Quentin Bates made his escape from suburbia at the end of the seventies as a gap year turned into a gap decade spent in the north of Iceland. He worked ashore and at sea before returning to England and, once finally ashore for good, drifted by accident into journalism. Finally the lure of fiction became too strong to resist. Sergeant Gunnhildur and the series of novels she features in have their origins in a deep affection for Iceland and its people, and an intimate knowledge of Icelandic society and its language, customs and quirks. Today Quentin divides his time between the north of Iceland and the south of England, translating books from Icelandic in addition to working on his own fiction.
Also by Quentin Bates
Frozen Out
Cold Comfort
Winterlude
Chilled to the Bone
Summerchill
Cold Steal
Thin Ice
CONSTABLE
First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Constable Copyright © Quentin Bates, 2018
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Ríkharður Rúnarsson appears by kind permission of Lilja Sigurðardóttir.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978-1-47212-775-4
Constable
An imprint of
Little, Brown Book Group
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
An Hachette UK Company www.hachette.co.uk
www.littlebrown.co.uk
For Astrid
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
No jokes, she decided, at least not at the boss’s expense.
‘Coffee, Gunnhildur?’
The circle of a brand-new, carefully trimmed goatee gave Ívar Laxdal’s face a malevolent look. Gunna thought the grey-shot black beard suited him and longed to ask the reason for it, but decided that regardless of how close their working relationship had become, it still wasn’t the kind of question she could ask.
She lifted her feet from the desk and nodded towards the coffee room in the corner.
‘Help yourself.’
The beard turned his smile into something sinister.
‘No, I thought I’d invite you out. Just for once. You’re not busy, are you?’
‘We’re always busy. You know that better than anyone. I’m forever bitching to you about how short of everything we are.’
Ívar Laxdal nodded. ‘I know, and I assure you that your observations don’t pass unnoticed. But you’re not overrun with work right now, this minute, are you?’
Gunna shrugged her coat over her shoulders.
‘Hold the fort, would you, Helgi?’ she said to her colleague at the desk opposite hers. ‘Duty calls.’
‘Go for a walk,’ the pale man suggested. ‘Don’t go far. Don’t go out of sight.’
The plump man opened his mouth to speak and then quickly shut it. It had been an instruction, not a suggestion.
‘How long?’ he asked, his voice quivering. Next to him his wife could not hide the helpless hatred in her eyes.
‘Twenty minutes,’ the dark man said, pointing to the wavelets being whipped up on the surface of the lake by a bitter wind. ‘Leave your phones on the table. Go that way and walk around the lake. Be where we can see you.’
‘You . . . ?’ the woman began.
‘Come on, Hanne. We don’t have a choice,’ the man muttered to his wife, taking her arm. He stared steadfastly ahead as they walked away, while she shot a single furious glance over her shoulder towards the two men.
It was supposed to be the holiday they had been looking forward to. For the first time there was no need to hurry. There were no longer projects to manage, classes to teach, meetings to attend, deadlines to meet, or jobs waiting for them to return to. Retirement meant they could spend as long as they wanted touring this rocky island they had long wanted to visit, arriving before the tourist season got underway and taking things slowly, dawdling around the northern coastline as they made their way to Reykjavík, stopping whenever and wherever they saw fit.
That had been the plan, she reflected bitterly, until the unwelcome visitors had arrived one night before they had got as far as the ferry, with an offer they dared not refuse.
‘How long should this take?’ the pale man asked, watching as the tubby man and his stick-thin wife walked stiffly, arm-in-arm, around the shore of the lake.
‘Not long. Under the driver’s side bunk. Tools?’
They disappeared into the camper van, and the dark man opened a compact tool box on the table as he looked around.
‘Nice truck,’ he said. ‘House-proud people. Very tidy.’
‘Maybe they wanted the place to look its best for their visitors.’
The elderly couple, still arm-in-arm, returned windblown after a slow walk around the grey waters of the lake where the wind filled the air with spray.
‘We’re finished. Thanks for your co-operation,’ one of the men said, standing up from his seat in the camper van’s back door as the couple approached.
‘It’s not as if we had a choice in the matter,’ the woman snapped at him, her voice loaded with helpless anger.
He shrugged. ‘It’s not our choice either, I’m afraid. Now we’d like you to go away and enjoy the rest of your holiday. Forget you ever saw us. It goes without saying that you won’t say a word to anyone, ever. In which case you’ll never hear from us again.’
The pale man dipped a hand into his pocket and took out a sheet of paper folded into four. He held it up and handed it to the woman.
‘What’s this?’
‘Take a look.’
She unfolded it carefully and stiffened as she saw it. Her husband’s face sagged as she showed it to him.
‘Your house. Your daughter’s house,’ the pale man said, his finger sliding over each of the four pictures. ‘Your son-in-law’s business.’ His finger moved across the paper. ‘And this is where your mother lives. Just so you know. Not one single word.’
