Chilled to the Bone (13 page)

“Fair enough. If you don’t want to make a decision, then I’ll speak to your managing director and she can make it for you. Whichever way, it looks bad, doesn’t it?”

“There have been …” Símon paused and Gunna waited expectantly. “There have been incidents. We obviously want to keep this as quiet as possible, as you can appreciate,” he gulped. “I don’t have details. We don’t log this kind of thing.
Instructions from higher up. It happens. Whoever is on duty deals with it and we don’t encourage staff to tell management about it afterward.”

“So if something does go wrong, you can say, with a grain of truth, that you didn’t know anything about it?”

Símon grimaced again, and while Gunna understood that he was in a difficult position, she found it hard to feel sympathy.

“Look. Nobody wants to make waves. It’s a tough world out there,” he said with a vague jerk of his head toward the window and the street outside. “Jobs don’t grow on trees like they did a few years ago, so we keep quiet and don’t make a fuss. And if the MD knew I’d told you that, I’d be joining the dole queue tomorrow morning,” he said bitterly.

“All right. Let’s make it easy for all concerned, shall we? Tell me what you can and I didn’t hear it from you.”

Símon raised his hands helplessly. “I’ve already told you everything I know. The duty managers deal with these incidents. I only hear about them indirectly later. But I can tell you that Magnús dealt with such an incident recently.”

“And he’s not here?”

“No. Still off sick, apparently.”

“How convenient.”

“D
ON
’
T BE SO
idiotic. Who would want to keep tabs on you? Me, I can understand, being the handsome devil I am.” Már Einarsson grinned, hoping to put Jóel Ingi at his ease, but the flinty expression stopped any attempt at humor.

“That fucking computer is dynamite,” he hissed, flicking a glance around the coffee shop that was at the far end of his morning run. “Do they know that?”

“I’m not sure what they know. I don’t think Ægir knows anything, but he suspects everyone of everything. It’s a power game for him. Don’t let him grind you down, because he’ll jump down your neck if he senses weakness.”

“Yes, yes, I know all that,” Jóel Ingi said. “But you remember the Libyans. There were no memos, no notes, nothing.”

“Of course. And that’s only right. No paper trail to follow.”

“Yeah. No paper trail,” Jóel Ingi snapped. “But there’s a fucking electronic trail. It’s in that computer if someone can figure out how to hack their way into it.”

Már stared at Jóel Ingi in disbelief. “You mean you didn’t delete everything?”

“I thought I had,” he said miserably. “I deleted all the incoming mails but not the outgoing ones. I just forgot,” he added bleakly.

“And if that gets into the wrong hands”—Már breathed—“it’ll destroy the man, and he’ll take everyone he can with him, if I know him right. Ægir, you, me. We’re all expendable as far as he’s concerned.”

“It’s password protected,” Jóel Ingi offered.

“Yeah. That’s crackable for someone who knows what he’s doing. But it’s not easy, unless your password’s ‘password’ or ‘admin’ or something obvious like your wife’s name.”

“Oh …”

“Shit, you didn’t?” Már said, watching Jóel Ingi’s face fall.

T
HE PHONE RANG
cheerfully and Svava Gunnarsdóttir answered equally cheerfully.

“Hello! Svava.”

“Good day,” a gruff man’s voice offered. “I’m looking for Haraldur Samúelsson. Do I have the right number?” he asked politely.

“Yes, you’ve come to the right place, but I’m afraid he’s at work at the moment. Can I take a message or do you want to call his mobile?”

There was a pause.

“It’s all right. I’ll call back later. It’s nothing urgent.”

“Can I tell him who called?” she asked and there was a second pause.

“Could you just tell him that Jón called and it’s about his stay at the Harbourside Hotel recently? Thanks,” the voice said, and Svava found herself listening to a dial tone as the call was terminated.

T
HE SOUND OF
air bubbling through water confused her for a moment until Gunna remembered the new text message alert that Laufey had programmed into her phone.

