By Michael Ridpath
Iceland 1934: boys taking part in within the lava fields that encompass their remoted farmsteads see whatever they should not have. the implications will hang-out them and their households for generations. Iceland 2009: the credits crunch bites. The forex has been devalued, banks nationalized, reductions annihilated, lives ruined. Grassroots revolution is within the air, as is the sensation that somebody should pay...ought to pay the blood expense. And in a rustic with a inhabitants of simply 300,000 souls, in a rustic the place we all know everyone, it is not tough to attract up a listing of precisely who's in charge. after which, one-by-one, to move them off. Iceland 2010: As bankers and politicians begin to die, at domestic and overseas, it's as much as Magnus Jonson to solve the internet of conspirators ahead of they strike back. yet whereas Magnus investigates the crimes of the current, the crimes of the prior are catching up with him.
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To the right, behind the oil storage tanks, was the city of Reykjavík, a jumble of brightly coloured houses overlooked by the Hallgrímskirkja, its majestic sweeping spire boxed in by scaffolding. Straight across the bay squatted Mount Esja, a horizontal rampart of granite, still free of snow at this time of year. And to the left lay the small town of Akranes, stuck on the end of a peninsula, a thin trail of smoke emerging from its tall cement-works chimney. Her little house was right on Nordurströnd, the road that ran along the north-eastern edge of the prosperous suburb of Seltjarnarnes, which was perched on its own promontory sticking out into the bay.
Harpa could feel herself blushing. Embarrassment. Shame. Guilt. They all washed over her. She felt they were all looking at her, but she avoided them, staring down into her glass of brandy, letting her dark curly hair flop down to hide her eyes. There was silence. Björn coughed. She looked up to meet his eyes. She had to accept who she was. What she and people like her had done. How she had been used as well. ‘I was a banker. I worked for Ódinsbanki until two months ago when I was fired by my boyfriend.
So after a couple of months of fruitless search she presented herself to Dísa, the woman who ran the bakery. Dísa was kind but firm. There were no vacancies. It was only then that the truth hit Harpa. In the kreppa there were no jobs for someone like Harpa. None. She tried everywhere; it was only at the end of June that Dísa eventually called her and said that a vacancy was opening up and Harpa could work for them. It was a good job: the people were friendly and it provided some flexibility for her to spend time with Markús.