Cold Comfort (15 page)

“Yes, but my client—”

“Is definitely guilty. No question, and unfortunately he hurt someone rather badly. But where did the cash go? Where’s the weapon? How did he make a getaway? Who organized this? Diddi can only just about manage to decide what to have for breakfast, so there’s someone who forced him into this and that’s who I’d love to see in a cell, preferably for ever.”

“I see,” the lawyer agreed, grudgingly.

D
IDDI WAS CALMER,
but sniffed as he sat in a corner of the interview room. “He’s very distressed,” the social worker announced. “I should call a doctor, really. He needs medication.”

“If you think that’s appropriate,” Gunna said dubiously, sitting next to Diddi, hunched in his grubby parka. “Diddi,” she said softly, “listen to me. I’ve asked your dad to sit with us. Is that all right with you?”

He nodded in reply.

“Will you be happier with him here as well?”

Diddi nodded again, slowly this time.

“Is there anything you want to tell me before he gets here?”

He shook his head and Gunna patted his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Diddi. Don’t try and make anything up. Keep to what really happened and you’ll be all right.”

“Am I going to prison?” he asked in a small voice.

“I don’t know, Diddi. That’s not for me to decide, but you did something wrong when you cut that man’s hand.”

“I didn’t mean to. He got in the way, shouting at me like that.”

He looked up mournfully at the social worker. “I’m not going to prison, am I, Axel?”

“Not if I can help it,” the man replied.

“All right, Diddi,” Gunna said in the kindliest voice she could manage. “Your dad will be here in just a minute, so shall we start again?”

“All right.”

“I’m going to be completely straight with you. I’m not really interested in you robbing the bank, and if that man who tried to talk to you hadn’t been hurt, I’d do my best to make as little of this as I could. Understand?”

Diddi nodded wretchedly.

“But I suppose you panicked and he was hurt. There’s nothing we can do to change that, and you’ll be charged. What I’m really interested in knowing is why. Why did you suddenly need a million krónur? In fact, I don’t believe you needed a million krónur. I think somebody else wanted the money and made you do it. And I think that somebody is the same somebody who gave you a black eye. Am I right?” Gunna asked gently, her voice soft as Diddi looked up at her, his face a picture of misery.

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Long Ommi?”

Diddi twisted his fingers and nodded again.

“Yes,” he said finally. “Ommi told me to do it. He said I owed him money and he wanted it.”

“Did you owe him money?”

“I don’t know!” Diddi wailed.

“And he drove you away?”

“His friend. In a red car.”

“Do you know Ommi’s friend’s name?”

“No. He’s ugly.”

“Now, I want you to take your time and tell me just what happened after Ommi’s friend drove you away from the bank. Can you do that?”

“W
HAT DID YOU
get out of Daft Diddi?” Helgi asked, turning on to Kringlumýrarbraut and pulling down the sunshade in the front of the hired car to shield him from the full glare of the low springtime sun, shining directly into his eyes from beneath a cover of thick white cloud in the west.

“Hell,” he swore, as the sunshade dropped down in front of his eyes and Gunna leaned over to lift it back. “The bloody thing’s broken again,” he apologized.

“What a surprise. What were you saying?”

“Diddi. Any progress?”

“Yeah, he came clean eventually. Long Ommi gave him a light smacking to start with and then demanded a million in cash. Diddi asked where from and Ommi or his mate told him how to go about it, gave him the knife and so forth.”

“Where are we going now?”

“Bjartmar Arnarson, one more time.”

“Oh, be still my beating heart. Another hour with a soulless bean-counter. It’d be fantastic if we could get the knife with Ommi’s prints on it, wouldn’t it? You want Ommi brought in?”

“Oh, yes. As soon as poss. We’ll sling the book at the bastard.”

“All arranged for early tomorrow. These guys sleep late, shouldn’t be a problem to give him a surprise wake-up call.”

“Sounds good. Come off past the petrol station. Bjartmar’s office is at the top there.”

Helgi parked between a sleek Mercedes and a Land Cruiser on tyres that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a truck.

“After you, chief,” he said gallantly as Gunna pushed open the door.

Bjartmar looked up from the table in the corner where three people were talking over empty cups. He smiled, stood up and came over, hand extended.

