He trotted back to the truck.
Then he saw it. A footprint in the dust, a couple of metres from where he had walked himself. He put his own feet by the print. Smaller, definitely not his.
He followed the prints back into the mist. The dirt had been scuffed. There was part of a tyre mark.
A small conical rock lay about twenty metres back from the track. He checked behind it: a car. The same car he had seen struggling up the pass earlier.
Who the hell’s was it? A strange walker, who for an unknowable reason had wanted to hide his car before setting out? He doubted it.
Could it be the police? The small Honda didn’t look like a police car, and he could see various bits of camping equipment in the back.
It could be Ísak. After Harpa.
Björn ran back to his truck, spun it around and hurtled down the hill to the valley.
He burst through the cloud, and the valley floor opened before him. He noticed the door to the hut hanging open. He scanned the valley as he drove and saw a figure clambering out of the stream and up the hill on the other side. Ísak.
Further up the hill he could see Harpa, only a few metres below the cloud base.
He swerved off the track and drove down towards the stream. Within a few seconds the truck came to a halt as a front wheel slid into a hole with a clang. Björn flung open the door and leaped out. He saw Ísak turn towards him and then keep climbing.
Björn bounded from stone to stone in the stream, and was soon on the other side. He could no longer see Harpa. And the cloud was descending further. In a moment it had swallowed up Ísak.
Björn kept his eyes on where he had last seen Ísak and kept his legs pumping. He was a fit man, fitter than Ísak he would bet.
He scrambled upwards past a rock. A snipe darted up to his right with a whirr of wings. He saw a flash of steel, and twisted, raising his arm to parry the blow. There was the sound of tearing as a knife ripped the upper arm of his jacket. He stepped backwards, ready to face his assailant, but one of his feet slipped from under him.
Ísak was quick and surprisingly strong. As Björn fell backwards and hit the ground the blade of the knife penetrated his coat, his fleece, his shirt and his skin, and lodged between his ribs.
Björn felt the blow, but no pain. He reached up and grabbed Ísak around the throat. Ísak’s eyes opened in surprise. He tried to wriggle free, but Björn would not let go. The two men rolled down the slope, Björn’s fingers clamped to the student’s throat. They came to a halt against a rock, Björn on top.
He increased the pressure. Ísak made choking noises as he gasped for breath. Björn’s vision began to go. He forced himself to focus on Ísak, to keep those fingers tight just for a few seconds longer. But he could feel the strength flowing from his body, from his arms.
Ísak saw it too. He bucked and Björn’s fingers came loose, another buck and Björn was tossed sideways. He lay panting on his back in the moss. Beside him Ísak gulped for breath in great choking spasms. But with each second that passed, Ísak was getting stronger and Björn weaker.
Björn glanced downwards at the handle of the knife protruding from his chest. Strangely, it still didn’t hurt.
Ísak bent over him and yanked it out.
Björn yelled. That hurt. That hurt like hell. But the yell was little more than a croak.
He tried to pull himself to his feet. He couldn’t do it.
He moved his lips, tried to force air through his vocal cords. ‘Come here, you bastard!’ But it was just a whisper.
Sindri wished they would offer him a cigarette. It would be easier to zone out with a cigarette. There was a red no-smoking sign on the wall of the interview room, but there was also a cigarette butt in a white plastic cup on the window sill. The bastards could give him a cigarette if they wanted to. But he wasn’t going to ask.
Since they had brought him in, he hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t asked for a lawyer, he didn’t need anyone to tell him not to say anything. It wasn’t long now, only a few hours, and then he could talk. But it should be easy to keep quiet until then.
The black one was talking now. The bald one was staring at him. He tried not to focus on what she was saying, but couldn’t avoid hearing the words ‘Ingólfur Arnarson’. If they were smart, they would have figured out who that was by now. If Sindri had been smart, he would have chosen an irrelevant codename. The others thought the whole notion of a codename was ridiculous, but it had turned out to be a good idea. He wondered how the police had got hold of the name. Someone wrote it down somewhere, perhaps? Or they were overheard.
Sindri knew he was going to jail. But the more he thought about it, the more he grew to like the idea. Litla Hraun could hardly be worse than his squat. There would be company, they would probably allow him to write, and he would be famous. Finally people would notice him.
That morning, despite the hangover, he had posted his manifesto on his blog. It had come out surprisingly well. It was both a call to arms and the distillation of ten years of his ideas. And once he went on trial, people would read it all over the world.
He had been bitterly disappointed at the Icesave meeting the day before. That was why he had got so drunk. It was clear that Ísak was right, the Icelandic people were just too nice, too polite to take to the streets to fight. At least Ingileif had listened to him. She was gorgeous. And smart. He had really thought he was going to get lucky there, but it had turned out that it was his mind she was impressed with, not his body. Perhaps, in time. When she heard about his trial on national TV.
That was one problem with prison. No sex. Who was he kidding? It was at least a year since he had last had sex. And he used to find it so easy.
Maybe Ingileif?
No. He would have to reconcile himself to several years in jail. But he would be a hero to some people. And over time the number of people who believed in his cause would grow, he was sure of it. He’d be a kind of Icelandic Nelson Mandela.
‘What’s so funny?’ the bald one snapped.
Sindri didn’t answer, but let the smile fade from his lips. No need to provoke them.
‘Where’s Harpa?’
Not telling you, buddy.
‘And Ísak?’ asked the black woman. ‘Where is Ísak? Are they together?’
Not telling you that either.
But Sindri answered the question in his own head. Ísak was looking for Harpa with the intention of killing her.
That didn’t fit into Sindri’s self-image of a hero of the people. He should have stopped Ísak somehow, called Björn and warned him. Harpa’s death would be a waste. And Björn was right, she was entirely innocent.
Sindri could look anyone in the eye and tell him he was proud of what they had done to Óskar Gunnarsson, or Julian Lister, or what they would do to Ingólfur Arnarson. Even Gabríel Örn’s death could be justified.
But not Harpa. Killing Harpa would be wrong. And he would be implicated in that as well, with some justice. It wasn’t the law that worried him, he knew he was a murderer anyway according to the law, but it was the people. He couldn’t justify Harpa’s death to the people. Or to himself.
‘What is it, Sindri?’ the bald one said. ‘You look worried. We know Björn is with Harpa. Is Ísak with them? Or is he somewhere else?’
Sindri took a deep breath.
‘Tell us,’ said the bald one, gently. He and the woman leaned back, patiently.
Sindri thought about it. Then thought about it some more. Then he spoke.
Páll could drive fast, Magnus would give him that. He had the lights flashing, although there were only a few sheep and a couple of horses to admire them. They seemed interested, though.
There was a good chance they would be the first to the Kerlingin Pass. The small complement of police based at Stykkishólmur were spread far and wide, some of them manning roadblocks into and out of the peninsula.