Far North - Michael Ridpath [9]
He had been seconded to the Icelandic police at the request of the National Police Commissioner who was worried about big-city crime hitting his small country. Not that crime was unknown in Iceland. There were drugs aplenty and Friday and Saturday nights brought a regular haul of drunks into the cells at police headquarters. And of course there had been the winter demonstrations outside the Parliament that had culminated in the ‘pots-and-pans’ revolution which overthrew the government and stretched police resources to their limits.
But the Commissioner feared that it was only a matter of time before the kind of crimes that occurred in Amsterdam or Copenhagen or even Boston arrived in Reykjavík. Foreign drug gangs. Knives. Maybe even guns. And he wanted his men to be ready for it. Hence his request for an American police detective with practical experience who spoke Icelandic.
There weren’t a whole lot of those among America’s big-city police forces. Magnus, who had left Iceland for the States at the age of twelve with his father, fitted the bill, and when he had been shot at as a witness in a police corruption scandal he had been sent to Reykjavík as much for his own safety as for what he could do for the Icelanders.
‘Anything going on at CID?’ he asked Árni.
‘We have a bird thief.’
‘A bird thief?’
‘Someone has been stealing exotic birds. Parrots mostly, and budgerigars. There are scarcely any left in Reykjavík now. It’s a big problem. This man, and we think it is a man not a woman, is very clever.’
‘I thought you just did violent crimes?’
‘You go wherever they need you. Burglaries have doubled in the last six months and they have had to lay off twenty uniforms. The kreppa. You know what I’m talking about, you’ve seen the cost-cutting at the police college.’ Kreppa was the Icelandic term for the financial crisis, and Icelanders’ current favourite topic of conversation.
‘Got any leads?’
‘Some. Not enough. I’m confident we will crack the case by the end of the week. When will you be joining us? I’m sure we could use your expertise.’
‘Two more months, I think,’ Magnus sighed. The Commissioner had insisted that Magnus do six months of the one-year basic-training course at the police college before he was given a badge. Magnus had grudgingly accepted. It was hard to argue with the Commissioner’s point that it was impossible to uphold the law if you didn’t know what it was.
So he had spent most of the previous four months as a student and part of it teaching. He preferred the teaching.
The water jets began to bubble and Árni closed his eyes and leaned back. Magnus took the opportunity to examine the scar on Árni’s chest. The surgeon at the National Hospital had done a good job of patching him up. Magnus had seen many plugged bullet holes that looked a lot worse.
Magnus had worked with Árni on a case immediately after his own arrival from Boston four months before. Árni was not known as Reykjavík’s best detective, some said that he only had the job because his uncle, Chief Superintendent Thorkell Hólm, was head of CID. At times he had frustrated the hell out of Magnus, but Magnus liked him and admired his loyalty.
And he would never forget that Árni had taken a bullet for him.
They pulled themselves out of the hot tub, and went for a cold shower followed by a warm one.
As they were getting dressed in the changing room Árni checked his phone. ‘A call from Baldur,’ he said, examining the display. He pressed a couple of buttons and put the phone to his ear.
Inspector Baldur Jakobsson was the head of the Violent Crimes Unit. A good, traditional Icelandic cop, he was suspicious of Magnus and his big-city methods. Magnus understood, but he still thought he was a pain in the ass.
It looked to Magnus like a big breakthrough with the macaw. Árni’s eyebrows shot up as he listened, and his Adam’s apple started bobbing wildly. His cheeks flushed with excitement.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes… Yes. Yes,