Bingo
, Eiríkur’s message read.

Full house?
She thumbed back, walking through the angrily sleeting rain toward the car parked on the street outside the Harbourside Hotel.

Got one for you. Want the juicy details?

OK. Back at H-Gata in 10
, she texted back, getting into the car and noticing with dismay the stack of printouts on the passenger seat that she still hadn’t found time to read. She remembered with a stab of discomfort that Hróbjartur Bjarnthórsson’s file was there and that as the name had cropped up linked to the hotel case, she should have read it by now.

She fished out her phone and scrolled down to reply to Eiríkur’s last message.

Make that 20
, she thumbed in as a second reply and started the engine, switching on the heater to clear the windscreen and start warming her feet as she skimmed his file.

Hróbjartur Bjarnthórsson, born in Reykjavík in 1972, known as Baddó or Bigfoot, she read. Average height, weight and looks, no distinguishing marks. She read through a list of misdemeanors from extracting money with menaces and assault, along with several stretches in prison that included fights with other prisoners and on one occasion an extension of his sentence for knocking a warder’s front teeth out.

In 1996 he had been involved with a shipment of ecstasy that had been intercepted on the basis of information received, questioned, and then released when there was
insufficient evidence to link him to the goods. But some weeks later a man had been badly beaten and Gunna’s heavy eyebrows knitted in a frown when she saw the name. According to the file, Baddó had been identified as the attacker, but with no firm evidence, no prosecution had resulted. A few months later, Baddó disappeared from Iceland and the file was empty until a request from police in Lithuania for information had been logged. Baddó, it seemed, had been involved in an operation that shipped cars stolen in Denmark and Sweden through the Baltic States to destinations in the Middle East.

As a footnote, someone had added that Hróbjartur Bjarnthórsson had attended the police college in 1993–94 and had graduated with good marks, but had never applied for a position with the force, presumably having decided that the other side of law and order was more his style. Gunna noticed that prior to 1994, the man had a clean sheet; she wondered what had sent him down that particular path.

There was just one recent photograph, supplied by police in Lithuania. Gunna found herself looking into the deep, truculent eyes of a man with a bull neck and heavy shoulders, who was clearly having his picture taken against his will. His head was pitched slightly forward, showing an expanse of wide forehead and close-cropped hair, black eyes looking up at her from under heavy brows.

Gunna wondered if the Lithuanian police had methods that were less proscriptive, as a charge was made to stick and Baddó spent eight years in prison before being released and immediately arrested as an undesirable alien and flown home.

“At taxpayer’s expense and in club class, I expect,” Gunna grumbled to herself guiltily, knowing that the turmoil at home over the last few days had sapped her energy and stopped her from reading the files when she should have.

“I’
M REALLY SORRY
, but I have to take this,” he apologized, snatching up his phone and hurrying out into the street as he saw the number Hinrik used appear on the screen.

“Any progress?” Jóel Ingi asked as soon as the door had shut behind him, leaving Már bemused at the coffee shop table behind his tall latte.

“Hey, Jóel Ingi. How goes it? Not disturbing you, am I?”

“It’s not exactly convenient, so I’ll have to be quick. Any news?”

“Progress, but not enough to tell you much. My guy is definitely getting there, though.”

“And?”

“That’s the good news. He’s on the trail.”

“And there’s some bad news?”

Hinrik chuckled. “Funds. My guy needs another payment to continue his work.”

“So soon? But you’ve already had …”

“I told you at the start this wouldn’t be cheap,” Hinrik told him abruptly. “You want quality, you have to pay for it. Try someone else if you like, but they’ll have the same costs as we do.”

“Okay, all right. How much?”

“One will do.”

“One hundred thousand?”

“Don’t play games. One million.”

Jóel Ingi stifled a groan.

“Still there, are you?” Hinrik asked.

“Yeah. Give me your account details and I’ll transfer it across.”

