Cold Comfort (11 page)

She made her way back to her car, looking carefully at the faces lined up on the other side of the road and noticing lenses already trained on the house. She wondered if the press had been quick off the mark, or if these were more likely neighbours with cameras. When she had been a young police officer, anyone with a long lens would be a press photographer and she would have recognized most of them. But these days enthusiastic amateurs could have newer and more expensive kit than the professionals.

Gunna sat in the driving seat and clicked her Tetra set on. “Zero-two-sixty, Ninety-five-fifty. You there, Helgi?”

She waited for a reply, knowing that Helgi was one of the few CID officers who made a habit of using his communicator. After a minute she gave up, picked her phone up from the seat and dialled Helgi’s number.

“Ah, so you are there,” she said accusingly as he answered.

“Sorry. Been busy this afternoon. Anything serious?”

“Just a bit—and don’t reckon on getting home for a good while yet. House fire, looks mighty like arson to me, one casualty and a burnt-out garage.”

“Shit. And we had a babysitter lined up this evening as well.”

“Sorry. Can’t be helped. This one really stinks,” Gunna said, trying to sound apologetic. “And here’s the fun bit of it: Bjartmar Arnarson’s house. One of Svana Geirs’ little band. Looks like his missus is the casualty.”

“Whoo-hoo. That does sound like a load of fun.”

Gunna spelled out the address to him. “I need you over here, but first I want you to find out where Bjartmar is.”

“Yeah. Sure. D’you need Eiríkur as well?”

Gunna thought, looking up and acknowledging with a wave the burly form of Sigmar from the technical department wading through the crowd at the roadside, bags slung over each shoulder.

“No, we’ll let the lad off the hook if he’s already gone, but he’s going to have a tough day of it tomorrow. Got to go, Technical’s here.”

She ended the call, quickly located another number and waited patiently while it rang.

“Hæ, Sigrún. Yeah, it’s me. Is it OK if Laufey comes to you after school?”

“Not a problem. Busy, are you?”

Gunna wondered what to say.

“Something serious has come up and we have to get on with it right away,” she replied eventually. “I expect you’ll see something about it on the news tonight. The TV crews are here already.”

“All right. Tell me later, but will you send Laufey a text and let her know?”

“Yup, will do. Thanks, Sigrún,” Gunna said gratefully, ending the call. She rapidly thumbed buttons on her phone to send Laufey a message as she walked quickly from her car back to the house, and by the time she was by the garage’s side door, Sigmar and the serious young woman with him were both wearing the all-in-one white coveralls that she could hardly imagine Sigmar without.

“It’s going to be a long job, this one,” he announced morosely as if accusing Gunna of playing a practical joke on him.

B
JARTMAR
A
RNARSON TOOK
the news impassively. Gunna wondered if this was determination or indifference. Discreetly taken aside at passport control and led to an interview room, he constantly rolled an iPhone that chimed and throbbed at intervals between his fingers.

“What happened, then?” he asked finally, having brushed aside sympathy from Gunna and the two airport police officers in the room.

“We still don’t know,” Gunna admitted. “This only happened a couple of hours ago. Your wife has been injured in a fire at your home and we believe it wasn’t accidental.”

Bjartmar shrugged. “Who would want to harm Unnur?”

“I’m hoping you might be able to shed some light on that.”

“Are you insinuating something?” he asked silkily. “If you are …”

“I’m asking, not insinuating,” Gunna tried not to snap back.

“Can one of you get me some water?” he demanded suddenly. “It’s hot in here and it’s been a long flight.”

One of the airport officers left the room, shutting the door silently behind him.

“What I need to know initially is if there has been anything unusual that your wife may have noticed recently. Any odd activity, if someone may have been following her, if she’s been involved in a dispute of any kind, anything of that nature?”

Bjartmar’s mouth opened and he was about to answer when his iPhone buzzed just as another ringtone could be heard, a basic chime like an old-fashioned desk telephone. He looked at the iPhone with annoyance and put it down, at the same time pulling a bulky old-fashioned mobile phone from his jacket pocket.

“Yeah?” he grunted into it before his voice softened. “No, just a hold-up with baggage. I need to speak to some people before I clear immigration. No, it’s not a problem. I’ll be right with you. Ciao.”

