Cold Comfort (34 page)

“Isn’t it just? It was the same in Vestureyri, but I didn’t notice quite how nosy people can be until I came to live here. And it’s all just gossip and whispers, nothing said out loud.”

“You remember that rumour that we were, y’know, lady friends who were more than just good friends?” Sigrún crowed.

“Good grief. The blabbermouths have a lot to answer for sometimes,” Gunna said.

“You’re lucky with Steini,” Sigrún said with the minutest trace of envy. “He even cooks. What a gem.”

“Yup,” Gunna agreed. “There’s a lot to be said for a bloke who’s old enough to be retired.”

“Not talking about men again, are you?” Steini asked, reappearing and shaking his head in mock despair.

“We are indeed. Tell me, Steini, how do you know Ívar Laxdal? He sends you his regards, by the way.”

Steini sat down, looked at the empty wine bottle and took a sip from Gunna’s glass.

“Little chap, built like a barrel? He joined the Coast Guard the same year I did. He was as sharp as a knife, certainly smarter than the rest of us and undoubtedly destined for great things.”

“So why did he end up as a copper?”

“He had a touch of colour blindness, nothing serious, but enough to put the lid on a career as a ship’s officer, as far as I remember. So I guess he decided to go elsewhere. What’s he doing in the police force?”

“He’s my boss at the moment, at least until Örlygur comes back from sick leave. If Örlygur comes back from sick leave.”

“Well say hello to him from me, will you? It must be twenty years since I saw him last. What’s he like to work for?”

“Y’know, I really don’t know yet. Like you said, he’s as sharp as a knife. But every time I have to talk to him, I feel like a schoolgirl who hasn’t done her homework properly. And tomorrow I have to see him for an official reprimand.”

“What for?” Steini and Sigrún asked simultaneously.

“Ach. Nothing serious. Just speaking my mind out of turn.”

“Well,” Sigrún said. “That’s something you’ve always had a talent for.”

Wednesday 24th

G
UNNA DIDN’T HAVE
to find Ívar Laxdal. He was sitting at her desk when she arrived at seven.

“Good morning, Gunnhildur,” he said seriously.

“Good morning. Steini sends his regards, by the way.”

“Thank you. Now …”

“You need to give me a ticking-off.”

“That’s right. Just consider yourself reprimanded. This goes on your record and there’s nothing I can do about that, but I don’t think you’ll need to worry too much about it.”

“That’s fair enough. I should have known better than to yell at Sævaldur in front of the others.”

Ívar Laxdal nodded wisely.

“That’s quite right. If you want to yell, do it in private,” he said. “What’s next on your agenda?”

“Depends. What did Sævaldur’s team get out of whatsisname— Jón Jóhannsson—yesterday?”

“Very straightforward,” Ívar Laxdal said with a shrug. “The man admitted everything, from shooting Bjartmar to threatening the bank teller. The technical team have been through his workshop like a dose of salts. They found the barrels of his shotgun that he’d sawn off, and even splinters that match the floor in Bjartmar’s house.”

“How so?” Gunna asked, intrigued.

“His first shot was at Bjartmar’s feet and it also did a lot of damage to the floor, so there were fragments everywhere. It seems that Jón burned his shoes and overalls in a stove in his workshop, and there were splinters in them that were left in the ashes. Simple enough,” Ívar Laxdal said with satisfaction.

“Motive?”

“Ah, this is where you come in, and where you and Sævaldur will have to be careful not to tread on each other’s toes too much. Jón Jóhannsson will undoubtedly be undergoing a whole barrage of psychological tests and it’s anybody’s guess what they’ll come up with. Certainly the man was under enormous pressure. He was up to his eyes in debt, had lost his house, and his wife had left, taking the child with her. In fact, she’s upstairs now as well. But what’s clear is that he was fixated on two people as the reason for all his misfortunes. One was the personal financial adviser who had become the face of the bank. The second was Bjartmar Arnarson.”

“And why was that?”

“Because Jón Jóhannsson did a great deal of work as a subcontractor for a subsidiary company of Rigel Investment called Arcturus Development.”

“The property development company.”

“That’s it. Arcturus built many of Rigel’s properties and went bankrupt leaving virtually all of its contractors high and dry, and some of those went under as well. Jón Jóhannsson came out of it very badly. That was six months’ work, and he reckons if it hadn’t gone sour on him, he’d probably still be in the black.”