“Come on. You think I pay tax? We deal in cash. Krónur, euros, or dollars. Let me know when it’s ready and I’ll tell my guy he can keep up the good work.”

“W
HAT DO WE
have, young man?” Gunna asked, knowing that Eiríkur intensely disliked being addressed as “young man.”

“Arctic Hotel, and about three weeks ago. The manager didn’t like it one bit, but I said the alternative was that there would be a heavy investigation that would mean lots of guests and staff being interviewed, so he caved in and found some scared receptionist who had gone up to a room and untied a fat guy who’d been trussed up like chicken and blindfolded.”

“Excellent, Eiríkur. Good stuff. It’s a step up from teenagers stealing mobile phones, isn’t it? What’s the guy’s name?”

“Hermann Finnsson. He lives in Mosfellsbær and his phone number’s here,” he said, pointing as Gunna copied the details. “Oh, by the way, the transactions on Jóhannes Karlsson’s debit card are here.”

He passed Gunna a printout of an online bank statement.

“You got this from his son, right?”

“Yup. Seems he had access to one of his dad’s accounts and this one has a transaction on it right around the time the old fellow was found. The son’s pretty upset from what I can gather and is trying to shield his mother from the truth.”

“What? That his dad paid a hooker to tie him up?”

“Exactly. He’s trying to get access to the rest of his father’s accounts and he said he’d pass the details on as soon as he has them.”

“Odd shopping habits for a shipowner in his sixties, wouldn’t you say?” Gunna asked, her finger running down the list of transactions. “Plenty of cash withdrawn as well, I see. Looks like there’s more to this than meets the eye.”

“That’s a jeweler,” Eiríkur said, looking over her shoulder. “And that’s a clothes shop.”

“Something for you to investigate, Eiríkur, first thing tomorrow before they get busy. Now, where’s Helgi? Leave Hermann Finnsson to me and you get yourself off home.”

H
EKLA PAUSED AT
the end of the pool and rested. Thirty lengths was respectable, she decided and hauled herself out
onto the edge, not bothering to swim the few meters to the steps. It was cold and she instantly shivered, drops of cold rain that wanted to be snow landed on her back as she made for the hot tub at a brisk pace.

There was space alongside two chatting women and a man who appeared to be asleep in the scalding water as Hekla lowered herself gingerly into the tub, gasping at the sheer intensity of the heat after the chill air.

“Young Tommi’s being confirmed this year, you know. I don’t know where the time’s gone,” the larger of the two women said. “It seems like it was only yesterday he was being christened.”

“You’ll be a great-grandmother before you know it, if he takes after his father,” the smaller one laughed.

Hekla relaxed and stretched her neck back to ease the stiffness that had accumulated across her shoulders over the last few days. It felt odd being in this pool. Normally she would have gone for a swim at the pool nearer home, but that only opened in the afternoons, which meant that she would have to take at least one of the children with her. She reflected that there was no way she could take one twin and not the other, and with both in tow, there would be no thirty lengths for her. So a visit to the Grafarvogur pool it had to be while the children were at a neighbor’s house for a few hours, combining it with a couple of other errands in town.

“We had wondered about the catering. My Muggi wants to use the masonic hall, of course, but I’m wondering about which caterer to use.”

Hekla closed her eyes and let the sound of the two twittering women wash over her as she let the tension seep out of her legs and into the hot, sulphurous water.

“Did he really?” The smaller woman asked mischievously. “He never told me about that, the little devil.”

“He did, my Muggi said he saw him at it.”

Hekla came to with a sudden jerk, conscious that she had almost been asleep, and looked up to see the pale blue eyes of the corpulent man with elegant grey hair she had hardly noticed looking into hers with a disturbing intensity. Flustered, she looked away and ran a hand through the short hair above her ears, massaging her scalp with her fingers while the man looked at her with a mixture of confusion and surprise. He opened his mouth as if to speak, and quickly shut it again, as if he’d thought better of it.