Cold Steal (27 page)

Eiríkur checked the lobby first, noting down the names on the mailboxes and hoping to see Elísabet Sólborg Höskuldsdóttir’s name there, though he wasn’t surprised when it didn’t appear anywhere, before walking around the building outside to check for the fire escape that a building of this age didn’t have.

Eiríkur was already in conversation with a sharp-faced elderly woman on the block’s first floor as Geiri and Tinna came up the couple of steps leading to the landing.

‘Keeps himself to himself, that’s all I know,’ the sharpfaced woman said. ‘I like to mind my own business and not interfere with other people, but he’s an odd one, that Orri.’

‘That’s his name? Orri?’

‘Orri Björnsson. That’s his name, all right. Up there on the third floor on the right.’

‘Do you know if he’s at home?’ Eiríkur asked.

‘I haven’t seen him go out.’

‘And I’m sure you’ve been keeping an eye out. Come on, let’s see if your friend’s at home.’

There was no answer as Geiri rapped on the door.

‘Police!’ Eiríkur yelled. ‘Open the door, please. I know you’re there.’

‘Nobody home,’ Geiri muttered in disappointment and turned to go, but Eiríkur stayed put, hammering on the door.

‘What now?’ Geiri asked.

‘Either he opens the door, or we stay here until he or his girlfriend shows up,’ he said, banging the door yet again. ‘Orri Björnsson! Open the door, please. Police!’

He stared intently at the door and was rewarded with the briefest flash of movement behind the spyhole.

‘I know you’re there, Orri. Open the door,’ he called. The lock rattled and the door squeaked as it opened.

‘Orri Björnsson?’ Eiríkur asked needlessly and the man nodded as he looked back, his face composed.

‘Yeah, that’s me. Sorry, I was asleep and didn’t hear you knocking. What can I do for you?’

Bára opened the door to the suite at the Harbourside Hotel.

‘Where’s her ladyship?’

Bára looked at her watch. ‘She’s been in the bathroom for just over forty minutes now.’

‘And no sign of Jóhann?’

‘Nothing so far. No replies to calls.’

‘And what does Sunna María make of it? Is she worried?’

‘It’s hard to tell. I’ve only seen a little of Jóhann, but they make an extremely odd pair. He’s fifteen years older than she is and they’ve both had a string of affairs over the years.’

‘She told you that?’

‘After her fourth Baileys on the rocks yesterday afternoon,’ Bára said with a grimace. ‘In detail. She told me how she was the other woman who wrecked his first marriage and since then she’s been determined not to let anyone wreck hers. So they have a tacit agreement and they both play discreetly.’

‘But they stay together for the sake of the money?’ Gunna asked. ‘How sweet. So Jóhann was last seen on Friday and only now she decides she wants to make a song and dance of it? What the hell’s going on?’

Bára cocked an ear. ‘She’s out of the bathroom, so she can tell you herself.’

‘I’m wondering how concerned she is about Jóhann. It doesn’t seem right to me. She should be frantic by now. I would be.’

‘She’s a cold fish, I think. Either that or she can bottle it all up or compartmentalize things very effectively. Their accountant was here yesterday and she was as bright as a button. You wouldn’t have imagined for a second that her husband had just walked out and that she should have been worried witless.’

‘Good morning, good morning,’ Sunna María said, breezing into the room with a smile that looked as if she had carefully put it on. ‘Any news?’ she asked, giving Gunna a steely gaze and pouring herself coffee.

‘I was going to ask you that.’

‘Nothing.’

‘Are you concerned? Why are you in such a rush to report your husband missing now?’

‘What kind of a question is that? Of course I’m concerned.’

‘You didn’t seem concerned on Friday. Has this kind of thing happened before?’

‘That’s an intrusive question.’

‘Your husband walked out of here unexpectedly two days ago and you haven’t seen or heard from him, which doesn’t sound like normal behaviour to me. So you can see why I’m trying to make sense of this, can you? Has this happened before?’

Sunna María stood with her back to the window, saucer in one flat hand, coffee cup held delicately in the other. She was dressed for business, an ivory blouse buttoned to the neck and a fine silver chain artfully arranged over it.

