Chilled to the Bone (37 page)

Baddó sat back. One eyelid twitched violently. His instinct was to hammer the table with his fist and turn it into
matchwood, but instead he took one deep breath after another. Jóel Ingi was a fool if he thought he could cheat Baddó. Bigfoot had a reputation and he would live up to it. Revenge would be administered and it would be harsh, but it would have to wait. He forced himself to think straight. The laptop that both Jóel Ingi and Hinrik had been anxious to find had to be valuable. It was time to pay Sonja a visit.

T
HE MAN WHO
hammered on the broken door looked like he would hardly fit through it, and Eiríkur was happy for him to go in front.

“Hinni! Open the door, man! It’s the law come for a chat,” he yelled through the letterbox, then went back to rapping on the door’s complaining timbers with a heavy set of knuckles. Behind him two more officers waited for the door to open, while Eiríkur brought up the rear.

A shadow appeared behind the single remaining glass panel and Hinrik’s bony form opened the door an inch, letting it stop on the safety chain.

“What?”

“Hinrik Sørensen? City police, as you well know, you being an old friend of ours.”

“What do the police want with us law-abiding citizens at this ungodly hour of the day?”

“Don’t talk shit, Hinrik. Open the door,” the first officer repeated, as Hinrik obediently closed the door, rattled the chain inside and opened the door wide.

The three drug squad officers, two bulky men and a woman with a healthy outdoors look to her red cheeks, swept past and the first one in secured Hinrik against the wall and kept him there.

“Any company, Hinrik?”

He smiled as the sound of the toilet flushing loudly reverberated through the apartment. The bathroom door opened
and Ragga appeared in the doorway, eyes bleary but with a look of quiet satisfaction on her face.

“Good grief, cover it all up will you?” the first officer told her as the checked shirt loosely wrapped around her flapped open. He looked back at his colleague and shook his head, knowing that anything incriminating they might have found in the flat had just been consigned to the sewer, while Ragga grinned in delight.

“Sorry, boys,” she crowed, looking over her shoulder as she strode toward the bedroom. “I was caught short. Couldn’t wait a second longer. You know how it is.”

Two of the drug squad officers set about searching the living room, while one of them sat with Ragga and Hinrik, who feigned nonchalance as he stared from under his heavy eyelids at Eiríkur, who watched the professionals make a thorough job of it, even though they already knew there was nothing to be found.

“Clean as you like,” one of them grudgingly admitted once the search was complete. “Right, then, Ragga, my darling,” the senior man decided. “You can come with us while we take a look around the bedroom and my colleague can search your knicker drawer. You’d best stay here, Hinrik, so my friend here can have a quiet word with you.”

Hinrik looked taken aback, confused at the change of direction.

“What’s going on …?” he asked, surprised at the departure from the usual routine as the drug squad officers left the room and closed the door behind them.

“Where’s Baddó, Hinrik?” Eiríkur asked without any preamble.

“Hey, mate. I don’t know anyone called Baddó,” he protested.

Eiríkur took out his phone and punched in a number. “It’s ringing,” he said, leaving the phone on the table with the loudspeaker on.

“Where’s your phone, Hinrik?” Eiríkur asked.

“I don’t know. It’s somewhere.”

“It’s somewhere here, but where?”

Hinrik shrugged and spread his arms wide, as if to demonstrate his innocence, until the door creaked open and one of the searchers came in with a grin on his face. A cheap mobile phone buzzed and flashed in his gloved hand. “Is that one of you sneaky bastards calling our boy’s phone?”

“Could be,” Eiríkur said, taking the vibrating phone and dropping it in an evidence bag before placing it on the table, where it continued to demand attention until he ended the call on his own phone. A “missed call” message and a sad-faced smiley icon appeared on the phone in the bag.

“That must be Ragga’s phone. She’s a sloppy cow and she was looking for it last night.”

“That’s your phone. It’s going from here to the lab and don’t think for a second that your dabs aren’t all over it. Now, back to business. Where’s Baddó?”

“Honestly, mate,” Hinrik said. “I don’t know any Baddó.”

“Firstly, I’m not your mate. Secondly, Hróbjartur Bjarnthórsson. He used to go by the name of Bigfoot, and you know him well enough. He’s called that phone of yours half a dozen times in the last week. So don’t give me bullshit, Hinrik, and don’t imagine that this is about a few bags of grass. Baddó’s facing a murder charge when we catch up with him and you’ve a good chance of winding up in the next cell.”

