Chilled to the Bone (14 page)

“What those boys don’t get up to. But it’s so much better for them than being cooped up inside in front of the television all day, don’t you think. Are you going to Florida again this year?” The larger one asked, the pair unconscious of the tension brewing next to them.

“Oh, next month, I think. February’s such a miserable time, isn’t it?”

Hekla risked a glance back at the man and saw that without the two women chatting next to them, he would have said something to her. She forced a brief smile at him and stood up, hot water cascading from her arms as the chill air bit again, just as the man opened his mouth to speak. Before he could say anything, she had waded past him and was up the steps and trotting to the changing room.

H
E STARED AT
faces in the street, hoping that eventually he would see the features of that blasted woman who had caused him so much grief. Jóel Ingi was furious, mostly with the woman he knew only as Sonja and who was still there on personal.is, where he had stumbled across her and so much else. He wondered what Hinrik had done and why he needed more money so soon. The man had promised results and so far he had the feeling that his cash had been wasted, nevertheless, he’d been left with no option but to dig into his savings.

Angry, he walked faster, as if the expended energy would
make him feel better. He knew that he should have gone to the gym to work off a little of the aggression he could feel building up in his biceps. The urge to vent some of the pressure grew inside him and, without realizing it, he found that he was almost running along the street, with passersby giving him quizzical looks.

He fought to control his breathing, which came in gasps, and to calm down he told himself over and over again that there was nothing he could do. He would have to wait. He conjured up a warm, soothing voice in his mind, which he tried to imagine guiding him when he felt this way, the dark brown, earthy female voice that normally reassured him. He slowed his pace and his heart gradually stopped pounding. The sensation of overwhelming pressure in the center of his chest began to fade and he took deep breaths, great gulps of clean air, which he released as slowly as he could. Suddenly he felt exhausted; it was time to rest.

H
EKLA LOOKED OVER
her shoulder as she hurried from the changing room, through the turnstile, and into the car park. Behind her a pall of steam continued to rise from the open-air pool; she hoped the man was still in the hot tub where she had left him. She had changed at a speed the bulky man could hardly hope to match, she thought, throwing her towel onto the back seat as she sat behind the Toyota’s wheel and groaned as it whined and declined to start.

“No. Not now, you bitch,” she whispered to the car, leaning forward and resting her forehead on the steering wheel while forcing herself to rest the starter for a few seconds. “Go on. Do it. Do it for me. Start,” she muttered, gasping a sigh of relief as the engine coughed into unwilling life, leaving a cloud of black smoke behind it.

With a glance over her shoulder, she gunned the Toyota’s complaining engine and the car slipped sideways as the wheels
failed to grip on the frozen ground, finally finding a purchase as she eased the accelerator and the wheels stopped spinning. The car bounced across the car park just as a heavily built man jogged from the pool door, catching a glimpse of Hekla’s cropped head behind the wheel of the battered red Toyota as his own four-wheel-drive car started the first time.

He sped onto the main road, narrowly avoiding a collision and waving his apologies to the driver of the bus that had managed to stop just in time. Not knowing which way the red car had gone, he hoped it had gone right and sped faster than was wise though the slush. He took the first roundabout at a dangerous pace and prayed that the police weren’t out, putting his foot down along the road past Korpúlfsstadir and the course where he occasional played a few holes. He ignored the speed bumps and was finally rewarded with the sight of a down-at-heel red car in the distance. Resisting the temptation to put his foot down and close the distance, he kept it carefully in sight, and was able to see well in advance which way it went at the next roundabout.

The red car was making its way along Vesturlandsvegur, the main road that passed through the last suburbs of the city outskirts before the stretch to the Hvalfjördur tunnel and the countryside beyond.

He chewed his lip and wondered where the car was going. He was certain it was the same woman. The hair was different, cut very short and made spiky by the moisture and steam, but she looked so familiar. That figure was the same, with those heavy breasts that he’d last seen encased in electric-blue PVC. He told himself bitterly that he had seen more of them through the blasted woman’s demure swimsuit than he had during the session at the Arctic Hotel that had cost him so dear. On top of that, her listing was still there on personal.is.