‘Jóhann and I had a row on Friday after you were here, if you really must know,’ she said, and Gunna could sense her gritting her teeth at the admission. ‘Normally that ends with one or other of us storming out, and this time it was him. It’s not the first time and I don’t suppose it’ll be the last.’

‘Are you telling me you’re not worried about him?’

‘He’s never been away more than twenty-four hours like this. And by the way, I’m checking out of here today and going home.’

‘You’re reporting Jóhann as a missing person?’

‘Yes. He took his mobile phone, his passport and credit cards, but he should be back by now. I’m hoping he’s fine; he’s probably holed up somewhere comfortable for a few days while his temper settles. He might even be on the next floor,’ Sunna María tittered and the cup in her hand rattled musically against the saucer.

Gunna stood up. ‘In that case, I’d appreciate it if you could let me know what your movements are. As far as I’m concerned, there’s still an element of danger as the killers of your business partner haven’t been identified.’

Sunna María flashed pearl-white teeth. ‘Come on. This is Iceland. People don’t kill each other in Iceland.’

The photograph of the little pile of gold lay on the table between them.

‘It was my mother’s,’ Orri said simply, hardly looking at it. ‘I needed the money, so I sold it.’

‘This was stolen from a house in Kópavogur a couple of weeks ago. The owner has identified it as hers and we have pictures of her wearing it, which prove it had been in her possession. So how did you get hold of it?’

‘Like I said, it was my mother’s and she had it from her mother. They’re both dead now. It came to me from my mum’s estate and I just left it in a drawer for years. Then I needed the money so I sold it.’

Eiríkur sat back and surveyed Orri Björnsson. There was no bluster to the man, just a quiet, dogged refusal.

‘You’re going to have to come up with a much better story than that,’ she said. ‘The evidence is against you. The clasp’s owner has identified beyond any reasonable doubt that it’s hers and she has pictures to prove it.’

‘Then the shop has fucked up somehow. I sold this stuff, but I didn’t steal it.’

‘The woman in the shop has identified your photo as the seller and we have CCTV images of you going to the shop that bought this stuff.’

‘Really? You mean you have some pictures of me walking along a street?’

‘Close enough, Orri. It ties in with the shop manager’s statement. So why the false name? Who’s Halldór Birgisson?’

Tinna looked up from the kitchen cupboards. She had emptied every cupboard and drawer while Geiri watched impassively. There were packets of porridge and the usual items you would expect, as well as exotic things – galangal, chillies and fresh ginger – things that Eiríkur reflected played a limited part in Svala’s cuisine.

‘Not a lot,’ Tinna said in answer to Eiríkur’s unspoken question.

Eiríkur nodded. ‘Living room next.’

This time they switched roles. Geiri and Tinna together went carefully through every drawer in the old-fashioned dresser while Eiríkur sat with Orri and watched for his reactions while he asked questions.

‘So I don’t get a lawyer, then, like they do in the movies?’

‘I told you the moment you sat down that you have the right to a lawyer at any stage of the proceedings.’

Orri shrugged. ‘Whatever. I haven’t been arrested, have I?’

‘Not yet. Why did you give a false name to Aunt Bertha when you sold the clasp?’

‘I suppose I thought they might declare it to the taxman and I already give the government enough of my cash.’

‘Good answer, Orri. But not good enough. You still have to convince me and you haven’t done a great job yet.’

‘It was Mum’s. She’s dead now and it came to me.’

‘What are these for?’ Eiríkur asked as Geiri placed a set of lock picks on the table.

Eiríkur thought he saw the briefest flash of concern in Orri’s eyes as he saw the picks, although he hid it well and shrugged.

‘I’ve had those for years. Somebody gave them to me and they’ve been in that drawer ever since.’

‘Who’s this?’ Eiríkur said, pointing at a picture of a woman with facial features so similar to Orri’s that they had to be relatives. Apart from a Bruce Springsteen poster that Eiríkur had seen tacked to the back of the bathroom door, the woman with her two children in their Sunday best was the only picture in the place that showed any people.

‘My sister and her kids,’ Orri said.

‘You have a sister? I’m wondering why something like a gold clasp for a set of national dress would go to you rather than to your sister?

‘I don’t know. The old woman didn’t give us anything much.’

