Frozen Assets (7 page)

Skúli decided to try Gunna's tactic and sat in silence for her to continue.

‘So, we moved back west in the summer and I was on the force in Vestureyri for a few years. Then I met Raggi and moved south to live with him, and transferred to the city force.'

Skúli sat in expectant silence, already chastened once, while Gunna's face hardened.

‘After my husband died I was on compassionate leave and then sick leave for the best part of a year. The posting at Hvalvík came up and I applied and got it, which was something of a surprise. And I've been here ever since,' Gunna concluded with a deep breath.

‘What, er — what happened?'

Gunna glanced at him sharply and Skúli felt he had been slapped. ‘Are you listening or not?'

‘Listening.'

‘Like I said, it was an accident. I don't want to talk about it. You can look it up in the cuttings, February 2000. That's the end of the potted biography, and I don't expect to see any of that in print. Understood?' Gunna instructed with a chill in her voice.

‘Understood.'

‘The rain's stopped,' Gunna observed, looking out at the sun bursting through the ragged clouds. ‘If you've finished eating, we can be on our way.'

5

Saturday, 30 August

‘He got pissed and passed out, fell in the water. Drowned while unconscious,' said the barrel-chested man squeezed into the passenger seat.

‘Sævaldur, we know that,' Gunna told him sharply. ‘How the hell did he get from a bar in Reykjavík to Hvalvík harbour? He didn't drive and he was already so drunk he could hardly walk. So who helped him?'

Sævaldur Bogason yawned and tried to stretch. Gunna frowned, drumming on the wheel with the fingers of one hand. She wondered whether or not to call home and find out if Laufey was out of bed. She stifled the idea straight away, telling herself that there was practically no chance that her daughter would be awake at this early hour of a Saturday morning without a particularly good reason.

Gunna forced her thoughts back to Einar Eyjólfur. She was concerned that her interviews at Spearpoint had yielded nothing concrete beyond a picture of a young man who kept very much to himself and did his job well. Unusually, he had no immediate family and only a small circle of friends made up mostly of past and present colleagues from work, with the exception Dísa had mentioned of Egill Grímsson.

Dísa's comments that Einar Eyjólfur had been worried during his last few months of life stuck in Gunna's mind, especially as Sigurjóna claimed to have been unaware of anything out of the ordinary. She made a mental note to search for Egill Grímsson's name among filed reports.

‘So, where are we now?' Sævaldur asked. ‘I vote we just sit here until it stops raining.'

‘This is Reykjavík. It's not going to stop raining.'

Gunna scanned the notes she had been keeping as they tracked Einar Eyjólfur's last night. He had been with Jón Oddur and the Danish chewing gum manufacturers on Monday evening. After a meal at a Chinese restaurant on Laugarvegur, the group had moved on to a faux-Irish bar called McCuddy's. Around eleven, the Danes politely bowed out, pleading an early flight home the next day, while Einar and Jón Oddur had carried on to several bars, of which the Emperor was the last, a bar where trouble could generally be easily found.

Gunna looked up through the rain-streaked windscreen at the Emperor's windows across the street. The place looked no more inviting than had McCuddy's half an hour ago. A narrow face peered out at the street through the glass panels of the door and vanished.

‘Come on then,' Gunna instructed, swinging open the car door.

It was dark inside the deserted bar. Chairs were still stacked on tables and the floor was littered with last night's debris.

‘Hey! Anybody about?' Sævaldur called out.

The lights flickered on and the face Gunna had seen at the window scowled around a door.

‘What do you want?'

‘A word with the manager,' Gunna replied, stepping forward. At the sight of the uniform, the man scowled again. ‘Monday evening. Who was here then?'

‘That was days ago. How should I know?'

‘You mean you don't keep staff records?'

‘Well, yeah. Of course I do.'

‘Then you'd better look it up.'

In the bar's cramped back office the man flipped through a diary while trying to stop himself yawning.

