By Michael Ridpath
Iceland 1934: boys taking part in within the lava fields that encompass their remoted farmsteads see anything they wouldn't have. the implications will hang-out them and their households for generations. Iceland 2009: the credits crunch bites. The foreign money has been devalued, banks nationalized, discounts annihilated, lives ruined. Grassroots revolution is within the air, as is the sensation that somebody should pay...ought to pay the blood cost. And in a rustic with a inhabitants of simply 300,000 souls, in a rustic the place we all know every person, it is not difficult to attract up an inventory of precisely who's dependable. after which, one-by-one, to go them off. Iceland 2010: As bankers and politicians begin to die, at domestic and in another country, it truly is as much as Magnus Jonson to resolve the internet of conspirators earlier than they strike back. yet whereas Magnus investigates the crimes of the current, the crimes of the previous are catching up with him.
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Father won’t be back for ages. He’s gone to look for a ewe on the fell. ’ The cairn was in a depression, out of sight of grown-ups, which made it such a good playing place. Hallgrímur climbed the ancient footpath between the two farms, which had been hewn out of the lava a millennium before by the berserkers themselves, and looked west towards Bjarnarhöfn. It was a prosperous farm, nestling beneath a waterfall which tumbled down the side of Bjarnarhöfn Fell. It was surrounded by a large home field, bright green against the brown of the surrounding heath.
Yes… Yes. ’ Magnus’s interest was piqued. ’ Magnus said, as soon as Árni hung up. ‘I’ve got to get back to headquarters,’ Árni said. ’ ‘I think so,’ Magnus said. ’ That was Magnus’s problem. Although he had done a good job of brushing up on his language so he was fluent with barely an accent, Reykjavík was a small town where everyone knew everyone else. Apart from Magnus who had never heard of anyone. Árni hurried to pull on his clothes. ‘Ex-CEO of Ódinsbanki. He was fired a year ago. He’s under investigation by Financial Crimes and the Special Prosecutor.
Gabríel! ’ She reached out to grab him, but he pushed her back. She lurched into a low wall surrounding a small car park. On the wall was an empty Thule beer bottle. She picked it up, took three steps forward and, aiming for the bald spot on the back of Gabríel Örn’s head, brought it crashing down. He staggered, swayed to the right and fell, his head bouncing off an iron bollard at the entrance of the little car park with a sickening crack. He lay still. Harpa dropped the bottle, her hand flying to her mouth.