The airport officer who had gone for water reappeared with a small bottle and placed it on the table within reach of Bjartmar, who glared truculently at Gunna.

“Look, how long is this going to take?”

“Not long,” Gunna replied. She had taken an instant and deep dislike to Bjartmar and his indifferent attitude. The man showed no shred of interest in his wife’s state of health and was again fiddling with his iPhone. She tried to glare at him, but Bjartmar appeared not to notice. “If you don’t mind …” she ventured in an acid tone.

Bjartmar looked up and stared back. “Sorry. Business.”

“Anyone who might bear a grudge against your wife?”

Bjartmar shrugged. “Undoubtedly. You don’t become wealthy without making enemies.”

“All right. Anyone in particular?”

“Almost anyone who worked for her. Everyone was sacked sooner or later. There were always a few outstanding court cases for wrongful dismissal in the works.”

“What’s her business?”

“It’s very smart, so I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of it. It’s a restaurant called ForEver.”

Gunna took the jibe in her stride.

“As it happens, I’ve been there,” she said smoothly. “Who runs the place? I take it your wife doesn’t spend her time waiting on tables?”

Bjartmar stifled a yawn. “Don’t know. Last I knew there was a manager, but she may well have walked out since last week. The chef’s the guy who keeps everything going and the only one Unnur doesn’t want to upset too often.”

“When did you last see Unnur?” Gunna asked.

“The week before last. When I left to go to the States.”

“Was there anything about her then that struck you as unusual? Anything odd?”

Bjartmar’s teeth smiled but his eyes remained expressionless. “You mean apart from the carton of yoghurt that she slung at me? No, don’t think so. I heard it hit the door as I shut it behind me and I suppose she left it for the Thai girl to clean up.”

“You mean you and your wife aren’t on good terms?”

“My wife and I haven’t been on any kind of terms for the last few months. We have been leading pretty much separate lives, except when we meet, and then that’s generally to argue about something or for her to demand more cash to prop her restaurant up a little longer. Apart from that, everything’s been just wonderful,” he said with the first traces of bitterness in his voice. “Look, officer, I don’t know if you’re married or what. But it has run its course. We’ve been together for almost ten years and it’s got to the point where we just don’t like each other any more. It happens.”

“It does,” Gunna agreed in a neutral voice, making quick notes on the pad in front of her.

“And are you?” Bjartmar drawled.

“What?”

“Married? Shacked up?”

“Not any more,” Gunna replied after a pause.

Bjartmar leaned back and picked up his iPhone again.

“Like I said, it happens,” he said in triumph. “Walk out, did you? Or did he? Or maybe she?” he leered.

“He died,” Gunna said sharply. “Now, if you don’t mind, can we continue?”

H
RAFN
K
RISTJÁNSSON SAID
nothing as he drove into town with a silent and fearful Diddi at his side. There was plenty he wanted to say, but he refrained from commenting, certain that he would be unable to contain his fury at the people who had led his son astray.

Diddi stared out of the window at the street lights flashing past and knew deep inside that from now on nothing would be the same again. The people he had thought were his friends had let him down disastrously. He had both feared and admired people like Long Ómar Magnússon, men who went their own way and did what they liked without bothering too much about tiresome rules and regulations.

Ommi had just taken the bag of money and grinned at him. There had been no pat on the back, no “Well done, Diddi,” nothing to say he had lived up to expectations. Diddi had just sat in the corner as Ommi and the man who had driven the car split the cash between them and ignored him, not even noticing as he left and went home to find his father sitting there waiting for him, his face like thunder.

Even at a few minutes to midnight, the place was busy when Hrafn pulled up outside the police station on Hverfisgata and turned to his son as he switched off the engine.

“Come on then,” was all he could find to say, and Diddi stepped out of the car into the cold evening air.

The old man took his son’s arm as they went up the steps and into the building, where he opened the door and made sure the boy went inside first.

The desk officer looked up and smiled.

“Haven’t seen you for a while, mate,” he began, until he saw the morose figures father and son made.

He picked up the phone and dialled.

