Cold Comfort (27 page)

“That sounds bloody mad,” Helgi observed, speaking for the first time.

“It does,” Gunna agreed. “But we have no shortage of people only too happy to do the man a bad turn.”

Sævaldur looked at his watch. There was no need to, as there was a clock on the wall, but the gesture was theatrical.

“We’ll adjourn until seventeen hundred. Albert, could you report then with Miss Cruz on developments, and Gunnhildur, will you draw up a file of the man’s particular enemies and coordinate interviews?”

He clapped his hands to dismiss the group, clearly enjoying the moment, while Ívar Laxdal caught Gunna’s eye: the barely perceptible lifting of one eyebrow indicated that he wanted a quiet word.

J
ÓN OPENED HIS
eyes with difficulty and wondered where the strange low ceiling had come from. Then the previous night came flooding back and he shut his eyes and began to shake.

“You’re awake, then?”

Elín Harpa sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him questioningly.

“You’ve had a bad time,” she observed.

“Yeah,” Jón grunted, his throat dry, struggling to sit up. “Look, I’m really sorry about yesterday. I was desperate and didn’t know where to go.”

“S’all right. There’s plenty of desperate people about these days.”

“I’m really grateful you let me stay here. I’ll be out of your way now.”

“S’all right,” Elín Harpa repeated, shrugging off the long-since-white dressing gown and wriggling back under the duvet. “Stay if you want. You’ll have to buy some food, though. There’s none here and I don’t get any money until tomorrow”.

G
UNNA DEEPLY FELT
the need for a cigarette, something she was sure she had conquered over the last few weeks and months of withdrawal. Sævaldur’s briefing had triggered a craving inside that she tried to cure with a brisk walk around the car park in Ívar Laxdal’s company.

In spite of his shorter legs, Ívar Laxdal walked at a pace slightly faster than Gunna’s and she matched it by keeping to the inside track.

“Bjartmar Arnarson. Is this linked to the case you were already investigating?” he asked bluntly.

“Probably, yes. I’d be amazed if there wasn’t some kind of link, even if not directly. The number of people the bloody man had upset over the years, we’re spoil for choice for suspects until Technical come up with something to work on or we can find a witness to give us a lead. The best we have so far is a tall man in dark clothes and a van parked two streets away. That’s it. No fingerprints, no witnesses, bugger all, in fact.”

Ívar Laxdal’s pace picked up and Gunna wondered how soon she would find herself jogging to keep up.

“Actually, we have a problem there,” she said.

“The Svana Geirs case? What’s that?”

“Our star suspect has an alibi.”

“Solid?”

“He was beating somebody up a hundred kilometres away. It’s possible at a stretch, but I don’t think it was him.”

“Long Ommi, you mean?”

“That’s him. Even he can’t be in two places at once. If he was handing out a beating that means he couldn’t have been anywhere near Svana Geirs’ flat when she was killed.”

Ívar Laxdal nodded as he walked. “Bjartmar is the priority now. Was this a vendetta of some kind? A professional killing?”

“God, I hope not,” Gunna said with feeling. “There are enough firearms floating around the country but they’ve never been used. But I suppose it was always going to be a matter of time before we were to see gun crime. If this was a contract killing, it could open the floodgates for all the scumbags who have weapons to start using them.”

“My feeling precisely. This has to be sorted out quickly, very quickly. Svana Geirs being bumped off is one thing; that could be what the French call a crime passionnel. Temporary insanity, the Americans call the same thing. But this is something we can’t afford to get wrong.”

“Are we getting the killer profiled?”

Ívar Laxdal snorted. “We are. But that’s just to keep them happy upstairs. It’ll be legwork that sorts this one out, just you see.”

“And Sævaldur’s going to do that?”

Another snort. “Sævaldur’s going through the motions. I want you on the Svana case, ostensibly. I want every possible angle examined that could have any bearing on Bjartmar. Everything, understand? You can have all the overtime you want, but I don’t have any bodies for you. There’s no spare manpower for an emergency these days, I’m afraid.”

“W
HY DID YOU
cut all your hair off?” Jón asked.

“Felt like it. This is easier. Not so much to wash.”

“It makes you look younger. It looks good.”

“How young do you think it makes me look?” Elín Harpa asked with secretive smile.