Any remaining color drained from Hinrik’s face, which his nocturnal lifestyle had already endowed with a pasty pallor.

“What’s he done?” Hinrik croaked, his throat left dry by the rapidly rising stakes.

“All in good time, Hinrik. All in good time,” Eiríkur assured him. “I think you’ll be safe cancelling all your appointments for the rest of the day. You and Ragga are both going to
Hverfisgata with us for a very detailed chat. But first you’d best tell us where your old pal Baddó has got to.”

“I don’t know,” Hinrik said miserably and Eiríkur could see that for once Hinrik would be happy to talk. “I reckon he’s been living with his sister these last few months, since he turned up all of a sudden from the Baltic. But he’s been keeping his head down. There are people who have unfinished business with Baddó and he doesn’t have too many friends.”

“Like Ási Ásu?”

“Don’t make me laugh. Ási’s a brain-dead dopehead who was still in short trousers when Baddó left the country. There are bigger fish who want to see Baddó’s knees broken.”

“Such as?”

“Mundi.”

“Mundi Grétars, you mean?”

“Among others. Mundi has a long memory.”

“Go on,” Eiríkur prompted. “A quick history lesson.”

Hinrik sighed and grimaced, glancing toward the door. “Mundi had a big deal going on. This was years ago, you remember. You lot busted Mundi’s courier. Mundi lost a ton of cash that went up in smoke and he reckoned Baddó had grassed. Like I said, Mundi never forgets.”

“So where is he now?”

“Mundi?” Hinrik cackled. “Mundi’s somewhere warm, I reckon. He doesn’t get his hands dirty.”

“No. Where’s Baddó?”

“I guess you’ve been to María’s place. If he’s not there, then don’t ask me. He’s been seeing a woman these last few days, so maybe he’s with her? I don’t know.”

“Name?”

“She’s called Ebba. Lives somewhere up the top end of Kleppsvegur. That’s all I know.”

Eiríkur picked up the phone in its bag from the table and scrolled through the memory.

“Not clever, Hinrik. Just as well you didn’t erase the call log,” she told him. “Not that it matters much. Ah, here it is. Ten thirty-six yesterday morning you had a call that lasted just over four minutes. What did you and Baddó have to talk about?”

“Don’t know, mate.”

“If you call me ‘mate’ one more time, I’m going to ram this phone so far up your arse, sideways, that your eyes will light up every time it rings. Now stop giving me this bullshit and come clean, unless you want an extra five years on your sentence for obstructing a murder investigation.”

B
ADDÓ HAD STOPPED
at Kjalarnes the night before for a quick look around and knew where the house was. This time he stopped at the shop, filled the mud-colored Hyundai’s tank and drank a paper cupful of bitter liquid that tried unconvincingly to pass for coffee. Refreshed by the caffeine and the cold, still morning air, he rolled slowly through the little settlement at Kjalarnes, past the rows of ordered houses to the single old wooden house beyond. An old farm building, he guessed, which had probably been there for years before the rows of silver-grey concrete terraced houses and the new school were built.

Baddó stopped the Hyundai behind a grey 4×4 that looked as if it had been there for a while, using it as a shield while he checked his phone for missed calls.

He punched in Jóel Ingi’s number, but ended the call as the voicemail message began. Any message to that miserable young fool would be delivered in person, he decided.

The thought gave him a warm feeling, so much so that he found himself dreaming and almost missed the thickset man emerging from the house. Baddó sat up and paid attention, watching the place keenly. The man limped over to an old blue Land Rover by the door and started it with a cloud of white
smoke before making his way back indoors. A minute later the man reemerged, shepherding two small children into the back of the car, strapping them in carefully and putting a crutch inside with them.

Baddó hunched forward, pretending to be engrossed in his phone as the Land Rover chugged up the slope past him and into the distance.

“I’
VE HAD THE
ministry on the phone twice already, and the National Commissioner wanting to know what the hell’s going on,” he said, making his way across the car park as Gunna strode along at his side, trying to match his pace. She had left Eiríkur with Hinrik in an interview room, with instructions to be as tough on him as the law would allow.