From under the lids of half-closed eyes he had watched her relax in the hot tub, concentrating on the face alone, certain that
the strong jawline and narrow, slightly kinked nose in a long but shapely face belonged to the same woman. Watching the car from a distance and with time to think, his blood boiled with anger at the humiliation, as well as the fact that she had bled his account dry. Taking deep breaths and telling himself to be calm and maintain a steady speed as the red car passed through Mosfellsbær without stopping, he reminded himself that the bitch had at least kept her word. She had skinned his credit and debit cards, but had only used them once, plus he had been released from his bonds exactly when she had said he would be. That didn’t detract from the fact that he’d had to borrow money for the first time in years to tide himself over that month.

Where was the red car going? he wondered. All the way to Akranes, maybe? Or further? He looked at the fuel gauge and was relieved to see he had more than half a tank. With the last of the Mosfellsbær roundabouts behind it, the red car picked up speed along the quiet road.

A
GNES WAS PAINTING
when he came in. She sat at her easel in the wide-open living room with an absorbed look on her face, a fine brush crosswise in her mouth and another in her hand as she concentrated every ounce of her attention on the small canvas in front of her. Jóel Ingi wondered what the abstract image was supposed to be as she etched a swooping line in aquamarine across half of the canvas.

“Is it a bird?” he guessed.

“Nope,” Agnes replied distractedly. “Not sure yet.”

He admired her dedication, wishing he could do the same. The tiny pink point of her tongue protruded between her lips as she took the broader brush from her mouth and worked at a patch in a corner of the painting, lightening the tone. A wisp of her pale blonde hair had escaped from the band around her head and she absently pushed it out of her eyes, her otherwise clear forehead furrowed in concentration.

“I’m going for a shower,” he said, slipping off his jacket and loosening his tie. “Coming?” he asked hopefully.

Agnes had her eyes focused on the inexplicable painting. “Hmm?”

“Nothing,” he said, turning and making for the bathroom as Agnes’s phone tinkled in the pocket of her artist’s smock.

H
IS PHONE RANG
in the breast pocket of his jacket. A traditional sort of man, he had set the ring tone to sound like the bell of an old-fashioned phone, the kind with the rotary dial that nowadays you only see in junk shops.

“Haraldur,” he greeted the unknown caller with a warm voice.

“Good day to you, Halli. I hope you’re keeping well.”

“Fine, thanks. Sorry, but who is this?”

There was a chuckle from the other end and Haraldur was irritated. It had been a busy day and he had no time to play games.

“Look, should I know you?” he asked sharply, abandoning his urbane voice.

“No. But I know you. My name’s Jón and I’m investigating an incident connected to your stay at the Harbourside Hotel recently.”

Haraldur felt suddenly faint and looked around for somewhere to sit. Fortunately he was alone in the office and let himself sink into the comfortable chair he kept to put customers at ease.

“Still there, are you, Halli?”

“I’m not sure I can help you.”

“I’m sure you can.”

“Is this some kind of a joke?” He asked, angry now that he had started to collect his thoughts.

“Oh, no. Far from it. The lady you met at the Harbourside. The one who started off blonde and then wasn’t. I’m looking
for her, and I’m surprised you aren’t as well, Halli. I’m after a name,” the voice said. “To start with.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Hey, calm down, Halli. It’s all right. A little information and everything will be fine.”

“I don’t have time for this,” he said abruptly.

“Really?” the voice drawled. “Because if you don’t, then the lovely Svava might. I’m sure she’ll be interested to know what you were up to at the Harbourside, wouldn’t she?”

Halli felt faint a second time. He had tried to put the incident out of his mind and he’d almost succeeded.

“Her name’s Sonja,” he said weakly. “That’s all I know.”

“How much did the bitch sting you for, then?”

“About half a million.”

“In cash? She emptied your account, I suppose?”

“Look, I really don’t want to talk about this.”

“But I do, Halli, I do. And if you don’t, then I’ll ask Svava if she can give me copies of your bank statements. I suppose you have a joint account, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Haraldur said faintly, understanding that the man with the harsh voice held all the cards, and deciding that Jón was probably no more his name than that woman’s name was Sonja.

“All right. Now, answers. She calls herself Sonja. How did you meet her?”