“I don’t know,” Jón said, taken by surprise. “Twenty-six, twenty-seven?”

“Close. Twenty-four. And you? You’re quite old, aren’t you?” she said blandly.

“Thirty-eight,” Jón answered, subtracting three years from his age and wondering why.

Jón had bought pizzas. He and Elín Harpa perched on the edge of the bed, while two of the children sat on plastic chairs and the smallest lay happily in the crook of his mother’s arm, sucking on a bottle.

The little boy and his younger sister chewed the spicy slices and guzzled cola greedily, apparently unconcerned by Jón’s presence. They watched the television constantly, engrossed in cartoons in English, until only one slice of pizza remained and both decided that they wanted it.

“Stop it!” Elín Harpa commanded as the two of them began to squabble noisily. “Stop! Now! Or I’ll change the channel,” she threatened as they ignored her.

She stabbed at the taped-up remote control until the channel changed and the two children howled at the injustice.

“Turn it up, will you?” Jón said suddenly, and the children fell silent, turning to the television, where a row of police cars was parked in a suburban street that Jón recognized instantly.

“Mummy, what’s—?” the little boy began.

“Shhhh!” Jón admonished. “Turn the sound up, will you?” The television image cut away to a grim newsreader.

“A man was found dead at his home in Hafnarfjördur late last night. A police statement is expected later today but the man’s identity is not being released until relatives have been informed,” he announced in sonorous tones. “In Akureyri yesterday …”

“You can change it again now. That’s all I wanted to see.”

“Someone you know?” Elín Harpa asked.

“Sort of,” Jón said. “Someone I used to work for.”

• • •

T
HIS TIME GUNNA
tracked Hallur Hallbjörnsson down to his home, a smart house on the periphery of the Vogar district in a shady, tree-lined street only a few hundred metres from the busy traffic of Sudurlandsbraut but shielded from the constant whine of traffic by a thick hedge.

Hallur, Helena Rós, Margrét Anna and Krist’n Dröfn live here, a carved sign on the front door proclaimed, and music coming out of an open upstairs window indicated that someone had to be home. Gunna rang the bell, and then knocked as well for good measure. A dog yapped inside, and through a small window set in the door Gunna could see someone approaching.

“Yes?” The copper-haired woman at the door looked doubtfully at Gunna.

“Good morning,” Gunna greeted her. “My name’s Gunnhildur Gísladóttir and I’m from the CID Serious Crime Unit. I take it you’re Helena Rós? I’d like to speak to your husband.”

“We’re about to have lunch. We have guests,” she replied with a blend of frustration and irritation in her piping voice.

“Who is it, Helena?” a familiar voice asked as its owner approached. When Hallur appeared behind his wife, his face fell. He recovered quickly.

“Ah, good morning, officer. I have to say, this isn’t a convenient time,” he said, doing his best to mask his discomfort.

“I realize that fully, but I assure you this isn’t trivial,” Gunna said.

“In that case you had better come in,” he said resignedly. “Helena, would you look after our guests?” He looked helplessly at Gunna and pursed his lips into a thin line in irritation. “Come with me, please. We’ll go to my study.”

The book-lined den in the basement was reminiscent of his parliamentary office, but considerably larger. Hallur sat at a small desk and gestured for Gunna to take a seat on the other side.

“Last night a man was shot at his home in the Setberg. You’ve heard about this?” Gunna said without preamble.

“I heard something on the radio this morning, but I had a late night last night and haven’t listened too carefully to the news yet.”

“The victim’s identity hasn’t been released yet. But I can tell you that it was Bjartmar Arnarson.”

“What?” The colour vanished from Hallur’s face. “Do you know who … I mean, who did this? Who’d want to kill Bjartmar?” he asked helplessly as Gunna scrutinized him for reactions.

“Someone who knew just what he was doing, apparently.”

“How? I mean, how did it happen?”

“He was shot by the front door of his house, twice, at close range with a shotgun,” Gunna said grimly. “This wasn’t an accident. Half the force is working on this one case now. What I’m after is a motive that could lead me to the killer. But what interests me right now is that Bjartmar not only had no shortage of people with not much love for him; he also had a good few partners in his various businesses. I’m concerned that there might be a list here, and someone out to settle grudges.”

