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 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 rate. And in a rustic with a inhabitants of simply 300,000 souls, in a rustic the place we all know every person, it's not tough to attract up a listing of precisely who's dependable. after which, one-by-one, to pass them off. Iceland 2010: As bankers and politicians begin to die, at domestic and out of the country, it truly is as much as Magnus Jonson to solve the net of conspirators prior to 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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Baldur won’t like it,’ Magnus said. ’ said Árni, as he grabbed his bag and hurried out of the changing room. * Magnus unlocked the front door of the little house in 101, the postcode for the centre of Reykjavík. The outside walls were cream concrete, and like most Icelandic houses the roof was brightly painted corrugated metal, in this case lime green. The house actually belonged to Árni and his sister, although only his sister Katrín lived there. Magnus paid her a very reasonable rent. Magnus climbed the stairs to his room.
When she had first been fired from Ódinsbanki, she had spent a couple of months in shock, cocooned in her house with her son. But eventually she realized she would have to get a job. She considered the bakery that she stopped in every day on her way to work. They liked her, she was sure they would be bound to hire her, but she could do better, she thought. Well, it turned out that she couldn’t. So after a couple of months of fruitless search she presented herself to Dísa, the woman who ran the bakery.
I’ve read your book. ’ The big man raised his eyebrows. ‘I thought it was a bit extreme. ’ The big man laughed. Now Harpa knew where she had seen his face. He had been a punk rocker in the early eighties, a one-hit wonder and had re-emerged two decades later as an Icelandic anarchist writer. ‘My name is Björn,’ the fisherman said and held out his hand. Sindri shook it. ’ Sindri asked Harpa. She could smell alcohol on his breath and she recognized the look of interest in his eyes as he examined her.