Far North - Michael Ridpath [60]
And now that the police knew that Óskar was his father, it would be impossible for Harpa to keep that quiet. Markús would find out in the end, as would Óskar’s family. Maybe even the press. And then, eventually, he would discover that his mother was a murderer.
Harpa had a strong bond with her son. The fear that that might be shattered terrified her.
She was desperate to call Björn. But he was out in the middle of the Atlantic somewhere.
She couldn’t go on like this. She should put an end to it all. Go to the police station and confess everything. Face up to what she had done. She hadn’t meant to kill Gabríel, the judge would understand that. Perhaps she would be found guilty of manslaughter instead of murder. She would go to jail, but not for the rest of her life. This was Iceland after all, with its famously lenient legal system.
But they would arrest Björn as well. He would probably be locked up as an accessory or conspirator or whatever they called it, as would the others who had helped her, even that student, Ísak, who had been suspicious of her at first. They had done so much for her, she couldn’t betray them now.
And what about Markús? Sure, her mother would look after him, look after him very well, but Harpa couldn’t bear the thought of missing him grow up.
She took a deep breath. Somehow she would have to get through this, stick to her story, keep her wits about her, keep herself out of jail. Somehow she would have to find the strength to do that.
She sniffed. The moisture on her cheeks cooled in the crisp air. She hadn’t even realized she was weeping. She was falling apart.
It was strange. She used to think of herself as a tough woman, smart and tough. You had to be to get on in Ódinsbanki. Although there were women in all jobs in Iceland, the banks had a macho culture. Work hard, play hard. They won deals because they were quicker than everyone else and they were ready to take risks that other banks wouldn’t. Óskar had insisted that they all read his favourite book, Blink by Malcolm Gladwell, with its thesis that the best decisions were those taken by instinct in seconds. Harpa had kept up, helped, she had to admit, by Gabríel Örn. They were a team: Harpa was his analytical muscle, he had the aggression and ruthlessness to close the deals.
And they had been fun, those glory days, she couldn’t pretend they hadn’t been. The trips to the Monaco Grand Prix, the yachts in the Mediterranean, the birthday parties in Barbados, following Manchester United Football club to exotic cities around Europe. It was only after going out with Gabríel for three months that Harpa realized he had supported Liverpool all his life, at least until he joined Ódinsbanki and discovered that Óskar followed Manchester United.
But she wasn’t much better. She hated football. She just didn’t let anyone at work know that.
Then there were the salmon fishing trips back in Iceland. That was corporate entertaining on a spectacular scale. Fly the clients to Reykjavík by private jet, and then from the City Airport to the river by helicopter. Each client had his own gillie, and even the most cack-handed could land a salmon. Her father had been so jealous. And proud.
She smiled.
But it was never going to last. In her heart of hearts she had known that. She had argued furiously with Gabríel over the car dealership deal, and the chain of shoe shops, both in Britain, both now bankrupt. And there were several others that she had serious doubts over. They would do fine while the economy was growing, but come a recession and they wouldn’t be able to meet their interest payments. That was a feature of nearly every deal Ódinsbanki did.
They were winging it. And when the recession did come, everything crashed at once.
She knew that would happen. While the others had such boundless optimism, such faith in their own abilities that they thought they had defied the laws of boom and bust, she never really believed it. Yet she had still followed them blindly.
Something else to feel guilty about.
She approached the harbour.