guessed that Jonas Valur had passed on a warning, probably before they had even left Kleifar for the five-minute drive to where Bjarki Steinsson’s company occupied a floor of one of the Shadow District’s newer office blocks.
Gunna clicked the door shut behind them. While this stopped any sound escaping from the man’s office, she noticed that a pair of eyes at every desk was keeping tabs on the two strangers talking to the boss. This time Helgi would ask the questions while Gunna watched and listened.
“We are investigating the murder of Svanhildur Mjoll Sigurgeirsdottir,” Helgi confirmed portentously.
“So it was definitely murder?” Bjarki asked, eyes wide, brimming with a sadness he could not conceal.
“Without a doubt.”
“She didn’t just, er, fall or something?”
“Absolutely not. Can you tell me where you were on Thursday afternoon last week?”
Bjarki Steinsson sat down heavily while Helgi kept him fixed in the headlight beam. “I couldn’t tell you offhand. Here, probably. I can ask my secretary to check the diary if you like.”
“I’ll ask myself. Of course I’ll need to have confirmation of where you were at that time. Now,” Helgi said, sitting down without being invited to do so, “your relationship with Svana Geirs. Tell me about it.”
Gunna stood by the door and listened, hands behind her back, concentrating on watching Bjarki Steinsson’s face as he responded to Helgi’s questions. As far as she could make out, the man was genuinely distressed, with beads of sweat forming on his forehead.
“What do you need to know?” he asked quickly.
Helgi sat back as if he had the whole day and the evening stretching ahead of him. “Let’s just say I need to know everything?”
Bjarki Steinsson slumped as if deflated. “All right. Svana and I had a relationship that went back two, three years. Something like that. I don’t recall precisely. We used to meet occasionally.”
“How often?”
“Sometimes we wouldn’t meet for a month. Sometimes we might see each other several times in a week.”
“And what did you do?”
“What did we do?” he asked blankly. “How do you mean?”
Helgi sighed. “Surely I don’t have to spell it out for you? Did you go out? Hold hands? Screw?”
The sudden coarseness jolted Bjarki Steinsson and his eyes bulged.
“Our relationship was a physical one,” he said finally, as if overcoming a painful barrier. “Look, how far is this going to go? I have a wife …”
“This is just an informal talk, nothing more,” Helgi assured him, and paused. “For the moment, that is.”
“Which means what?”
“It means that if I have reason to believe you’re concealing something that has a bearing on Svanhildur Mjoll’s death, then we’d need to make this more formal.”
“I see,” he replied and was silent.
Gunna rocked imperceptibly on her heels, watching the man in distress behind his vast granite desk, and at the same time watching his staff in the open-plan office outside at their chipboard workstations, trying not to stare too obtrusively.
“I, er,” he began, and coughed. “I take it you’ve spoken to the others already and you know about the, er, arrangement?”
“Let’s pretend I don’t, shall we?” Helgi said softly.
Bjarki Steinsson looked down at the floor under his desk and Gunna imagined him as a small boy caught with a pocketful of purloined sweets.
“A group of us. We, er, shared Svana’s time. She acted as an escort to us all in turn, by prior arrangement. In return for a financial consideration,” he said bleakly.
“Ah. There is a word for this, and I presume you’re aware the law is also quite clear on this kind of activity?”
He nodded without raising his head. “Yes. I know. Look, officer. Nobody was hurt or harmed or did anything they were unwilling to do or was in any way coerced or forced. Everything in this arrangement was entirely consensual and amicable.”
“I can see that. But Svanhildur Mjoll was selling her company, which included sexual services. An offence has been committed by each of the participants. As I said, there is a less pleasant word for this kind of arrangement.”
A tiny spark of anger could be seen deep behind Bjarki Steinsson’s eyes.
“Officer, have you any clue what a loveless marriage is like?” he asked bitterly. “My wife … My wife and I have had nothing to say to each other for years. We live in the same house. A divorce would be a disaster financially, and for her it would be deeply uncomfortable in social terms. The circles she moves in …” He sighed. “Listen. We know and trust each other to that extent. I earn a considerable amount. My wife has a comfortable position based on that income. We each respect that the other has a private life. Understand?”
“An open marriage, sort of thing?”
“If you want to put it like that.”
“And have you made a habit of procuring services of this kind?”
“If you’re going to be offensive, I’d prefer it if this interview was recorded so that I have grounds for complaint,” the accountant snapped.
“I’d prefer it if you would just answer the bloody question,” Helgi replied with a new harsh note in his voice.
“Not … not recently.”
“During your relationship with Svanhildur Mjoll?”
“No, of course not.”
“Why ‘of course not’?”
“That was the agreement. No other partners, spouses excluded.”
“Do you think the others kept to this agreement?”
Bjarki Steinsson shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s not something we discussed. Possibly not.”
Helgi seemed satisfied with the answer and Gunna saw an air of defeat in the man’s reply.
“Now,” Helgi said. “When did you last see Svanhildur Mjoll?”
“On Thursday,” he whispered. “In the morning.”
DIDDI SAT CRUMPLED between his lawyer, a young woman with a plump, friendly face, and a social worker huddled in a denim jacket.
“All right, Diddi? How are you?” Gunna asked, taking a seat opposite him.
“I’m OK,” Diddi replied, a dazed expression on his round face.
“You’re aware that everything is recorded in here and anything you say could be used in evidence in court?”
“I’d like to make it plain,” the plump young woman began, “I’d like to state, that my client has a history of mental illness.”
“Actually, I know Diddi of old.” Gunna smiled. “Isn’t that right, Diddi?”
“Yeah, Gunna.”
“So, for the record, you’re Kristbjorn Hrafnsson, you’re thirty-four years old and you’re on invalidity benefit. Is that right?”
“Yeah.”
“Now, Diddi. Would you like to tell me about what happened to your face?”
The lawyer frowned but said nothing.
“I fell over,” Diddi said finally.
“If you say so. But how did you manage to fall over on both sides of your face at the same time?”
“Is this relevant?” the lawyer asked.
“If it wasn’t relevant, I wouldn’t be asking,” Gunna answered, glaring at her. “All right, Diddi. Your dad brought you into the station on Monday night. The branch of Kaupthing in Grafarvogur was robbed by a man with a knife that morning. Now, Diddi, it was you, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
