Far North - Michael Ridpath [57]
‘The press here hate him,’ Magnus said. ‘And his banker buddies.’
‘I can understand that,’ said Sharon. ‘But the people who actually knew him seemed in awe of him.’
‘I guess that’s how he got people to follow him,’ Magnus said. ‘He had success written all over him. But I can’t help getting the feeling that’s why he died.’
‘Are you suggesting he deserved to die?’
‘No, not at all. That’s not for us to judge, is it? And I’ve investigated the murders of far more unpleasant people than Óskar; I’m sure you have too. He hasn’t actually killed anyone himself, has he?’
‘No, but he bankrupted a whole country. Him and his mates.’
‘Yeah,’ said Magnus. Of course Óskar and his buddies hadn’t destroyed the economy on purpose. It wasn’t what you’d call premeditated, more accidental. Manslaughter rather than homicide. But people went to jail for manslaughter.
‘What are you going to do now?’ Sharon asked. ‘Drop the investigation?’
‘Baldur wants me to. But Gabríel Örn’s suicide just doesn’t sound right to me. I’m off duty this weekend. I think I’ll nose around, maybe speak again with some of the people we interviewed after his death.’
‘Keep in touch,’ Sharon said.
‘I will,’ said Magnus. ‘And good luck with Charlie.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
HAFNARFJÖRDUR WAS A fishing port on the edge of the lava field just outside Reykjavík, on the way back from the airport. Magnus drove past the enormous aluminium smelter at Straumsvík, where Gabríel Örn’s body had washed ashore back in January. A golf course ran alongside the road, winding higgledypiggledy through the lava, each green like a vivid crater. Magnus turned off the highway.
The harbour was surrounded by a ring of low hills. The town had become a popular location for Iceland’s wealthier middle classes, and some of the houses had exchanged hands at sky-high prices a couple of years before. But not any more, of course.
Magnus drove along the ridge until he came across a development still under construction. There was even a crane standing motionless over a half-finished house. Somehow Magnus didn’t think anyone was going to finish the house in a hurry.
Some of the dwellings at the far end of the development were occupied, and it was outside one of these that Magnus checked the copy of the interview with Ísak Samúelsson that Árni had conducted after Gabríel Örn’s death. Once again, Árni’s notes were sketchy. They stated Ísak was a student, although Árni hadn’t recorded where, and that he lived with his parents, one of whom, Samúel Davídsson, was a government minister, or had been in January when the interview had been conducted. Presumably not any longer, since the pots-and-pans revolution.
Magnus got out of his car and walked up to the white singlestorey detached house. It was well designed, with a great view of the harbour, and would have been an attractive place to live, had it not been for the construction site a hundred metres away.
He rang the bell. No reply. He waited a minute and tried again.
The door was opened by a thin woman wearing a headscarf. At first Magnus thought she was an old lady, but as he looked closer he realized she was probably not much older than fifty.
She smiled, a brief flicker of life in a weary face.
Cancer.
‘My name is Magnus, I am with the Metropolitan Police,’ Magnus said, fudging his official status a bit. Fortunately the Icelandic police were less scrupulous about introducing themselves and flashing badges than their American counterparts. ‘Can I speak to Ísak?’
‘Oh, he’s not here,’ the woman said. ‘He’s at university.’
‘On a Saturday?’ Magnus asked. ‘Is he in a library?’ Magnus hoped he was: it would be easy enough to track him down.
‘Oh, no.’ The woman smiled again. Magnus warmed to that smile. He hoped that her condition was a result of chemotherapy rather than the cancer itself. Of course there was no way of knowing and he couldn’t ask. ‘He’s in London.’
‘London? He’s at university in London?’
‘Yes. At the London School of Economics. He has just started his final year.’
Magnus inwardly cursed