Gunna wondered what was going on as they crossed the road and skirted the Hlemmur bus station, leaving the Hverfisgata police headquarters behind. In the years they had worked together Ívar Laxdal had kept his officers at arm’s length, not the length of an unfriendly arm, but at a definite distance. All the same, Gunna knew that she was different, as far as he was concerned. Ívar Laxdal had been to sea with both of the men in her life, and she quickly directed her thoughts away from Ragnar Sæmundsson, knowing it would bring a familiar stab of pain deep in her chest and that her eyes would prick with tears demanding to be shed.
He pushed open the door of Café Roma, a coffee house around the corner from the police station. Early in the mornings police officers snatching a quick coffee was a frequent sight, but by mid-morning the place was q
uiet.
‘Coffee? Ordinary or something fancy?’
‘Ordinary will do for me, thanks,’ Gunna replied as he went to the counter, leaving her to take a seat by the window overlooking the windblown street outside, where bags and wrappers were swept along by the stiff breeze off the sea.
‘To what do I owe the honour?’ she asked as Ívar Laxdal sat down, removed his coat and poured a precise amount of milk into his coffee.
‘Biscuit?’ He snapped a saucer-sized pastry in two and passed the larger segment to her. ‘How’s the family?’
‘The usual. Steini tinkers with anything mechanical. Gísli’s longlining and doesn’t like it much, but it gives him time at home with Drífa and Kjartan. Laufey is . . .’ She paused.
‘Laufey is . . . ?’ Ívar Laxdal asked with immediate concern.
‘Let’s say she’s going through a turbulent patch. When she started university in Reykjavík she lost touch with her old group of friends and has fallen in with a very different crowd.’
‘A bad crowd?’
‘No. Just different, new friends and a new environment. I think she’s struggling a little to fit in.’
‘She will. She wouldn’t be Ragnar Sæmundsson’s daughter if she weren’t resourceful.’
‘That’s true. But it’s taking her a while to find her feet.’
‘And how’s Serious Crime?’
‘Busy, as always,’ Gunna said, wondering when Ívar Laxdal was going to get to the point. ‘Helgi’s chasing witnesses for the assault case we’ve been working on, the guy who lost an eye.’
‘And you?’
‘The Sugarberries rape case. Eiríkur’s working on that with me. It’s delicate, and I’m not convinced we’ll get a conviction.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s too woolly. There’s no forensic evidence and she didn’t do herself any favours by coming forward more than a month after the event. Plus both parties were extremely drunk, by all accounts.’
Ívar Laxdal broke off a chunk of his biscuit and chewed it, nodding sagely.
‘Can they get by without you for a week or two?’
‘Eiríkur and Helgi? Why, what do you have in mind?’
He scowled and glanced around. It was done so theatrically that Gunna wanted to laugh, but resisted the temptation.
‘I have a particular assignment to take care of, and I’ve been asked to recommend a suitable officer.’
‘Not cloak-and-dagger stuff, surely?’ Gunna grinned, but her smile disappeared as Ívar Laxdal’s face remained stony.
‘Yes, pretty much.’
She cupped her chin in one hand as she wondered what to say, while Ívar Laxdal’s expression remained impassive.
‘I’m intrigued,’ she said at last. ‘But you know spies are normally younger and slimmer than I am, and male.’
‘This comes from high up. I didn’t want to accept it. But for good reason I decided we were better off doing as we’re asked on this. It’s sensitive. I need someone competent and reliable who can be discreet, while keeping their eyes and ears wide open,’ he said as he sipped his coffee. ‘So I thought of you.’
‘Tell me more.’
He shrugged. ‘There’s not a great deal I can tell. Essentially, you’d be a bodyguard with a few additional duties thrown in.’
‘A bodyguard who reports back to you, you mean?’
A trace of a smile appeared from within Ívar Laxdal’s sinister goatee.
‘Something like that. You understood exactly why I thought of you rather than . . .’
‘Sævaldur?’
‘Forget Sævaldur. This requires tact and a delicate touch, and while Sævaldur has talents, he doesn’t possess either of those qualities.’
‘Starting when?’
‘As soon as you’ve completed the firearms refresher.’
‘Firearms?’ Gunna’s jaw dropped. ‘I did one a while ago, yes. But come on . . .’
‘So that would mean you could start on Friday.’
‘Friday? This Friday? There isn’t a firearms course for weeks.’
Ívar Laxdal’s sinister smile returned.
‘There’s a refresher especially for you tomorrow. Half-day intensive,’ he said and hesitated. ‘Assuming you’re up for it.’
‘It looks like you’ve already decided I am,’ Gunna said, trying not to sound hurt. ‘Do I get to know who I’m looking after, where, how and all that stuff?’
‘Excellent.’ Ívar Laxdal finished his coffee and ignored the question. ‘Hand your casework over to the boys and I’ll make sure they manage without you. The firearms refresher starts at eight tomorrow. Once you’re finished I’ll fill you in on the details.’