“Gunnhildur, isn’t it? Come in,” he said with a friendliness that took her off guard. He led the way to a conference room with a view overlooking the busy main road outside. “Take a seat, please. Coffee?”

“No thanks. But I expect Helgi wouldn’t say no,” she told him as she settled herself in a leather chair so soft it felt like sinking into warm mud.

“No news on the fire, I suppose?” he asked, a pained expression appearing across the strong features that were more relaxed and, she had to admit to herself, more handsome than those of the jet-lagged, unshaven man she had interviewed at Keflavík airport only two days ago. Bjartmar’s hair had been cut and his shirt was pressed and smart, open at the neck to show a fine gold chain. His attention was entirely on Gunna, and Helgi sat ignored, wondering if coffee was going to appear after all.

“No breakthroughs, I’m afraid. The technical division is working through a pile of forensic evidence that might help, or it might not. The fire was definitely petrol, though.”

“Both our cars are, were, diesel. There was a small petrol can in there for the lawnmower, though it could have been empty for all I know. But that would never have been enough for a blaze like that, surely?”

“How’s your wife?” Gunna asked bluntly, and Bjartmar’s eyes lifted.

“No idea,” he said with a shrug. “We don’t communicate a lot.”

“Svanhildur Mjöll Sigurgeirsdóttir,” Helgi broke in. “She was found dead in her apartment a week ago and we have good reason to believe that you had a relationship of some kind with her. Would you explain?”

Bjartmar’s smile froze for a second, then thawed as he looked over at Helgi before focusing his attention back on Gunna. “I’ve known Svana for years, since she was in the Cowgirls. That’s going back ten, twelve years. Why are you asking me this?”

Helgi planted his elbows on the polished wood of the table and Bjartmar winced at the sight of his greasy anorak. “We understand there was a syndicate, a group of prominent men who shared her favours, and that you’re a member of this group. Is that correct?”

“It is,” he said with only a flicker of rapidly stifled irritation.

“When we spoke before, you mentioned that your marriage had been rocky for some time,” Gunna said quietly. “You didn’t attempt to hide it and you certainly gave the impression that you and Unnur were likely to part company shortly. I’m given to understand that you have another relationship now?”

“This is personal,” Bjartmar said stiffly.

“It certainly could be,” Helgi said gruffly. “It could be very personal if whoever killed Svana Geirs also tried to kill your wife.”

Bjartmar’s jaw hung slack for a second. “Do you really think …?”

“We don’t know. But it’s an angle we have to consider and there are a few things we need to ask you about,” Gunna said.

“God. Hell, yes, anything. Ask away if it helps.”

“First, the syndicate. We have a pretty clear idea of how this operated, and the legal department are now deciding whether or not to proceed with prosecutions.”

“Prosecutions? Why?”

“Because it appears that offences have been committed in purchasing sexual services.”

“It was a consensual private arrangement between adults.”

“Were you a member of the syndicate from the start?”

“We all were. There have never been any new members. Actually, I’d more or less dropped out and hadn’t seen Svana for a while.”

“Why?”

Bjartmar’s eyes sparkled, although his face remained set. “I met a new lady and we’re getting on just fine.”

“And you even bought her a business?” Gunna asked.

“Look, where did you hear that from?” he demanded angrily. “That’s a private matter. As it happens, I already owned a controlling share in the place and bought out my partner. Then I asked … my new partner to manage it, and she has, very competently.”

“Is that partner as in business partner, or partner as in girlfriend?” Helgi asked.

“Both.”

“And your wife? Is she still a business partner as well?”

“I suppose so.”

“And how is her restaurant doing now that she’s not available?”

“Better, thanks. The chef’s running things for the moment and it’s going a lot more smoothly without Unnur in charge. I might keep him on.”

Gunna wondered how Bjartmar felt about his wife’s injuries, or if he was more concerned about the damage to the house.

“Where were you when Svana Geirs was killed?” she asked.

“Abroad,” he answered without hesitation. “I returned from the States the day of the fire, as you know. Before that I’d been away for almost two weeks, Belgium, Germany, Spain and then Chicago. All verifiable if you want to see tickets and reservations.”