“Through an ad on the internet.”

“Where?”

“personal.is.”

“Which is what?”

Haraldur looked around as the door opened and frantically waved the secretary out of the room as the door rapidly closed again.

“It’s a site for people to meet. You can look at it yourself, can’t you?”

“I most certainly will. Now, this Sonja. Age?”

Haraldur floundered. “I don’t know. Around thirty, maybe.”

“Height, weight?”

“Tall. One-eighty, something like that. Weight? I have no idea.”

“Okay. Skinny? Fat? Big tits or small?”

“Er … medium I guess. Around medium.”

“Eyes?”

“Green, I think.”

“Yeah,” the voice chuckled. “I guess you had other things than her eyes on your mind, didn’t you, Halli? Listen, I appreciate your help. If I find her and it all goes well, then you won’t hear from me again, and neither will Svava. All right?”

“Please. Leave my wife out of this,” Halli said, trying to stop himself from pleading.

“G’bye, Halli. And not a word to anyone, anyone at all. Understood?” the voice said sharply, and the call ended, leaving Haraldur sitting in the office chair with his shirt sticking to the sweat that had collected on his back.

H
EKLA STOLE AN
occasional look in the mirror. There were cars overtaking her at intervals, and there was always a car somewhere in the distance behind her, but too far for her tell if it was the same one. Surely anyone following her would have wanted to stay closer? She regretted not having taken a more roundabout route through Grafarvogur after leaving the swimming pool, taking a few twists and turns that would at least have given her an idea if she were being followed, but such was her hurry that the thought hadn’t crossed her mind until it was too late.

She struggled to remember the man with the pale eyes. It had been a good while ago that she had met him at some hotel in Reykjavík; she wasn’t sure which one. He seemed a decent enough old boy and she had almost not wanted to take his
money, but times had been hard and still were, and the man’s cash had paid for the car to be fixed and insured, as well as covering the month’s rent. Halfdán? Hermann? She struggled to remember the name, although she recalled clearly enough the vaguely sad, pale-blue eyes in the heavy face, and the look of disappointment rather than anger when he realized he was being robbed, even though she had been considerate enough to get him off before leaving him to wait it out.

As she approached the little settlement at Kjalarnes, she was assailed by doubt. How long had that grey car been following her, had it been behind her all the way? She thought back frantically and decided that it had been behind her in the distance all the way from Mosfellsbær; she told herself it had to be someone on the way to Akranes, or maybe further. Someone from out of town, she told herself, slowing the car and noticing that the car behind did the same, allowing a van to overtake, whose driver was pushing it to the limits of what could be considered safe on the slippery winter roads.

She stopped to turn left and the van hurtled past, spraying slush over the red car’s windscreen as it passed. Hekla fumbled for the wipers to clear it, hoping to see the grey car follow the van, but instead she saw that it was still some way off and clearly moving slowly. She crossed the road, and rather than driving straight through the village to the house she rented on the far side, she pulled into the petrol station beside the first pump. Hekla took her time pumping fuel, hoping to give the grey car a chance to drive past, but with the tank full and only a truck having gone past, her heart sank. It had to be him, Hermann or Halfdán or Heimir or whatever the damned man’s name was—something that began with an H.

He sat in the car at the side of the road, spots of cold rain pattering on the roof as he wondered what to do. Should he follow the woman he believed was called Sonja and confront her when the opportunity arose? Or should he simply follow
her discreetly, find out where she was going and then retire and think again? He stared through the windscreen at the grey landscape, the mountains obscured by cloud and the sea to the left—a monochrome mass blending seamlessly with the sky.

Finally he put the car into gear and started moving as a truck roared past, its horn blaring a warning as it hurtled northwards, throwing a spray of ice and water up behind its rear wheels. He cruised toward Kjalarnes and as he signalled and pulled into the middle of the road to turn left, he could see the red car at the petrol station. His hands trembling and sweaty with nerves on the wheel, he cruised past as slowly as he dared, but the red car’s driver was nowhere to be seen. He stopped and looked at the old Toyota, the red paint on its wings flaking into rust spots, and quickly wrote down the registration number on the back of his hand before sedately driving away.