Far North - Michael Ridpath [87]
‘Don’t do that, Sharon. We’re not at that stage yet. Once the Icelanders start thinking the British believe they are terrorists, there will be a new cod war, believe me.’
‘I don’t know…’
‘Look, there’s no evidence, no suspicion, even.’
‘But you would like me to talk to Ísak?’
‘Yes.’
There was a pause on the phone and Magnus could hear Sharon sigh. ‘OK. I’ll let you know what he says. Oh, by the way. Turns out the Metropolitan Police had thirty million quid invested in an Icelandic bank.’
‘Oops.’
Magnus hung up and drove into the parking lot of the police college on Krókháls. It was on an industrial estate and shared the car park with a software company and a sports shop. As he turned off the engine his phone rang again. It was Vigdís.
‘Magnús, can you get back to the station?’
‘When?’
‘Now. There’s something you should see.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MAGNUS, ÁRNI AND Vigdís were crowded around Vigdís’s desk, watching her monitor. The sound was off: they didn’t want to attract Baldur’s attention unnecessarily.
Magnus had seen snatches of the protests on the news, but never more than a few seconds at a time. Austurvöllur, the square outside Parliament, was full of a seething mass of people, young and old, male and female, shouting and banging. The pots and pans were very much in evidence, as were wooden spoons, tambourines, flags and placards. The camera panned from face to face, each one flushed with varying combinations of anger, excitement and cold. Apart, that is, from those that were hidden by scarves and balaclavas.
‘Look, there’s Harpa,’ Vigdís said. Sure enough, Magnus saw her banging diligently at her saucepan. ‘And there’s Björn.’
The fisherman was only a few yards away from Harpa, yelling his head off and shaking his fist. For a second the camera focused on his face. Björn had seemed a cool customer to Magnus, but at that moment his face was contorted into a fury that verged on hatred.
‘See, they pass within a metre of each other, and they don’t recognize one another,’ said Vigdís.
It was true. Harpa moved in front of Björn, banged her saucepan and then moved on.
‘So this really was when they met?’
‘Hold on, I’ll show you.’ Vigdís fast-forwarded. In jerky movements the crowd surged, missiles were thrown at the police lines and pepper spray canisters were raised.
‘Is that you, Árni?’ Magnus asked.
‘Yes.’ Vigdís paused, and they admired Árni in his black uniform, a look of determination on his face as he raised his yoghurt-splattered shield.
‘That can’t have been fun,’ Magnus said.
‘Especially not since I knew the kid who threw that skyr,’ Árni said. ‘An old girlfriend’s younger brother. I swear he recognized me.’
‘OK, we start spraying the pepper,’ Vigdís said, providing a commentary, ‘Harpa falls over and there! Björn picks her up. From here on they stick together.’
Even from the poor image it was clear from the way Harpa looked at Björn that she was taken with him.
‘All right, this is from maybe quarter of an hour later. See. There they are.’
‘Who’s that guy they are with?’ Magnus asked. Harpa and Björn were moving about together with a tall man with a grey ponytail sticking out underneath a broad-brimmed hat. The man was chatting to all around him, laughing and then shouting slogans. Magnus thought he looked vaguely familiar.
‘That is Sindri Pálsson.’
‘OK, I’ve heard of him somewhere haven’t I?’
‘He’s famous here in Iceland,’ Vigdís said.
‘Everyone’s famous in Iceland.’
‘He was lead singer of the punk rock group Devastation in the early eighties. Then he became an all-round troublemaker. Serial protester. Anarchist. Wrote a book about the evils of capitalism. Heavily involved in the protests against the Kárahnjúkar dam. You know, they dammed up a valley to provide hydroelectricity for an aluminium smelter.’
‘I know,’ said Magnus, although that was barely true. He had heard of the controversial project but knew nothing of the details. Once again he felt his ignorance about his own country.
‘He tried to turn the protests violent, but