“Sævaldur? Yes, Sigvaldi on the front desk. You might want to come down here. The lad you’ve been looking for all day has just walked in the door.”

Tuesday 16th

G
UNNA TYPED
B
JARTMAR
Arnarson’s name into the police computer network, waited for results to show up and drummed her fingers on the desktop when nothing appeared other than the man’s date of birth and records of a few speeding and parking tickets.

Frustrated, she went to an internet search engine instead and typed in the same name. A second later a list appeared and she set about reading the reports from newspapers, websites and gossip magazines. In ten minutes she had learned that Bjartmar Arnarson had made himself into one of Reykjavík’s lowest-profile millionaires with a fortune amassed from property speculation. It appeared that he had no expensive hobbies apart from a penchant for cars that did not extend to anything flashy, had only occasionally spent time fishing for salmon on exclusive riverbanks, and made a habit of travelling economy on scheduled airlines.

“Helgi?” Gunna called out, turning around in her chair.

“Yup?”

“Bjartmar. What do you know?”

“Probably about as much as you do.”

“Not much, then?”

“Nope.”

“Any joy with Omar Magnússon?”

“That bastard,” Helgi grumbled. “As far as I can make out, he’s been busy settling scores. There have been a few sightings, including an off-duty officer who says he saw him in a kiosk in Selfoss last weekend and a woman who’s certain she saw him in one of the petrol station snack bars in Borgarnes on the day he did a runner.”

“But nothing you can use to track him down?”

“Ah, you may well ask. I want a word with Daft Diddi as soon as Svaldur’s finished with him.”

Gunna frowned at the mention of the recently promoted Sævaldur Bogason, an efficient but abrasive character she had always had difficulty getting on with. “He’s dealing with this ridiculous bank job yesterday, is he?”

“Yup. Pretty much done and dusted. Diddi admits he did it. All three cashiers and the bloke whose hand he sliced have identified him. But we don’t have the knife he used, we don’t have the million or so in cash and we don’t know how he disappeared after leaving the bank.”

“So, Sævaldur has it all tied up, apart from the bits he doesn’t?” she asked wryly.

Helgi shrugged. “That’s more or less it. But Diddi turned up in Casualty the other day babbling that it wasn’t Ommi who beat him up. Which is what tells me that it was. So I have an idea that if Diddi doesn’t know where Iceland’s latest Jesse James is hiding, that’s probably where the cash disappeared to.”

“Seems logical,” Gunna agreed.

“The woman who saw him in Borgarnes the day he absconded said he was with a young woman, and the description matches our Ommi’s girlfriend, Selma. Better still, I searched around and found that Selma’s mother’s car, which is a flashy 5-series BMW, was caught by the speed camera at Fiskilækur going north and again that afternoon in the Hvalfjördur tunnel going back to Reykjavík. So Selma’s mum gets two speeding fines in one day and the timing fits perfectly.”

“So Selma needs to answer a few questions?”

“Doesn’t she just?”

“And when are you going to ask them?”

“As soon as I can find the bloody girl. She’s been off work for months, supposedly sick, and she’s not at home with her mum, who says she has no idea where her daughter is.”

Gunna stood up and looked out of the window of the twoperson office that now contained three desks.

“Going out for a minute, Helgi. If Johnny Depp shows up, just ask him to get undressed and wait for me, would you?”

T
HE
E
CONOMIC
C
RIME
Unit’s offices were larger than Serious Crime’s, as well as being in a building around the corner on Raudarárstigur instead of in the old Hverfisgata police station. The Economic Crime officers all looked young and fresh, although the young man who took Gunna aside had bags under his eyes. She extended a hand.

“Gunnhildur. Serious Crime.”

“Ah. We all know who you are. I’m Björgvin.”

“Busy?” she asked.

“And how. If there were another dozen of us, we’d still have more than enough to keep them at work.”

“All right. I’ll keep it quick. Bjartmar Arnarson. Can you tell me anything about him?”

Björgvin filled a plastic cup from the water cooler and sipped. “What do you need to know?”

“I need to know who might want to try to kill his wife, and why.”

“That fire in the Setberg?”

“That’s the one. Apart from a few parking tickets, the man has a squeaky-clean record.”