“I have the closest links I’ve been able to find to Hróbjartur Bjarnthórsson so far being booked in right now. Either that skinny deadbeat knows where he is, or else he knows someone who does, and we need to beat it out of him,” Gunna said. “Is the ministry getting its knickers in a twist over Jóel Ingi Bragason?”

Ívar Laxdal double-clicked the fob of his car key and the black Volvo on the other side of the yard flashed its lights obediently.

“I’m not sure, to be honest with you, but we’re going to find out,” he said, his jaw set pugnaciously forward. “Get in,” he instructed as the engine whispered into life and Gunna felt herself sink deep into the soft leather of the seats as Ívar Laxdal accelerated out of the yard and into the street.

She wondered why they had driven the few hundred meters to the ministry when walking would have been quicker, but Ívar Laxdal slotted the car into a space marked clearly for the minister’s personal use and was halfway up the steps before Gunna was even out of the car.

A pale-faced Már Einarsson was in the lobby, in earnest
conversation with a buxom young woman. He looked up as they came through the main entrance, bypassing the reception desk. He hurried over and shook Ívar Laxdal’s hand.

“This way, please. Ægir’s waiting for us upstairs,” he said, ushering them into the lift. Gunna wondered if the drama was being overdone for their benefit, and as the lift closed, she wondered why the plump girl Már had been speaking to so intently a few moments earlier appeared to be so tearful.

Ægir Lárusson didn’t keep them waiting. In his own office rather than a meeting room, he glared at Ívar Laxdal, who outstared him back until Ægir’s gaze dropped to the desk in front of him.

“I hardly think your missing young man is our problem,” Ívar Laxdal said. “Has he done anything illegal that we should know about?”

Ægir’s voice was a rasp that almost struck sparks off the stylish steel-framed furniture. “You knew this was important. We requested the highest priority weeks ago, and you did nothing.”

“I take it you’re referring to this hopeless idea that we might be able to retrieve a computer that some overpaid clown mislaid? It hardly helped that you wouldn’t tell us what was so remarkable about this laptop, and it helps even less that the clown who lost it lied about how and where he last saw it.”

Ægir’s eyes bulged for a moment and he took several deep breaths.

“You need to understand that there has been a considerable escalation in the urgency of the situation,” Már said in a businesslike voice that he clearly hoped would defuse the explosive atmosphere. “We appreciate that you have a heavy workload and that you have devoted resources to this, but the urgency of the situation has become an extremely serious issue, and there have been some rather sudden developments.”

Ívar Laxdal leaned back in the fashionable chair, causing
the brushed steel tubing to flex alarmingly as his bulk was rearranged.

“Explain,” he ordered. “What’s gone wrong to make things so urgent? The whole affair is as clear as mud anyway.”

Már looked sideways at Ægir, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

“My colleague Jóel Ingi Bragason has disappeared.”

“We know that. Has he been reported as a missing person? Or do you mean that you just don’t know where he is?”

Már sighed. “Unfortunately we have a very good idea where he is. He’s in France, as far as we’re aware. At least, he boarded a flight to Paris late last night.”

“You couldn’t have stopped him?”

“He left without any notice. As he’s traveling on a service passport, French immigration had no reason to ask any questions.”

“And we didn’t know he’d left the country until this morning,” Ægir Lárusson said, speaking for the first time and with an expression on his ugly face sour enough to curdle milk at a hundred paces.

“How come?” Gunna broke in, deciding to get between Ívar Laxdal and the two ministry men in their identical suits.

“How come what?”

“I’m wondering why it took you so long to figure out he’d left the country. Why didn’t you know last night when he boarded his flight? And how come he was able to travel on a service passport?”

“To start with, the ministry doesn’t keep tabs on its staff outside of working hours,” Ægir said in an acid voice. “In the second place, Jóel Ingi Bragason was part of the minister’s entourage several times last year and as such he was issued with a service passport.”

“This story about Jóel Ingi’s computer being stolen by a pair of kids,” Gunna said. “That’s bullshit, right?”

“I couldn’t comment,” Ægir said, startled at her bluntness, while behind him Már’s face told her everything she needed to know.

“So how did he lose it?” Gunna continued. “Did he leave it in a taxi or a bar somewhere? Staked it at cards? Come on, tell me, will you? That way we might be able to find it for you.”