always been like that—a little obsessive. If there was something that interested him, he’d absorb himself in it. It was a bit annoying sometimes and I dreaded the thought of him discovering golf.”
“But no unusual behaviour?”
“It’s so hard to think back. He was a bit preoccupied. I don’t think he enjoyed the job he was doing, but it was quite well paid and we needed the money after all those years of being poor students.”
“The night he was attacked. Were you there?”
“No,” Hulda Bjork said abruptly. “It was some kind of outing with his uni friends. I wouldn’t have gone anyway. It was a boy thing.”
“Had either of you ever had any kind of acquaintance with Omar Magnusson?”
“You mean the bastard who …?” Hulda Bjork’s eyes flashed with a sudden fury. “Of course not,” she spat. “Neither of us had ever laid eyes on that scumbag. I saw him in court, sitting there with a smirk on his face. If I could meet him now, I’d …”
Her face was set in a hard mask.
“So there was no reason that you could think of for the assault on Steindor, other than, as Omar alleged, that they had been arguing?”
“Nothing. I’m certain their paths never crossed. I suppose it’s possible they could have had an argument. Steindor didn’t drink often, but he enjoyed it when he did and could be quite boisterous. Whatever, that’s no reason for beating him so badly that he died, surely?”
“No. But these people live by different rules,” Gunna said sadly. “Can you tell me more about Steindor’s colleagues and his work?”
Hulda Bjork shook her head. “Not really. He hadn’t worked there for more than a couple of months and didn’t like it much, but the money was good. I don’t think he got on well with the office manager. I met her once, a very cold woman, I thought.”
“So what was he doing there?”
“Bookkeeping and invoicing, as far as I remember. He used to tell me and it went right over my head. Sometimes he had to talk to people in Taiwan or Nigeria, places they exported to.”
“Exports?”
“Fish, mostly. Stockfish to west Africa, herring to the Ukraine, all sorts. That’s what he was working with for the most part. But there was some property as well, buying and selling commercial buildings, I think. Workshops and shops, that sort of thing.”
“Do you remember what the company was called, or if it still exists?”
“Kleifaberg Trading, at least the part that Steindor worked for. They used to have offices in the city centre, off Tryggvagata, I think.”
“And there’s nothing else that springs to mind? Nothing about Steindor’s behaviour that you recall as being anything different?”
Hulda Bjork shrugged. “I’ve tried to remember everything, but there’s so much that’s too hazy. You try and recall these things but it’s like they’re just that little way out of reach. Know what I mean? Of course you don’t,” she added.
“Actually I do,” Gunna said quietly. “I know precisely what you mean and I know how hard it is when someone is taken away in a flash.”
Hulda Bjork looked at her with a new recognition, half screwing up her eyes against the unaccustomed spring sunshine that shone in her face and highlighted the band of freckles across her nose. She stood up and cast about the garden for the small boy, who had gone quiet.
“He must be up to something if he’s not making a noise,” she said, forcing a smile. “I don’t think there’s anything more I can tell you.”
Gunna laid a card on the slats of the garden table. “My number’s there. I’d appreciate a call if there’s anything you remember.”
“Ah, there he is,” Hulda Bjork said. She pointed to her son at the far end of the garden, using a bamboo cane to push an offcut of wood across a puddle. “I’d better stop him before he gets too filthy.”
She turned to Gunna awkwardly.
“I’m sorry. I don’t think I’ve been a lot of help to you somehow,” she apologized. “But there’s a friend of Steindor’s you might want to talk to. He was at college with us. I haven’t seen him for a long time, but he works for a magazine now. Gunnlaugur Olafsson, his name is.”
THE BASTARD HAD a big enough house, Jon thought, staring at the sprawling building on the far side of the quiet street. He’d taken a detour to see the place yet again. He had done this more than once, stopping by the curb on the other side of the road to glare at the house with its double garage, set between lines of young birch trees that already were bushy enough to shield the place from prying eyes either side.
Jon’s own house had been away down the hill in a decent, yet less exclusive neighbourhood. If things hadn’t gone so terribly wrong, Ragna Gusta could have found herself mixing with children at school from this very street.
Jon knew that Bjartmar and his snobby wife had no children. The gossip around town was that they weren’t getting on well lately, and that the man had set up some woman he’d brought to Iceland with a business in the city centre. Jon didn’t make a habit of listening to gossip, but any mention of the bastard who had tipped his business over the edge was always going to make him prick up his ears.
He sighed, gritted his teeth and started the van’s engine. A woman in the western end of town with two small children was waiting for him to again patch up the worn-out washing machine that she couldn’t afford to replace.
“YOU KNOW SOMEONE called Gunnlaugur Olafsson?” Gunna asked, phone to her ear as she marched across the street to her car.
“Er. Not sure,” Skuli said slowly. “Know anything more about him?”
“Not a lot,” Gunna replied, switching the phone to the other ear as she unlocked the car and got inside. “He’d be in his early thirties, works for a magazine.”
“Sales or editorial?”
“No idea. Editorial, I guess.”
“I’ll ask around, see what I can find. Is that all right?”
“Skuli, that would be wonderful,” Gunna said, realizing that she had been unnecessarily sharp with him.
“Cool. Leave it with me, then,” Skuli said crisply, and closed the connection before Gunna could say anything more.
She started the car and listened to the engine hum into life. She let it roll gently down the street and stopped at the end, wondering whether to go left or right at the junction. A few years of frantic property speculation had left the sprawling peripheries of the city criss-crossed with streets that she had no recollection of, as well as confusing new junctions that appeared to lead nowhere, left unfinished as the estates they were supposed to reach were boarded up.
She opted to turn left, immediately regained her bearings and decided to continue through the quiet estate of houses set back from the speed-bump-studded road. This was a smart neighbourhood, not fashionable, but populated by younger, two-and three-car families who clearly took the look of their homes seriously.
Gunna’s phone rang and she pulled over to the side of the road to answer it. “Skuli, that was quick.”
“And easy as well. Someone knew the guy straight away. He shortens his name to Gulli Olafs, that’s what threw me.”
“Understandable. But do you know where I can find him?”
“You’re not going to give him a story before me, are you?” Gunna could hear the grin behind his voice.
“Of course not. Hey, are you back at Dagurinn?”
“Yeah, just covering a few shifts for someone else.” Skuli’s cheerful tone vanished. “Two days a week at the moment. Gulli Olafs works for a business magazine called Verslun. It went bust last year and someone came along and bailed them out, so it’s still running and he is one of only about half the staff they kept on. They used to be in smart offices on Borgartun, but now they’re above a garage down at Grandi.”
“Excellent. Thanks, Skuli.”
“No problem. Just wondering, do you have anything to tell me?”
“Not right now. But progress is being made. I’ll let you know when I can say anything. Keep your eyes open,