‘OK,' he announced at length. ‘Me, Adda, Noi and Gugga on the bar, Geiri and Gústi on the door.'

‘Full names? And is that all of them?'

The man groaned.

‘Look,' Sævaldur broke in. ‘We're not looking for dodgy work permits and I couldn't give a shit about who's working on the black. Just tell us who these people are, all right?'

The manager nodded his understanding, tore a page from the back of the diary and wrote a series of names on it, adding phone numbers from the mobile hanging on a cord around his neck.

‘Thank you,' Gunna said smoothly as he handed over the sheet of paper. ‘Now, you wouldn't recall this face, would you?'

She held up Einar Eyjólfur's photograph.

‘Dunno, sweetheart. Get all sorts in here. Ask the guys on the doors. They'd remember if there was any trouble.'

Satisfied, Gunna put the photo back in her folder.

‘Geiri and Gústi. Where do these guys live?'

‘I don't know,' the man groaned again.

‘Surely you have a record of all your staff's legal addresses?' Gunna said, handing back the sheet of names.

‘Shit. All right.'

He scribbled on the page and Gunna noticed that there was no need to look anything up.

‘Thanks. Now, I'm sure there won't be any need for you to call these guys and warn them that we're on the way, will there? Any more than there'll be any need for us to pass anything on to the tax office?'

She raised an eyebrow. Boxed into a corner, the man shook his head.

30-08-2008, 1205

Skandalblogger writes:

It's who you know . . .

Just how does Scaramanga stay open? Mundi Grétars still has the enviable reputation of running Iceland's last-remaining house of ill repute. Of course, we all know that the place is supposed to be a club like all the others. But unlike Odal and Bohem, where what you see is pretty much all you're going to get, Mundi has a different set of rules. He knows that not discouraging the dancers from having their out-of-hours freelance activities doesn't do the bar takings any harm at all.

So just how much public money goes across Mundi Grétars' bar, and how much of it makes its way back again? Skandalblogger hears that there's a surprising number of our elders and betters who find their way to Scaramanga now and again, and some of these fine gentlemen are so concerned about the young ladies' well-being that they send after-hours taxis to drive them home . . .

A little bird whispers to Skandalblogger that several of our respected public servants, including a gentlemen's club of highly placed law enforcement officials, have repeatedly torpedoed civic plans to withdraw Scaramanga's licence. One of these guys, so we're told, has formed a frequent and meaningful relationship with a young lady who dances. We're sure his missus would be delighted if she knew . . .

We're the soul of discretion . . .

Bæjó!

‘You know either of these guys, Geiri and Gústi?' Gunna asked as she parked the car outside the block of flats in Breidholt among everything from wheelless wrecks perched on blocks to shiny SUVs.

‘Gústi's an old favourite. Goes back a long way, assault, dope, the usual.' Sævaldur grinned. ‘It'll be interesting to catch up with him again. Ágúst Ásgeirsson, his name is. Didn't you come across him when you were on the city force?'

‘You mean Gústi the Gob? Remember him well, a right creep he used to be. Wonder if he's mellowed since we last met?'

The outside door was wedged open and Sævaldur stepped inside to peer at the mailboxes. He wrinkled his nose at the sour smell in the block's lobby.

‘You've forgotten what fun it is going to places like this, eh, Gunna?' he said grimly as they ascended the bare concrete stairs.

‘Not having to deal with slobs like these is one of the perks of being a country copper. Maybe you should try for a transfer to Skagaströnd?'

‘Bloody hell, no. I don't know how you manage with all those yokels. Right, this should be it,' he said, hammering on the door.

There was silence. Sævaldur hammered again.

‘Gústi! Open the bloody door, will you? It's the law!'

An eye appeared at the peephole and after a moment the door inched open to reveal a stubbled face, puffy with sleep.

‘What do the coppers want with me?' he growled.

‘So you do remember us? How nice. Open up, we need to talk.'

‘Got a warrant?'

‘Don't talk crap. I said talk, not search.'

