people you only saw once?”
“Well, both really.”
“So, have you any idea who some of these people are?”
Arna almost bounced with eagerness and reached down to the floor beside the sofa for a stack of glossy magazines that she put on the table in front of her.
“I went through all these …”
“And you found some faces you recognized?”
“Yeah!” She opened the first one and flipped through it, peering at the pages. “Him.”
Gunna moved over to the table and looked down at the magazine to where Arna pointed with a lacquered nail at a flashed photograph of a man in a dark suit getting out of a sleek car.
“But I don’t know who he is,” Arna said.
“Jonas Valur Hjaltason, it says there,” Gunna pointed out, and looked over at Eirikur again.
“Businessman,” Eirikur elaborated. “Fingers in all sorts of pies.”
“Fair enough. Arna, it might be easiest if you could go through these and mark the people you recognize.”
The idea seemed to confuse her for a moment. “What, and you’ll come back later and get them, you mean?”
“No, I meant you could go through them now,” Gunna said patiently. “That way we can ask you any questions while you do it.” Arna seemed to be thinking through the idea. “OK. Do you have a pen?”
“Eirikur? Would you?”
Eirikur stood up and took charge.
“Could I ask you to put the magazines over here where we can both look?” he asked sweetly, patting the dining table.
Gunna gratefully left Eirikur to it, accepting that his patient manner would be far more effective than the irritable brusqueness she was having difficulty suppressing. Every few moments there was a giggle from the table as Eirikur’s and Arna’s heads became steadily closer over the pile of magazines.
“Arna? Do you live here alone?” Gunna asked suddenly when there was a lull.
“No, of course not. My husband lives here as well.”
“And he’s at work at the moment, I suppose?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Nothing special. I was just wondering if he might have noticed anything. When do you expect him home?”
Gunna could see that the pink tip of Arna’s tongue was protruding from a corner of her mouth as she concentrated on the magazine pages in front of her.
“Him?” Eirikur prompted.
“Yeah. I’ve seen him. What? Tolli’s back tomorrow night. He’s in London this week,” she added proudly.
ON THE WAY down the stairs to the street, Gunna welcomed the reappearance of the city sounds that had been ruthlessly excluded from Arna Arnarsdottir’s hermetically sealed apartment on the top floor.
“So, Eirikur, what kind of a haul do we have?”
“Half a dozen of the country’s finest to try and talk to discreetly. Two shady businessmen, Jonas Valur Hjaltason and Bjartmar Arnarson, plus Bjarki Steinsson, a high-flying accountant, and a brand new MP,” he said, counting them as he looked at his notes. “She said there were a couple of younger men who visited as well, but doesn’t know who they are.”
“Which MP?”
“Hallur Hallbjornsson. Been a naughty boy, I reckon. Didn’t think the Social Democrats went in for that sort of thing.”
Gunna watched the street doors to the block hiss open automatically as they approached.
“Did you get any joy with that?” she asked suddenly, pointing to the security camera fitted above the door.
“No. The caretaker says it’s been broken for weeks, so no security footage.”
“Shame. Now, we’d best divvy these jokers up between us and see what we can get out of them. Do you want the MP or shall I?”
GUNNA SENSED SKULI’S awkwardness from the set of his jaw and the thin line his mouth made. She waved to him and his face relaxed as he saw her.
“Sorry I’m a bit late. Traffic,” he apologized.
“No problem. I don’t have long, though.”
Gunna sipped her coffee and glanced towards the counter, where a bored young man was waiting with a blank expression for something to do. Around them the shopping centre in Hafnarfjordur bustled with people buying their last-minute groceries under soothing artificial light.
“Already done your shopping?” Skuli asked.
“Nope. Left it to the boyfriend. D’you want a coffee?”
“Yeah. Why not?”
“Go on. Get me a refill while you’re there.”
He returned with mugs and a dry sandwich on a plate.
“Lunch?” Gunna enquired.
“Yup. Not much time to eat today.”
“Now then,” she said in a businesslike tone that made Skuli swallow and pay attention. “I’m sure we’ve been doing much the same sort of research on all this stuff, you and I. So tell me what you’ve found out and I’ll fill in the gaps I’m allowed to.”
“Svana Geirs was a talented dancer, did OK as a model, not very successful pop singer, even less successful actress, shameless self-publicist. Married twice, both times briefly. No kids. Numerous operations—”
“Operations?”
“Yeah, cosmetic. Thighs, tits more than once, I’m told, face lift, nose job, teeth fixed, liposuction. The works, more or less.”
“OK, understood.”
“She owns a third share of this health club, which has traded on her image from when she had a fitness show on TV. But from what I can figure out, the club has been struggling these last few months. Fewer customers since the bank crash last year, now that people don’t have so much cash to spend, and they haven’t been able to raise finance.”
Gunna smiled inwardly, recalling how only a few months ago Skuli had been a shy young man surprised at everything around him in the real world after all his years of study.
“There’s been a rumour flying around that Svana was linked with somebody prominent,” Skuli continued.
“Linked businesswise, or romantically?”
“Either or both. The rumour is that she had been sleeping with someone prominent, but no names. Someone prominent and married, that is. But what’s the state of things now as far as the police are concerned?”
“So the mystery deepens. We’ll confirm officially first thing in the morning that the victim is Svana Geirs. The family have been notified, so it’s all yours.”
“Can I have that now?”
Gunna thought for a moment. “The confirmation will be at eight tomorrow. But I reckon you’d be safe enough if it goes on the Dagurinn website after midnight. That won’t upset anyone and you’ll still be ahead of everyone else.”
“Brilliant,” Skuli grinned.
“Right. I’m going home,” Gunna announced, fumbling in her coat pocket for car keys. She looked down at their empty mugs, squinting at the remnants of sandwich on Skuli’s plate. “You ought to eat your crusts if you want to grow up big and strong. I’ll get these,” she added, striding towards the slackjawed young man staring into space behind the counter.