“You know, I’d been wondering about you, and then I remembered. You used to run Blacklights, didn’t you?”

Bjartmar frowned and his jaw pushed forward, as if he were unprepared to have his past dug over. “That was one of my earlier ventures, yes.”

“I thought so. At the time, we were always as sure as we could be that there was a lot more to that place than met the eye, but never anything that could be pinned down,” she recalled as Bjartmar’s eyes narrowed. “So what happened to the place? Did you sell up?”

“Someone else took over that business. We still own the building. In fact, The Fish Lover is exactly where Blacklights used to be.”

“And this is a better business than the nightclub?”

“Not as profitable as a nightclub, but without the headaches. There’s a better class of customer, and we never have to throw anyone out these days.”

“I see,” Gunna said. “How about your old friend Long Ommi? Heard from him recently?”

“What?” Bjartmar asked, as if Gunna had dropped a firecracker on the table in front of him. “Ommi? Why would I have heard from him?”

“That’s what I’m asking you. Ommi and you go way back, I’m told, until he was put away.”

“Listen, I don’t know where your information comes from, but I haven’t seen or heard of him for years,” Bjartmar snarled, and Gunna was pleased to see that the suave businessman had vanished.

“Just how many years?”

“Eight, nine. I don’t know. A long time.”

“I’ll refresh your memory, in that case. Ómar Magnússon was jailed in 2001 for murder and got a fifteen-year sentence. He would have been up for parole next year, and as he’s been a good lad inside, he’d have been out within a year. But for some reason that nobody has been able to fathom, he did a runner from his comfortable open-prison billet at Kvíabryggja last month and is still at liberty.”

Bjartmar sat with his fists clenched so the knuckles whitened. Gunna noticed suddenly that they were not the soft hands of an office worker, but shovel-like and better suited to a farmhand than a businessman. For a second she recalled the old story about the size of a man’s hands being relative to other parts of his anatomy—or was that feet?—but dismissed the thought irritably. She leaned forward and looked Bjartmar in the eyes.

“What I’m wondering is whether Ommi is going round settling scores on his own account, or whether he’s clearing up for someone else, carrying out a contract, so to speak. And if he’s doing business for himself, who’s next, and why? Has he been in touch?”

Bjartmar’s face was the colour of parchment and the veins stood out on his neck as his jaw jutted ahead of him.

“I’m not prepared to discuss this any further,” he said hoarsely.

“Now that’s a shame, because I have a distinct feeling that you know a good deal more than you’re obviously prepared to let on,” Gunna said gently. “I have a feeling that you and Ommi have probably been in touch since he’s been out, and I don’t doubt that he’ll spill the beans in return for some kind of a deal when we catch up with him, which will be soon enough.”

“Iceland’s a small country and you can’t stay hidden for long,” Helgi added.

Bjartmar stood up suddenly and his chair shot back on its wheels to hit the wall behind, where it rolled over and crashed on to one side.

“I’m not prepared to continue this,” he rasped. “You two had better leave. Now, right now.”

Gunna stayed sitting down for a moment and took a long look at Bjartmar flexing his fists, shoulders tensed, before she got slowly to her feet without taking her eyes off him.

“Well, thanks for your time. Very interesting in many ways. I’m sure we’ll speak again soon.”

“You can call my secretary, and I’ll have my lawyer here. I have nothing more to say.”

Bjartmar swept from the room and left them to find their own way out through the office space where staff tried not to look up, reminding Gunna precisely of Bjarki Steinsson’s staff staring fixedly at their computer terminals.

She looked back as Helgi pulled the door open to see Bjartmar gesticulating with his phone to one ear, the fury apparent on his face rendered silent by the soundproof glass wall of his office.

“Coming, are you?” Helgi asked. “I thought you two were getting on so well when you had to go and spoil it.”

“I
DON’T KNOW
about you, but I’d dearly love to haul all of them in and chuck them in cells overnight before we give them a proper roasting.”

“You think so?” Helgi asked, listening to the gearbox rattle with a pained expression on his otherwise mild face.

“Yup. The whole lot of them in the cells. What a bunch of shitbags! Are most men like that? Have you ever paid for it, Helgi?”

“Not as such,” he said distantly, stopping at a junction and peering left and right.