The little two-room flat was bare. A full-barrelled snore could be heard from the flat's one bedroom. Sævaldur and Gunna took kitchen chairs while Gústi sat back on the sofa, flexing generous biceps and letting the towel he was wearing slip open, and leering at Gunna.

‘Who's the bird, Sævaldur?' he demanded. ‘I like big strong girls.'

Gunna ignored the question and held up Einar Eyjólfur's picture. ‘Seen this guy?'

‘Dunno,' Gústi replied without looking.

‘He's dead.'

‘Poor bloke,' Gústi said flatly.

‘He was in the Emperor on Monday evening, probably around or shortly after midnight.'

‘Shit, that was days ago. How should I know?'

Gunna pretended to consult her notes, looking down at the paperwork in front of her as Gústi spread his knees a little wider.

‘Ágúst Ásgeirsson,' she muttered as if speaking to herself, and looked up sharply. ‘This could well be a murder investigation, and you're one of the last people to see this person alive. I can see you've had convictions for assault in the past, according to your record. I'd like to be able to rule you out as a suspect, but with this in front of me, I could have doubts.'

Gunna was amused to see a brief look of fury in the man's eyes, quickly replaced with irritation and finally with concern at the realization that not cooperating would do him little good.

‘Yeah, I seen him.'

‘When? On that night?'

‘Dunno. A few nights ago. Got into a ruck with some bloke in the bog. Must have trod on his toe or something.'

‘And what happened? Who was he arguing with?'

‘Don't know. Don't care,' the surly mountain of a man replied, clearly not used to being overawed by the police. Gunna eyed him frostily, and scribbled notes in silence for long enough for Gústi to start fidgeting with the errant towel.

‘Tell me more.'

To Gunna's relief, Gústi closed his knees and sat up as his confidence ebbed away.

‘I heard a racket from the Gents and went to check it out. Happens all the time, two drunks having an argument, and one of them was him,' he said, suddenly cooperative and pointing at the dead man's photo. ‘That's all. Told 'em to pack it in or get out. End of story,' he added lamely.

‘And the other man?'

‘Dunno. Big bloke. Foreign. That's all.'

‘Time?'

‘Dunno. Early. One-ish.'

‘And what happened?'

‘Dunno. Wasn't any more trouble, so they must have packed it in or fucked off out.'

‘As for this foreign bloke. Description?'

‘Tall. My height. Hell, it was dark, y'know?'

‘Thank you,' Gunna said smoothly, rising to her feet as Sævaldur hauled himself upright. ‘You've been a great help.'

‘That's all right. Always happy to help police ladies,' he replied with a grin, before shooting a scowl towards Sævaldur.

‘Don't push it, Gústi. We can always do you for indecent exposure, just like last time. Remember?' Gunna asked sweetly.

‘How do you know? That was years ago . . .' he protested as Gunna stepped out of the flat without waiting for Sævaldur to follow.

6

Monday, 1 September

Gunna took advantage of Snorri and Haddi being out of the station to shove open the long lower panel of the office window and light a furtive Prince, in defiance of state policy on smoking throughout government buildings. Without feeling even slightly guilty, she leaned back in her chair and read through her interim report on Einar Eyjólfur Einarsson's miserable death.

Nobody appeared to have seen Einar Eyjólfur, 178cm tall, short fair hair, dressed in a pair of jeans and a black shirt, leaving the Emperor sometime in the early hours of 26 August.

With no more evidence to work on and nothing to indicate violence, the case would probably be shelved indefinitely, an unsolved case to haunt her on sleepless nights. Gústi the Gob was not a realistic suspect and the news that Sævaldur had brought him in for questioning was disturbing. She hoped it was for no good reason other than for Sævaldur to vent his spleen on someone.

‘But why Hvalvík?' Gunna muttered to herself.

‘Chief?'

A door banged and Gunna dropped the butt of her cigarette out of the window before closing it. ‘In here, Haddi.'