Gunna shivered, trying to work her neck a little deeper into her scarf to keep out the biting wind and the rain it was hurling at her. She wondered why she had been pulled off normal duties and instructed to be at Reykjavík’s little domestic airport on a cold, wet weekday evening when the city was as quiet as it was ever likely to be.
Ívar Laxdal appeared silently at her side. Muffled in a thick coat, which she decided had to be warmer than hers, he grunted a wordless greeting.
They stood in the scant shelter the control tower offered and she wondered what they were waiting for. She opened her mouth to ask, but he beat her to it.
‘There,’ Ívar Laxdal said.
Points of light approached and the sound of the aircraft could be heard over the wind only when it was making its approach to touch down. It landed smartly, and once its wheels were on the ground its wings trembled in the wind. Three cars appeared from the gloom.
‘Pay attention, Gunnhildur,’ Ívar Laxdal told her needlessly.
There was no need to check luggage or passport. The aircraft came to rest at the edge of the apron and the sole passenger eyed the dark Patrol that pulled up next to it, watching as a young man with raindrops on his glasses and wearing an old-fashioned belted raincoat that flapped in the wind got out and stood waiting.
The co-pilot looked back into the cabin and gestured to indicate that it was safe to disembark. The passenger nodded and put on his long overcoat, first winding a pale grey scarf around his neck.
At the bottom of the steps, the young man in the raincoat extended an arm, contriving at the same time to take the visitor’s bag.
‘Welcome to Iceland, sir,’ he said. ‘My name is Valgeir Bragason. Mrs Strand asked me to meet you.’
The passenger muttered a gracious reply in a deep voice, noticing that the young man could hardly see for the raindrops on his glasses.
The Patrol sped away through the gate, with a wave to the guard, and into the night. The passenger felt a nagging uncertainty, but reassured himself. This country was supposed to be safe, wasn’t it?
‘What do you have planned, Mr Bragason?’ he asked as the lights of the city flashed past.
‘We have secure accommodation ready for you tomorrow. Tonight you are Mrs Strand’s guest.’
Ívar Laxdal looked to one side and allowed himself a smile as the cars disappeared back the way they had come, into the evening gloom.
‘That was exciting, wasn’t it?’ he asked. They had worked together for five years and she still couldn’t figure out when he was joking, so she took the default position that her senior officer was always deadly serious unless there was a good reason to assume otherwise.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Excellent. Let’s warm ourselves up, shall we?’
Once the smartest the city could offer, the hotel that overlooked the airport now looked tired, she felt. All the same, in response to a nod from Ívar Laxdal, a uniformed receptionist scuttled away and returned with mugs and a flask of coffee.
‘Unless you’d prefer something stronger?’ Ívar Laxdal asked.
‘A double cognac would go down well. But we’re here on business, aren’t we?’
He grunted and poured coffee, handing her a cup.
‘So, are you going to tell me why we’re at the city airport watching a private j
et land and one passenger be whisked away, no customs?’
Ívar Laxdal sank into one of the lobby chairs and Gunna perched on the edge of another as he looked around.
‘The man’s name is Osman. He’s here at Steinunn Strand’s invitation.’
‘Which is why it wasn’t easy to say no?’
‘On the contrary. It wouldn’t have been difficult to tell her this kind of thing isn’t part of our remit. He’s not an official visitor to Iceland, more a personal guest of Steinunn’s. If he’d come here on an official visit, then we’d know where we stand.’
‘Security, and all the usual stuff?’
‘Exactly. He’d be in a hotel in the city, with a security detail to keep an eye on him.’
‘So, can I ask why . . . ?’
‘His presence is to be kept as low-key as possible. From what I’ve been able to find out from Steinunn’s department, he heads some kind of charity outfit that supports refugees. I had never heard of this person before, but it seems he’s a controversial figure and hasn’t been shy of pointing the finger when he feels not enough is being done about refugees arriving in Europe, which is pretty much all the time. He has some influential friends and it seems he’s made a few enemies as well.’
‘And the security aspect and the Glock?’
‘Just in case, Gunnhildur. Just in case,’ he assured her. ‘Let’s say you’re the close range security, as well as the eyes and ears. There’s a heavy squad just out of sight who’ll be keeping an eye on the rest of us.’
‘Where?’
‘Einholt. It’s on the coast near Gufunes. Not exactly isolated, but still pleasantly secluded.’
‘I don’t get the feeling you’re entirely happy with this,’ Gunna said, watching Ívar Laxdal frown.
‘There’s too much I don’t know, and that’s what concerns me. I don’t know if this man is what he says he is, and Steinunn’s people haven’t been able to come up with much, which is hardly a surprise as this is all very short-notice. I was only handed this yesterday morning, and I was pretty much told that the guy was arriving tonight and it’s our job to look after him and keep him sweet. From the few crumbs of information I have from Steinunn, he’s here partly to negotiate with a couple of Icelandic charity organizations, as well as to have a little rest and recuperation at her invitation.’
Cold Breath (Gunnhildur Mystery Book 7) Page 1
