Hello?’ Her front door opened with a clatter. ‘Harpa?’
‘I’m in the kitchen, Dad!’
A moment later her father came in. There was a scampering of feet as Markús rushed into the room and leaped at his grandfather. ‘Afi!’
Einar Bjarnason swung the boy around like a feather, laughing as he did so. ‘Hey, Markús! How are you? Pleased to see your old grandfather?’
‘I’m watching LazyTown, Afi, do you want to come see