‘When did your mother pass away?’ Eiríkur asked as Geiri went down on hands and knees to check under the sofa

‘She didn’t pass away. She rolled a car on Hringbraut and broke her neck when I was seventeen,’ Orri said savagely. ‘She never had a lot of time for us and I don’t miss her, and neither does my sister as far as I know.’

‘You work at Green Bay Transport, right?’

‘Green Bay Dispatch.’

‘What do you do there?’

‘Drive the van, drive the truck, drive the forklift, stack boxes on pallets, listen to the old guys whine about how great the old days were. That kind of thing.’

‘Done,’ Geiri announced, standing up. ‘Let’s take a quick look at the basement, shall we, before we go to the station?’

He shivered and gnawed at the fish. Once he had eaten most of it, he knew that he would have to use the strength it gave him to get more from the rack. This time climbing the rough triangular frame at the end was easier and he came down with four fish, which he put on the table in the old kitchen.

It was the glittering of the intermittent sunshine on the stream as he bent to drink that gave him the idea. He gathered handfuls of dry grass and in the most sheltered spot he could find he made a small pile on top of the dried skin of the cod he had just eaten. Desperately trying to recall what he had learned as a scout fifty years ago, he held his glasses between the sun and the dry grass, experimenting to focus a spot of light and finally watching a wisp of smoke rise from it.

The grass smoked and died. Jóhann cast about for more grass, added it to the pile and tried again, cursing as the sun vanished behind a cloud. He waited impatiently for it to return, collecting handfuls of heather and some crumbling sticks of rotten timber from under the racks of fish.

As the sun appeared again, he set to, kneeling over the kindling and concentrating on keeping the bright spot focused in one place until it smoked and smouldered. Remembering long-forgotten skills, he lay full length with his face inches from the ember and blew the gentlest of breaths on it until tiny flames appeared, which he fed with more clumps of grass. Finally tongues of flame ate hungrily at the handfuls of dry heather he added to the little fire.

The slivers of wood were quickly devoured and Jóhann realized that the fire would burn itself out if there were no more fuel. In spite of being light-headed from hunger, he hurried back to the racks and gathered as many splinters and offcuts of wood as he could, using his shirt held out in front of him as a basket.

The flames demanded constant attention. More grass and more heather were needed constantly until the fire gained strength enough for bigger pieces of wood to be added and these sent up acrid smoke. Inside the old house he hunted for anything that would burn and a smashed window frame in one room became more fuel as he huddled as close to the glowing warmth for as long as he could, eventually retreating inside as darkness fell and wrapping himself in the overcoat once again.

Gunna found the number of the taxi she had written down and it was the work of a few phone calls to track down Snorri Helgason. She found him at the bus station with a mug of coffee and a doughnut that he had sliced carefully into cubes.

He shrugged as Gunna showed him Jóhann Hjálmarsson’s picture.

‘Maybe. It’s been busy these last few days. You sure it was me?’ He asked with a supreme lack of interest, popping a morsel of decimated doughnut into his mouth.

‘Friday morning, outside the Harbourside Hotel. A few minutes after eleven.’

‘Could be, darling. What’s he done?’

‘I’m not your darling and if you don’t start remembering, we might have to take this down to the station.’

‘Whoa, no offence, darling.’ Snorri Helgason’s eyes widened and he rapidly backed off. ‘I’m due back on the rank in ten minutes when the bus from the north gets in.’

‘Then start remembering quickly.’

‘Picked him up outside the hotel, like you said.’

‘A call or were you waiting?’

‘I was just in the queue. I stopped and he got right in.’

‘Did he say anything? Where did he want to go?’

‘That’s all he said. “Ármúli, thanks.” Then he sat there with his nose in his phone and didn’t look up until I asked where on Ármúli he wanted to be dropped off.’

‘And?’ Gunna said, not bothering to mask her impatience.

‘He didn’t want Ármúli at all,’ he said with satisfaction, chewing another chunk of doughnut. ‘He wanted to go round the corner and I dropped him off outside that big block on the end instead, the one next to the hotel there.’

‘Did you see him go inside?’

Snorri Helgason shook his head. ‘He paid in cash and walked off, still looking at his phone. He went that way, but I didn’t see him go inside.’

Gunna’s heart sank. The block was at least nine storeys high and she guessed that it housed dozens of offices, any one of which could be where Jóhann Hjálmarsson had been heading.

‘And he didn’t say anything?’