“Can’t remember.”
“How was she involved in your plans?”
“She wasn’t,” Jon said animatedly. “Look. I got a call asking if I could replace a kitchen tap. I did the job, took five thousand for it and that’s all. I might have left my phone there. Or I might have dropped it somewhere.”
“Where does she live, Jon?”
“Like I said, one of those streets off Hringbraut. I can’t remember which.”
“All right. If you won’t tell us, we’ll find her.”
THE RAMBLING HOUSE on Alfholsvegur was closer to the road than its neighbours were, and Gunna could see people inside as she pulled up and switched off the engine. Not that many years ago, this had been a quiet residential street, but it had since become a thoroughfare from one end of Kopavogur to the other, with cars taking it as fast as the vicious speed bumps allowed.
“I’m looking for Hogni Sigurgeirsson,” Gunna said to the wrinkled woman who answered the door. “Is he here?”
The woman didn’t answer, but stepped back and to one side to allow Gunna in, letting out a yell of surprising volume from someone so diminutive.
“Hogni! Someone for you, boy!”
Gunna closed the door behind her and followed the woman into the kitchen, where an elderly man sat at a table and leafed through Morgunbladid while drawing on what Gunna could smell was a filterless Camel even before she saw the overflowing ashtray at his elbow.
He nodded and returned to his newspaper as the woman went through another door, calling out without getting a reply other than a blast of cold air. A door from the house’s living room leading to the garden swung open and showed where Hogni had disappeared.
“I can’t understand it. He was here just now,” she grumbled. “Laki! Where did Hogni go?” she called to the man at the kitchen table.
“Dunno,” he wheezed.
“Who are you anyway?” the woman asked finally, looking up at Gunna. “I’d have thought Hogni’s girlfriends would be a bit younger.”
“I’m from the police,” Gunna said stiffly. “This is the address he gave us, so I was wondering who you are?”
“I’m sorry, dear. I’m his mother’s aunt. It’s terrible about poor Svanhildur. The lad’s awfully upset, you know. Would you like a cup of coffee?” She took unsteady steps into the kitchen and fetched a cup without waiting for a reply. “Sit down, dear.”
“And have you found out who did it yet?” the man rumbled. “She was a lovely girl, Svana was. A crying shame what happens these days. And what do the police do about it? Nothing,” he went on, oblivious to Gunna’s presence as he continued to leaf through the newspaper.
The old woman poured coffee as black as tar into the cup. Gunna sipped doubtfully, but found that it was excellent.
“How has Hogni been?” she asked.
“?i. He’s taken it badly, the poor dear.”
“Is he here much?”
“No, we don’t see a lot of him, but we’re up early and in bed early, not like you youngsters.”
“Is he working, do you know?”
“He can’t work much, not since his accident, so he only does a few hours. He broke his leg a year ago.”
“Two years ago,” the old man corrected.
“Two years ago. Lord, but time flies. Yes, he’s a martyr to his bad leg, the boy is.”
Not so much a martyr that he can’t shift quickly out of the back door as soon as the police show up, Gunna thought, draining her cup.
“Do you know where I might find him?”
“Couldn’t tell you, dear. His car’s not there, so he might have gone to work.”
“And where’s that?”
• • •
GUNNA STOPPED AT the traffic lights and fretted as the driver of a battered Mazda that had once been canary yellow revved its engine in front of her. She could see that there were four youngsters in the car and the driver was riding the clutch, waiting to be away the second the lights changed.
She pulled away gently as the Mazda raced ahead with a squeal of rubber, and eased to a halt behind it at the next set of lights, this time noticing the missing licence plate. The boys in the Mazda again pulled away with a roar from its cracked exhaust. Gunna let them go, and then swung the latest hired Audi into the outside lane but kept under the speed limit.
At the third set of lights, she was still moving as they flashed to green and she cruised easily past the Mazda, indicating to pull into the inside lane ahead of it. This time she saw that the car’s front licence plate was also missing, and her jaw set in irritation.
She was ready to slow right down and force it to a halt when her communicator buzzed.
“Ninety-five-fifty, zero-five-sixty-one.”
She clicked the button on her earpiece and replied, keeping an eye on the Mazda in the mirror.
“Zero-five-sixty-one, ninety-five-fifty.”
“We’ve a sighting of the grey Opel you’re looking for. It’s outside a pizza takeaway in the Bakki district shopping centre. Pizza-K, the place is called.”
The Mazda roared past and the driver looked at Gunna, tapping his forehead with one finger and mouthing an obscenity.
“Thanks for that. I’m just turning into Stekkjarbakki, so I’ll check out the shops. Are you there now?”
“Yeah. We’re heading back on to Reykjanesbraut. You don’t need backup, do you?”
“No. I’ll be all right. But there’s a dirty yellow Mazda just overtaken me well over the speed limit, four young men in it. You might want to see what they’re up to.”
“Will do. Did you see the vehicle’s registration?”
“No licence plate, front or back.”
“Even better. Thanks. Out.”
Gunna took the turning off the main road and cruised slowly around the row of shops and takeaways that served the suburb. It was a long time since she had been in this part of town, and it looked shabbier and more tired than when she had been here last. She drove into the car park and looked around for Pizza-K, finally locating it under its garish red and white signboard on the far side. She parked where she had a good view of the place, but Hogni’s grey Opel was nowhere to be seen.
“The bugger’s gone,” she cursed, clicking her communicator. “Zero-five-sixty-one, ninety-five-fifty. ‘Where did you say you saw that grey Opel?’” she asked.
“It was right outside Pizza-K ten minutes ago.”
“OK. He’s gone. Can you keep an eye out again, please?”
“Yeah. Will do. My mate’s just booking four idiots in a clapped-out Mazda that looks like they bought it from a scrapyard, thanks.”
“Pleased to hear it,” Gunna replied. “Out.”
She checked her phone for messages and looked up to see a grey Opel pull up outside Pizza-K and the familiar bulk of Hogni Sigurgeirsson haul himself out. She got out of the Audi and walked towards the shop, looking the Opel over carefully on the way.
“Yeah?” a young man with pocked cheeks and a white hat behind the counter greeted her.
“Grey Opel outside. Whose is it?”
“’Scuse me. Don’t speak good Iceland,” the man said with a pout. “Grey car,” Gunna said clearly, pointing. “Who?”
“Is Hogni car.”
“And where’s Hogni?”
“He here,” the man said without interest, turning away to deal with something on the counter in front of him. He looked up to see Gunna’s police badge held out in front of him, just as Hogni, a red-and-white baseball cap on
