Far North - Michael Ridpath [95]
‘Yes, but he was drunk. We all were.’
Harpa swallowed. ‘And he said that you might be involved.’
‘Me? How? They were shot abroad, weren’t they?’
‘Yeah,’ said Harpa. ‘But he said, or rather his girlfriend said, that you might have flown over to London and France when you told me you were going out on a fishing boat.’
‘Oh, Harpa, that’s just ridiculous!’
And Harpa agreed. When she said it out loud it did sound ridiculous. ‘That’s what I told them.’
‘Good. They’re not going to go to the police or anything, are they?’
‘No, I don’t think so. But…’
‘But what?’
Harpa took a deep breath. Until now she hadn’t voiced aloud her own distrust of Björn. She had never shown any mistrust of him. Ever. But now she had to.
‘Björn. Why did you have your passport with you when you came down to see me last week?’
‘What?’
‘Why did you have your passport? I saw it. In your jacket pocket.’
‘You’re not telling me you believe them?’
‘No. I just want to know about your passport.’
‘Well. Um. I needed it.’
‘To go abroad?’
‘No. For identification purposes. The following morning I had an appointment to see a bank in Reykjavík about a loan to buy a boat.’ His voice was speeding up and gaining in confidence.
Just as if he had stumbled on a good story made up on the spot.
‘Which bank?’
‘Um. Kaupthing.’
‘But they don’t ask for passport ID, do they?’
‘No, I thought it was strange. New rules, probably. Tightening up.’
This sounded all wrong to Harpa. ‘So then you went out on a boat for the next few days?’
‘Yes. I told you.’
‘Whose boat?’
‘Hey, Harpa, I don’t need to justify myself to you. Surely you don’t believe this kid, do you? Do you?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know, Björn.’
‘What is this, Harpa?’ Anger was rising in his voice.
‘OK,’ said Harpa. ‘OK. I’ll ask you this question once and then I’ll shut up. Were you involved in the shooting of Óskar? And Julian Lister?’
Silence.
‘Björn?’
‘No. No Harpa, I was not. I didn’t shoot either of them. Don’t you believe me?’
Harpa hung up.
Her phone rang. She didn’t answer it. She had slumped to the floor of the kitchen, her back against a cupboard and she was sobbing.
No. She didn’t believe him.
She was still sitting there ten minutes later when the door opened.
‘Harpa?’
‘Mummy?’
She looked up to see her father and her son staring at her, both of them full of concern.
‘Mummy, did you fall over?’
Harpa began to pull herself to her feet. Einar gave her his hand. Markús ran to her and gave her a hug. It felt good.
Einar gently suggested the boy go into the living room to watch TV.
‘Harpa, what’s wrong?’ he said.
‘Oh, Dad. Dad, I’m in such trouble.’
‘Come here.’ He enveloped her in his strong fisherman’s arms. His chest was broad and he smelled of tobacco. Usually she hated the smell of cigarettes, but on him it reminded her of her child-hood, the joy of meeting him back from the sea. Then the tobacco had been mixed with fish. ‘Sit down and tell me about it.’ He smiled. ‘On a chair, not the floor.’
Harpa sat at the kitchen table. She wanted to talk, she was desperate to talk. And now she no longer had Björn to talk to. What the hell? So she told him.
She started with the demonstration and meeting up in Sindri’s flat. She told him about Frikki’s suspicions that Sindri and Björn were responsible for the shooting of Óskar and Julian Lister. She told him about Björn’s denial and how she didn’t believe it.
And then, because otherwise the whole story didn’t make sense, and because it was such a relief to unburden herself, she told him about luring out Gabríel Örn that night, and about how he died. She told him everything, except the relationship between her and Óskar and between his grandson and the banker.
‘Oh, my poor love,’ he said, clasping her hand in his. ‘I thought something had happened last January. I had no idea it was this bad.’
‘I know. Can you forgive me?’ She looked deep into those strong hard blue eyes. It was a lot to ask her father. He had always loved her, she knew that, but he had high standards for his daughter and he had always been quick to chastise her if