secure and nothing else is likely to go off pop.”
“Good. I’d better marshal my forces, then,” Gunna decided, knowing that there would be no access to the scene itself for some time.
She made her way back to her car, looking carefully at the faces lined up on the other side of the road and noticing lenses already trained on the house. She wondered if the press had been quick off the mark, or if these were more likely neighbours with cameras. When she had been a young police officer, anyone with a long lens would be a press photographer and she would have recognized most of them. But these days enthusiastic amateurs could have newer and more expensive kit than the professionals.
Gunna sat in the driving seat and clicked her Tetra set on. “Zero-two-sixty, Ninety-five-fifty. You there, Helgi?”
She waited for a reply, knowing that Helgi was one of the few CID officers who made a habit of using his communicator. After a minute she gave up, picked her phone up from the seat and dialled Helgi’s number.
“Ah, so you are there,” she said accusingly as he answered.
“Sorry. Been busy this afternoon. Anything serious?”
“Just a bit—and don’t reckon on getting home for a good while yet. House fire, looks mighty like arson to me, one casualty and a burnt-out garage.”
“Shit. And we had a babysitter lined up this evening as well.”
“Sorry. Can’t be helped. This one really stinks,” Gunna said, trying to sound apologetic. “And here’s the fun bit of it: Bjartmar Arnarson’s house. One of Svana Geirs’ little band. Looks like his missus is the casualty.”
“Whoo-hoo. That does sound like a load of fun.”
Gunna spelled out the address to him. “I need you over here, but first I want you to find out where Bjartmar is.”
“Yeah. Sure. D’you need Eirikur as well?”
Gunna thought, looking up and acknowledging with a wave the burly form of Sigmar from the technical department wading through the crowd at the roadside, bags slung over each shoulder.
“No, we’ll let the lad off the hook if he’s already gone, but he’s going to have a tough day of it tomorrow. Got to go, Technical’s here.”
She ended the call, quickly located another number and waited patiently while it rang.
“H?, Sigrun. Yeah, it’s me. Is it OK if Laufey comes to you after school?”
“Not a problem. Busy, are you?”
Gunna wondered what to say.
“Something serious has come up and we have to get on with it right away,” she replied eventually. “I expect you’ll see something about it on the news tonight. The TV crews are here already.”
“All right. Tell me later, but will you send Laufey a text and let her know?”
“Yup, will do. Thanks, Sigrun,” Gunna said gratefully, ending the call. She rapidly thumbed buttons on her phone to send Laufey a message as she walked quickly from her car back to the house, and by the time she was by the garage’s side door, Sigmar and the serious young woman with him were both wearing the all-in-one white coveralls that she could hardly imagine Sigmar without.
“It’s going to be a long job, this one,” he announced morosely as if accusing Gunna of playing a practical joke on him.
BJARTMAR ARNARSON TOOK the news impassively. Gunna wondered if this was determination or indifference. Discreetly taken aside at passport control and led to an interview room, he constantly rolled an iPhone that chimed and throbbed at intervals between his fingers.
“What happened, then?” he asked finally, having brushed aside sympathy from Gunna and the two airport police officers in the room.
“We still don’t know,” Gunna admitted. “This only happened a couple of hours ago. Your wife has been injured in a fire at your home and we believe it wasn’t accidental.”
Bjartmar shrugged. “Who would want to harm Unnur?”
“I’m hoping you might be able to shed some light on that.”
“Are you insinuating something?” he asked silkily. “If you are …”
“I’m asking, not insinuating,” Gunna tried not to snap back.
“Can one of you get me some water?” he demanded suddenly. “It’s hot in here and it’s been a long flight.”
One of the airport officers left the room, shutting the door silently behind him.
“What I need to know initially is if there has been anything unusual that your wife may have noticed recently. Any odd activity, if someone may have been following her, if she’s been involved in a dispute of any kind, anything of that nature?”
Bjartmar’s mouth opened and he was about to answer when his iPhone buzzed just as another ringtone could be heard, a basic chime like an old-fashioned desk telephone. He looked at the iPhone with annoyance and put it down, at the same time pulling a bulky old-fashioned mobile phone from his jacket pocket.
“Yeah?” he grunted into it before his voice softened. “No, just a hold-up with baggage. I need to speak to some people before I clear immigration. No, it’s not a problem. I’ll be right with you. Ciao.”
The airport officer who had gone for water reappeared with a small bottle and placed it on the table within reach of Bjartmar, who glared truculently at Gunna.
“Look, how long is this going to take?”
“Not long,” Gunna replied. She had taken an instant and deep dislike to Bjartmar and his indifferent attitude. The man showed no shred of interest in his wife’s state of health and was again fiddling with his iPhone. She tried to glare at him, but Bjartmar appeared not to notice. “If you don’t mind …” she ventured in an acid tone.
Bjartmar looked up and stared back. “Sorry. Business.”
“Anyone who might bear a grudge against your wife?”
Bjartmar shrugged. “Undoubtedly. You don’t become wealthy without making enemies.”
“All right. Anyone in particular?”
“Almost anyone who worked for her. Everyone was sacked sooner or later. There were always a few outstanding court cases for wrongful dismissal in the works.”
“What’s her business?”
“It’s very smart, so I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of it. It’s a restaurant called ForEver.”
Gunna took the jibe in her stride.
“As it happens, I’ve been there,” she said smoothly. “Who runs the place? I take it your wife doesn’t spend her time waiting on tables?”
Bjartmar stifled a yawn. “Don’t know. Last I knew there was a manager, but she may well have walked out since last week. The chef’s the guy who keeps everything going and the only one Unnur doesn’t want to upset too often.”
“When did you last see Unnur?” Gunna asked.
“The week before last. When I left to go to the States.”
“Was there anything about her then that struck you as unusual? Anything odd?”
Bjartmar’s teeth smiled but his eyes remained expressionless. “You mean apart from the carton of yoghurt that she slung at me? No, don’t think so. I heard it hit the door as I shut it behind me and I suppose she left it for the Thai girl to clean up.”
“You mean you and your wife aren’t on good terms?”
“My wife and I haven’t been on any kind of terms for the last few months. We have been leading pretty much separate lives, except when we meet, and then that’s generally to argue about something or for her to demand more cash to prop her restaurant up a little longer. Apart from that, everything’s been just wonderful,” he said with the first traces of bitterness in his voice. “Look, officer, I don’t know if you’re married or what. But it has run its course. We’ve been together for almost ten years and it’s got to the point where we just don’t like each other any more. It happens.”
“It does,” Gunna agreed in a neutral voice, making quick notes on the pad in front of her.
“And are you?” Bjartmar drawled.
“What?”
“Married? Shacked up?”