“So he blames the late and unlamented Bjartmar personally for all his problems.”

“Pretty much,” Ívar Laxdal said. “And quite possibly with very good reason. What concerns me more than anything about this case is that it may well be impossible to find a jury that would convict him. My feeling is that the best we can hope for is a plea of insanity and a verdict that reflects that.”

“This is already a high-profile case. It was all over the news yesterday and again this morning,” Gunna observed. “It’s going to dominate everything for a few weeks, I’d expect.”

“Quite possibly, and it’s certainly going to divert attention away from Svana Geirs for a day or two.”

“More than likely,” Gunna agreed.

“Gives you some peace and quiet, in that case,” Ívar Laxdal said with a shadow of a smile. “But you might be interested to know that one of the Rigel Investment properties that Jón Jóhannsson worked on was the block on Lindargata where Svana Geirs lived. He’s a plumber, and he fitted her bathroom and kitchen, along with a great many others, of course. Thought you might want to know.”

“T
ELL ME,
J
ÓN,”
Helgi said softly. “What was it about Bjartmar?”

“Everything,” the big man replied quietly. A calm had come over him since the policewoman had led him from the bank with one hand on his elbow and the other holding his mutilated shotgun. Now he was relieved that he hadn’t harmed that stupid boy who worked there.

“You had a dispute with him?”

“Did I ever!”

“Did you speak to him?”

“Only on the phone a couple of times. Never face to face. But I saw him about often enough.”

“When was that?”

“At the block on Lindargata when I was fitting all those bathrooms and kitchens for Ingi Lár. We used to see him wandering about in his suit and wearing a helmet, looking like a twat. Then, after that, I used to notice him around his house. It’s only a street or two above my place.” He coughed. “What used to be our place until the bank had it off us,” he corrected himself. “Look, I’ve already been through this with your mate, the fat bloke. Why do I have to tell you as well? Not that I have other plans.”

“That’s because I’m working on another investigation that concerns Bjartmar. So was this the only time that you spoke to him face to face?”

“You mean when I told him just what a bastard he was and then shot him?”

“That’s it.”

“Yup. That was it. Never spoke to the man in person before.”

“So how did you know it was Bjartmar who was responsible for your financial problems?”

“Ingi Lár told me all about it,” Jón said with heat. “I know Ingi and he wouldn’t lie to me. He’s come out of it badly as well, poor old feller. His company went bust because Bjartmar’s company declared bankruptcy. Because Ingi didn’t get his bills paid, he couldn’t pay me, although he helped us out with what he could.”

He smacked the table with a palm. “Ingi’s broke as well now. He’s sixty and doesn’t have two pennies to rub together, so he’s doing odd jobs for people who used to work for him. Good, eh?”

He sat back and scowled.

“Who’s Elín Harpa?” Helgi asked.

Jón shrugged. “Some woman I did a job for. I think I left my phone there, but I figured I wasn’t going to need it in prison, so I didn’t bother going back for it.”

“Where does she live?”

“Off Hringbraut somewhere,” Jón said uncertainly.

“Where off Hringbraut?”

“Can’t remember.”

“How was she involved in your plans?”

“She wasn’t,” Jón said animatedly. “Look. I got a call asking if I could replace a kitchen tap. I did the job, took five thousand for it and that’s all. I might have left my phone there. Or I might have dropped it somewhere.”

“Where does she live, Jón?”

“Like I said, one of those streets off Hringbraut. I can’t remember which.”

“All right. If you won’t tell us, we’ll find her.”

T
HE RAMBLING HOUSE
on Álfhólsvegur was closer to the road than its neighbours were, and Gunna could see people inside as she pulled up and switched off the engine. Not that many years ago, this had been a quiet residential street, but it had since become a thoroughfare from one end of Kópavogur to the other, with cars taking it as fast as the vicious speed bumps allowed.

“I’m looking for Högni Sigurgeirsson,” Gunna said to the wrinkled woman who answered the door. “Is he here?”

The woman didn’t answer, but stepped back and to one side to allow Gunna in, letting out a yell of surprising volume from someone so diminutive.

“Högni! Someone for you, boy!”