She decided to end her interim report and hit Save before standing up. There were other matters that needed to be attended to as well as Einar Eyjólfur Einarsson's case.

‘All right?' Haddi asked, sniffing the air accusingly.

‘Yup. Fine. I'm going to lunch if you'll be so good as to man the barricades.'

Outside Hafnarkaffi, Gunna debated whether to have lunch there or go home for a sandwich. She weighed the idea of a hot meal, heavy on the potatoes and swimming in thick sauce in a noisy cafeteria, against tuna and tomato sandwiches washed down with fruit juice while skimming yesterday's papers.

Hot and noisy won. Inside, she picked up a tray and filled it with a dish of cauliflower soup and a plate of fried fish and boiled potatoes. Looking around for a seat, she noticed an arm waving to her.

‘Gunna. Here.'

‘Hey. Stefán, when did you get in?'

‘Just now. The missus is at work, so I thought I'd drop in here and catch up on the news.'

A cousin of Gunna's husband, Stefán Jónsson had gone out of his way to take her son Gísli under his wing after Raggi's death. There had long been an unspoken bond between her and Stefán built on deep respect, but which had never become an outright friendship. Gísli had followed Stefán to sea on one of the trawlers owned by the village's only large fishing company after Stefán had gone out of his way to put a word in on his behalf.

‘Good trip?' Gunna asked, starting with the soup, contrary to local custom.

‘Not bad. A hundred and twenty tonnes. Blowing a bastard all the way home, though.'

‘Where were you?'

‘Deep off the west.'

‘So, will my Gísli be going there this year as well?'

‘No. It's the Barents Sea for them. We took their quota as well as ours last year. This year they can have ours. I'm getting too old for these long trips.'

‘Get away, Stefán. There're years left in a young man like you.'

Stefán impatiently drummed his fingers on the table.

‘What's on your mind?' Gunna asked, recognizing the symptoms, in particular the heavy grey eyebrows swooping down over a frown as he tried to understand something he hadn't fully got to grips with.

‘I was coming to see you later today anyway. About this chap.'

‘Which chap?'

‘The one you found out there down at the dock.'

Gunna looked up from her meal. ‘And? What about him?'

‘I'm damned sure I saw him, or his car, or something.'

‘Tell me more,' she said softly, knowing that there would be little need to ask many questions.

‘It was the night we sailed, Monday—Tuesday. I was up very early and went up the valley to have a look at my stables and had a drive round the dock too. You know, like you do.'

‘I know.'

‘The boys look after the horses for me. But it's in the blood. We were sailing at five that morning and I don't like to go without seeing them off.'

Gunna nodded, lunch forgotten in front of her.

‘Well, it was still dark, of course. Anyway, someone was there on the quay, which is a bit odd, but I thought nothing of it at the time. Who was the dead man, anyway?'

‘A kind of yuppie type who worked for a PR company in Reykjavík.'

Stefán sniffed. ‘Then what the bloody hell's someone like that doing out here in the middle of the night?'

Gunna thought carefully while Stefán looked expectantly at her. It was unfortunate that the only potential eyewitness to what had happened up there had spent the last week at sea, but if this unidentified vehicle had anything to do with Einar Eyjólfur's disappearance, then it pinpointed the time and date of the crime.

‘Anything else, Stefán? Make, model, number, anything like that?'

‘Big jeep sort of thing, not a Land Rover. Dark colour, black, blue, maybe? Couldn't guess what kind, though. I only saw it for a moment as it went past. It looked pretty new to me, but what do I know? But I can tell you there was a JA in the number. That's all.'

‘JA?'

‘That's right. JA, Jóhanna Arnarsdóttir. It's the missus's initials, otherwise I wouldn't have noticed.'

‘Thank you, Stefán. That's a big help,' Gunna said finally. ‘Now, if you'll come up to the station with me for half an hour, I'd like to ask you to give me a statement. And then I have a report to rewrite, and some questions to ask,' she added grimly.