Far North - Michael Ridpath [18]
He knew Árni would. Árni had studied Criminology at a small college in Indiana, and his English was very good. But Vigdís claimed she didn’t speak it, a claim Magnus didn’t believe. All Icelanders under the age of thirty-five spoke some English, and he didn’t see why she shouldn’t just because of her colour.
For Vigdís had the distinction of being the only black police officer in the Reykjavík Metropolitan Police. She was fed up with Icelanders and foreigners treating her as if she wasn’t an Icelander herself. As she had explained to Magnus, even though her father had been an American serviceman at the US air base in Keflavík, she had never met him, had no desire to meet him, and thought herself as Icelandic as Björk.
Magnus liked her. She was a conscientious police officer, and there was something comforting and familiar for an American cop working with a black face among so many pale ones.
Árni nodded, but Vigdís didn’t respond.
‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ said Magnus. ‘OK. Let’s figure out who is going to do what.’
*
The Ódinsbanki headquarters was on Borgartún, a boulevard that ran along the bay, lined with expensively designed glass- and marble-clad buildings. It was not the dense thicket of skyscrapers that you would find in a US city’s financial district, it was more sedate than that and more soulless.
Árni and Magnus pulled up into a car park behind one of the most lavish offices. They walked through revolving doors under the words ‘New Ódinsbanki’. The lobby echoed with the sound of rushing water from the various waterfalls, fountains and streams that flowed around the glass atrium.
They were met by the Chief Executive’s assistant, who took them up in the elevator to the top floor. She led them through a dealing room big enough to seat forty. It was eerily quiet, the screens blank, the chairs empty, apart from a group of a dozen or so men and women lined along the far wall. Behind these survivors was a wonderful view across the bay to Mount Esja, at that moment squatting under a grey cloud.
‘It’s quiet today,’ the assistant said. And then, with a wry smile: ‘It’s quiet every day.’
Eventually, after a couple of twists and turns, they came to the Chief Executive’s office and met the man himself. He was tall, about sixty, with a strong square face, thick grey hair and an ingrained frown. His name was Gudmundur Rasmussen and he had been turfed out of retirement to take over the running of the bank a year ago. His office was ostentatiously plain: simple desk, functional chairs and conference table. A couple of packing cases were stacked in the corner. It reminded Magnus a little of the police headquarters he had just left.
‘Terrible news about Óskar, terrible,’ Gudmundur said. ‘I didn’t really know him well. He was from a younger generation, we did things very differently in my day.’ He shook his head and tutted. ‘Very differently. Of course, I have spent most of the last year trying to clear up the mess that Óskar and his cronies left.’
‘Was he popular within the bank?’ Magnus asked.
‘Yes,’ Gudmundur said. ‘Yes he was. Even after all the mistakes he made came to light. He had charisma, people liked working for him.’ The frown deepened. ‘It has made my job difficult competing with that. The staff all seem to hark back to the good old days when Óskar was in charge. They don’t seem to realize that they weren’t good, they were disastrous. Things have to change. Now the bank is owned by the government we must behave cautiously. Not do anything rash.’
There was a knock at the door, and a man in his late twenties entered. He was self-assured with slicked-back hair and an expensive suit. A hint of cologne entered the office with him. He proffered his boss a single sheet of paper. ‘Can you sign off on this, Gudmundur?’
Gudmundur grabbed the paper and scanned it. ‘But these people are brokers, aren’t they?’
‘Yes. We do a lot of business with them.’
‘No. The bank’s not paying for this. I’ve told you before, if it’s not a client, you pay for your own lunch.’
He