Far North - Michael Ridpath [85]
‘So we’re saying there is a bunch of nutters out there who want to shoot bankers and politicians?’
‘Who they think are responsible for the kreppa.’
Magnus and Vigdís looked at each other. ‘If we raise this, the shit really will hit the fan,’ Vigdís said.
‘I know,’ said Magnus.
‘And I mean not just with Baldur. With Thorkell. And the Big Salmon himself.’
‘I know.’
‘We haven’t got any evidence, have we? I mean, none at all.’
‘I know.’
‘So what do we do?’
Magnus had been thinking. ‘Let’s just keep an open mind for now. Baldur told me to go back to the police college today, and I have a lecture to give there at eleven o’clock. But I have an idea.’
‘Yes?’
‘Did the police take surveillance videos during the demonstrations in January?’
‘Sure.’
‘Dig them out for the day Gabríel Örn was killed. See if you can see Harpa. And Björn. See what they did. See who they talked to. Maybe you’ll be able to figure out whether they really did meet then for the first time.’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Vigdís.
‘Let me know what you find. In the meantime, how do I get hold of the file on a murder from 1985?’
‘Which case?’
‘Benedikt Jóhannesson.’
‘The writer?’
‘Yes. Do you know anything about it?’
‘I was only a kid at the time. But we studied it at police college. Stabbed in his home, I think. The crime was never solved.’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Has this got a connection to Óskar?’
‘Not really.’
Vigdís frowned. Magnus remained impassive. Vigdís decided not to push it. ‘It won’t be scanned on to the system, but Records will have the original file buried away somewhere. It will probably take them a while to locate it.’
‘Thanks, Vigdís.’
While Vigdís made some calls to rustle up the surveillance video, Magnus composed an e-mail to one of his buddies in the Homicide Unit in Boston, asking to check with the US Citizenship and Immigration Services for immigration information for July 1996. Then he called Records.
Árni breezed in. ‘Morning, Magnús. Good weekend? All quiet here?’
‘Talk to Vigdís,’ Magnus said. ‘You’ve got some work to do.’
Ísak popped the toast out of the toaster, and spread on butter and marmalade. It was an English habit that was growing on him. The house off the Mile End Road which he shared with four other students ran on toast. And instant coffee. The kettle boiled and Ísak made himself a cup.
‘Hey.’
He turned to see his girlfriend Sophie slope into the small kitchen in pyjama bottoms and an old Save Darfur T-shirt.
‘I thought you didn’t have any lectures until twelve?’
‘I decided I really have to go to the library,’ she said. ‘I can’t put it off any longer.’ She perched herself on his lap and kissed him quickly on the lips. ‘Good morning,’ she said, and kissed him again, deeper.
Ísak smiled and let his hand brush over her breast. She wasn’t wearing a bra.
She left it there for a moment, but then she extricated herself and stood up. ‘No. Discipline. I need discipline.’ She opened the cupboard and started rummaging around, looking for bread. Ísak had finished off the loaf. ‘Do you want another slice of toast, Zak?’
‘Yeah, OK. Thanks.’
The doorbell rang.
‘I’ll get it,’ said Sophie. The bell rang again. ‘All right, all right. You’ll wake everyone up,’ she complained, but in a voice too quiet for whoever was outside to hear.
Ísak heard the door open.
‘Police,’ an authoritative female voice said. ‘Detective Sergeant Piper from Kensington CID. Is Ísak Samúelsson here?’
Ísak tensed.
‘Er. I don’t know,’ said Sophie, taken aback.
‘It’s OK, Sophie,’ Ísak said, moving into the hallway. ‘Come in.’ He led the detective into the kitchen. ‘Sit down. Can I make you some coffee?’
‘No thanks,’ Sergeant Piper said, taking the chair Sophie had been occupying.
Sophie sat down next to her and scowled.
‘What is this about?’ Ísak asked, as coolly as he could.
‘Do you mind if I talk to Ísak alone?’ Piper said to Sophie.
‘I bloody well do,’ said Sophie, suddenly waking up. ‘Like, where do you get off? This is our kitchen.’
Piper sighed.
‘It’s OK, Soph,’ said Ísak. ‘I don’t know what this is about, but I’m sure