business in direct competition with his wife’s.”
“That sounds bloody mad,” Helgi observed, speaking for the first time.
“It does,” Gunna agreed. “But we have no shortage of people only too happy to do the man a bad turn.”
S?valdur looked at his watch. There was no need to, as there was a clock on the wall, but the gesture was theatrical.
“We’ll adjourn until seventeen hundred. Albert, could you report then with Miss Cruz on developments, and Gunnhildur, will you draw up a file of the man’s particular enemies and coordinate interviews?”
He clapped his hands to dismiss the group, clearly enjoying the moment, while Ivar Laxdal caught Gunna’s eye: the barely perceptible lifting of one eyebrow indicated that he wanted a quiet word.
JON OPENED HIS eyes with difficulty and wondered where the strange low ceiling had come from. Then the previous night came flooding back and he shut his eyes and began to shake.
“You’re awake, then?”
Elin Harpa sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him questioningly.
“You’ve had a bad time,” she observed.
“Yeah,” Jon grunted, his throat dry, struggling to sit up. “Look, I’m really sorry about yesterday. I was desperate and didn’t know where to go.”
“S’all right. There’s plenty of desperate people about these days.”
“I’m really grateful you let me stay here. I’ll be out of your way now.”
“S’all right,” Elin Harpa repeated, shrugging off the long-since-white dressing gown and wriggling back under the duvet. “Stay if you want. You’ll have to buy some food, though. There’s none here and I don’t get any money until tomorrow”.
GUNNA DEEPLY FELT the need for a cigarette, something she was sure she had conquered over the last few weeks and months of withdrawal. S?valdur’s briefing had triggered a craving inside that she tried to cure with a brisk walk around the car park in Ivar Laxdal’s company.
In spite of his shorter legs, Ivar Laxdal walked at a pace slightly faster than Gunna’s and she matched it by keeping to the inside track.
“Bjartmar Arnarson. Is this linked to the case you were already investigating?” he asked bluntly.
“Probably, yes. I’d be amazed if there wasn’t some kind of link, even if not directly. The number of people the bloody man had upset over the years, we’re spoil for choice for suspects until Technical come up with something to work on or we can find a witness to give us a lead. The best we have so far is a tall man in dark clothes and a van parked two streets away. That’s it. No fingerprints, no witnesses, bugger all, in fact.”
Ivar Laxdal’s pace picked up and Gunna wondered how soon she would find herself jogging to keep up.
“Actually, we have a problem there,” she said.
“The Svana Geirs case? What’s that?”
“Our star suspect has an alibi.”
“Solid?”
“He was beating somebody up a hundred kilometres away. It’s possible at a stretch, but I don’t think it was him.”
“Long Ommi, you mean?”
“That’s him. Even he can’t be in two places at once. If he was handing out a beating that means he couldn’t have been anywhere near Svana Geirs’ flat when she was killed.”
Ivar Laxdal nodded as he walked. “Bjartmar is the priority now. Was this a vendetta of some kind? A professional killing?”
“God, I hope not,” Gunna said with feeling. “There are enough firearms floating around the country but they’ve never been used. But I suppose it was always going to be a matter of time before we were to see gun crime. If this was a contract killing, it could open the floodgates for all the scumbags who have weapons to start using them.”
“My feeling precisely. This has to be sorted out quickly, very quickly. Svana Geirs being bumped off is one thing; that could be what the French call a crime passionnel. Temporary insanity, the Americans call the same thing. But this is something we can’t afford to get wrong.”
“Are we getting the killer profiled?”
Ivar Laxdal snorted. “We are. But that’s just to keep them happy upstairs. It’ll be legwork that sorts this one out, just you see.”
“And S?valdur’s going to do that?”
Another snort. “S?valdur’s going through the motions. I want you on the Svana case, ostensibly. I want every possible angle examined that could have any bearing on Bjartmar. Everything, understand? You can have all the overtime you want, but I don’t have any bodies for you. There’s no spare manpower for an emergency these days, I’m afraid.”
“WHY DID YOU cut all your hair off?” Jon asked.
“Felt like it. This is easier. Not so much to wash.”
“It makes you look younger. It looks good.”
“How young do you think it makes me look?” Elin Harpa asked with secretive smile.
“I don’t know,” Jon said, taken by surprise. “Twenty-six, twenty-seven?”
“Close. Twenty-four. And you? You’re quite old, aren’t you?” she said blandly.
“Thirty-eight,” Jon answered, subtracting three years from his age and wondering why.
Jon had bought pizzas. He and Elin Harpa perched on the edge of the bed, while two of the children sat on plastic chairs and the smallest lay happily in the crook of his mother’s arm, sucking on a bottle.
The little boy and his younger sister chewed the spicy slices and guzzled cola greedily, apparently unconcerned by Jon’s presence. They watched the television constantly, engrossed in cartoons in English, until only one slice of pizza remained and both decided that they wanted it.
“Stop it!” Elin Harpa commanded as the two of them began to squabble noisily. “Stop! Now! Or I’ll change the channel,” she threatened as they ignored her.
She stabbed at the taped-up remote control until the channel changed and the two children howled at the injustice.
“Turn it up, will you?” Jon said suddenly, and the children fell silent, turning to the television, where a row of police cars was parked in a suburban street that Jon recognized instantly.
“Mummy, what’s—?” the little boy began.
“Shhhh!” Jon admonished. “Turn the sound up, will you?” The television image cut away to a grim newsreader.
“A man was found dead at his home in Hafnarfjordur late last night. A police statement is expected later today but the man’s identity is not being released until relatives have been informed,” he announced in sonorous tones. “In Akureyri yesterday …”
“You can change it again now. That’s all I wanted to see.”
“Someone you know?” Elin Harpa asked.
“Sort of,” Jon said. “Someone I used to work for.”
• • •
THIS TIME GUNNA tracked Hallur Hallbjornsson down to his home, a smart house on the periphery of the Vogar district in a shady, tree-lined street only a few hundred metres from the busy traffic of Sudurlandsbraut but shielded from the constant whine of traffic by a thick hedge.
Hallur, Helena Ros, Margret Anna and Krist’n Drofn live here, a carved sign on the front door proclaimed, and music coming out of an open upstairs window indicated that someone had to be home. Gunna rang the bell, and then knocked as well for good measure. A dog yapped inside, and through a small window set in the door Gunna could see someone approaching.
“Yes?” The copper-haired woman at the door looked doubtfully at Gunna.
“Good morning,” Gunna greeted her. “My name’s Gunnhildur Gisladottir and I’m from the CID Serious Crime Unit. I take it you’re Helena Ros? I’d like to speak to your husband.”
“We’re about to have lunch. We have guests,” she replied with a blend of frustration and irritation in her piping voice.
“Who is it, Helena?” a familiar voice asked as its owner approached. When Hallur appeared behind his wife,