Gunna closed the door behind her and followed the woman into the kitchen, where an elderly man sat at a table and leafed through Morgunbladid while drawing on what Gunna could smell was a filterless Camel even before she saw the overflowing ashtray at his elbow.

He nodded and returned to his newspaper as the woman went through another door, calling out without getting a reply other than a blast of cold air. A door from the house’s living room leading to the garden swung open and showed where Högni had disappeared.

“I can’t understand it. He was here just now,” she grumbled. “Láki! Where did Högni go?” she called to the man at the kitchen table.

“Dunno,” he wheezed.

“Who are you anyway?” the woman asked finally, looking up at Gunna. “I’d have thought Högni’s girlfriends would be a bit younger.”

“I’m from the police,” Gunna said stiffly. “This is the address he gave us, so I was wondering who you are?”

“I’m sorry, dear. I’m his mother’s aunt. It’s terrible about poor Svanhildur. The lad’s awfully upset, you know. Would you like a cup of coffee?” She took unsteady steps into the kitchen and fetched a cup without waiting for a reply. “Sit down, dear.”

“And have you found out who did it yet?” the man rumbled. “She was a lovely girl, Svana was. A crying shame what happens these days. And what do the police do about it? Nothing,” he went on, oblivious to Gunna’s presence as he continued to leaf through the newspaper.

The old woman poured coffee as black as tar into the cup. Gunna sipped doubtfully, but found that it was excellent.

“How has Högni been?” she asked.

“Æi. He’s taken it badly, the poor dear.”

“Is he here much?”

“No, we don’t see a lot of him, but we’re up early and in bed early, not like you youngsters.”

“Is he working, do you know?”

“He can’t work much, not since his accident, so he only does a few hours. He broke his leg a year ago.”

“Two years ago,” the old man corrected.

“Two years ago. Lord, but time flies. Yes, he’s a martyr to his bad leg, the boy is.”

Not so much a martyr that he can’t shift quickly out of the back door as soon as the police show up, Gunna thought, draining her cup.

“Do you know where I might find him?”

“Couldn’t tell you, dear. His car’s not there, so he might have gone to work.”

“And where’s that?”

• • •

G
UNNA STOPPED AT
the traffic lights and fretted as the driver of a battered Mazda that had once been canary yellow revved its engine in front of her. She could see that there were four youngsters in the car and the driver was riding the clutch, waiting to be away the second the lights changed.

She pulled away gently as the Mazda raced ahead with a squeal of rubber, and eased to a halt behind it at the next set of lights, this time noticing the missing licence plate. The boys in the Mazda again pulled away with a roar from its cracked exhaust. Gunna let them go, and then swung the latest hired Audi into the outside lane but kept under the speed limit.

At the third set of lights, she was still moving as they flashed to green and she cruised easily past the Mazda, indicating to pull into the inside lane ahead of it. This time she saw that the car’s front licence plate was also missing, and her jaw set in irritation.

She was ready to slow right down and force it to a halt when her communicator buzzed.

“Ninety-five-fifty, zero-five-sixty-one.”

She clicked the button on her earpiece and replied, keeping an eye on the Mazda in the mirror.

“Zero-five-sixty-one, ninety-five-fifty.”

“We’ve a sighting of the grey Opel you’re looking for. It’s outside a pizza takeaway in the Bakki district shopping centre. Pizza-K, the place is called.”

The Mazda roared past and the driver looked at Gunna, tapping his forehead with one finger and mouthing an obscenity.

“Thanks for that. I’m just turning into Stekkjarbakki, so I’ll check out the shops. Are you there now?”

“Yeah. We’re heading back on to Reykjanesbraut. You don’t need backup, do you?”

“No. I’ll be all right. But there’s a dirty yellow Mazda just overtaken me well over the speed limit, four young men in it. You might want to see what they’re up to.”

“Will do. Did you see the vehicle’s registration?”

“No licence plate, front or back.”

“Even better. Thanks. Out.”

Gunna took the turning off the main road and cruised slowly around the row of shops and takeaways that served the suburb. It was a long time since she had been in this part of town, and it looked shabbier and more tired than when she had been here last. She drove into the car park and looked around for Pizza-K, finally locating it under its garish red and white signboard on the far side. She parked where she had a good view of the place, but Högni’s grey Opel was nowhere to be seen.