If Hallur’s face had not already been white, it would undoubtedly have gone paler.

“How far back does your acquaintance with Bjartmar go?” she continued.

“A few years.”

“All right. Let”s not play games. Your acquaintance with Bjartmar goes back to the years when you were a city councillor closely involved with the departments and committees overseeing land procurement and sales.”

“I don’t know how you—”

“It’s all in the records. All you have to do is dig deep enough,” Gunna said quietly, opening her briefcase and taking out some photocopied sheets. “It’s all here, minutes of the procurement committees, reports, financial forecasts, et cetera. The city quietly sold off land in Grafarvogur and plots in and around the city centre without any kind of consultation or bidding process on a number of occasions. Every time, these plots were sold to companies that were run by Bjartmar Arnarson and Sindri Valsson. There’s a word for this, you know.”

“What?” Hallur asked dazedly.

“I’d say it’s corruption, but that’s not my concern right now. I’m more interested in knowing who else the bloke with the shotgun might want to settle up with. Where’s Sindri now?”

“Er … Portugal, I think. That’s where he normally is.”

“How far did all this go? And for how long?” Gunna demanded.

“Look, I don’t think I ought to be speaking to you about this without a lawyer. I don’t want to be in a position of incriminating myself.”

“Don’t be stupid. I’m wondering how many people you lot upset over the years, you and Bjartmar and Sindri between you. Just how many people are there who might hold a grudge against you?”

Hallur sank down in his chair and looked blank.

“There are so many,” he said morosely. “I sort of kept in the background and did what I could to push business their way. Jónas Valur, you know, is an influential man, and quite a few of us owe him favours. Bjartmar and Sindri did the business side of things until they went their separate ways.”

“And when was this?” Gunna asked.

“A few years ago, I suppose. We were at one of the informal gatherings we have occasionally.”

“Who’s that? The Svana Syndicate?”

“Well, yes,” Hallur admitted. “Bjartmar and Sindri were in the process of winding Kleifaberg up. Bjartmar had already set up Landex and Sandex, so he was doing all right. But Sindri took us all by surprise. He said he was getting out. Of course we all thought he was completely mad. The economy was booming at the time. But he said he’d consulted analysts and gave it two years. In the event, he was entirely right.”

“You mean he predicted the crash, sold his assets and emigrated?”

“He still comes back here sometimes. But, yes, he saw something the rest of us missed and put all his cash into property in Portugal. Hotels, golf courses, that sort of thing.”

“And Bjartmar?”

“God, I’ll never forget the two of them arguing that night. They’re both pretty fiery and it practically came to blows. I’m sure Sindri would have hit Bjartmar if his father hadn’t been there,” he reminisced, staring over Gunna’s head at the wall behind her. “Bjartmar hasn’t done quite so well. His Spanish portfolio has been stable, as far as I know, but he’s had problems here. He stretched himself a long way and some of his companies are struggling. Rigel’s just about getting by but Arcturus Holdings is well over its limits. Both of those companies built property that back in 2007 would have sold as soon as it hit the market. But then everything was turned upside down. Rigel Investment built those luxury flats on Lindargata. Some of them sold and some are rented, but there are still too many empty. Arcturus built all those terraces in Gardabær, about a hundred houses altogether, and they’re practically all empty.”

“Bjartmar Arnarson was in financial difficulties?” Gunna asked, reminding herself that this was the district where Long Ommi had been hiding in a brand-new empty house.

Hallur nodded glumly. “I’d say he was in serious danger of losing control of Rigel, possibly in the near future. It’s quite possible that he only held on to ownership because the bank had enough on its plate already and the last thing they wanted was to suddenly own a hundred empty houses all at the same time.”

“Are there creditors over these houses, then?”

“God, yes. Some of the contractors went bankrupt. But Bjartmar was pretty smart in a lot of ways. He owned the company that handled the project under a different tax number, so that operation went bust without directly affecting Rigel, which actually owns the properties.”

“Wheels within wheels? The usual dodges? Doing favours for your cronies?” Gunna said with disdain.

“Business.” Hallur shrugged. “Just business. That’s how it works.”

“Steindór Hjálmarsson. Does that name mean anything to you?” Hallur looked blank. “Don’t think so. Should it?”