Cold Breath (Gunnhildur Mystery Book 7)

by Quentin Bates

  There was a sharp intake of breath that he heard clearly through the phone.

  ‘Skúli, are you aware who you’re speaking to?’

  ‘Actually, no. I’m not. I’m not sure if I’m talking to the Aunt Hansína who I’ve always got on very well with, or the permanent secretary pressured into speaking to her naughty nephew to get him to pull the plug on a story that could embarrass a government that doesn’t seem to know what embarrassment is.’

  This time there was a quickly stifled snort of amusement.

  ‘All right, Skúli,’ she said, her voice low. ‘Let’s not mess around. Can you pull this story?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Can you put a lid on it for a few hours?’

  Skúli thought for a moment.

  ‘And hang around waiting for an injunction to be served on us? No.’

  ‘Smart lad,’ Hansína said. ‘So I can report back in good faith that I’ve asked and you’ve declined. Will I see you at the family gathering in July?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet. It depends on whether or not we can afford a summer holiday in France this year.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Hansína said. ‘Given the choice of Skorradalur or Bordeaux, I know which one I’d choose. Thanks for the chat, Skúli. See you soon, I hope.’

  The line clicked dead. Skúli met Arndís’s gaze.

  ‘I’d bet anything you like the ministry is seeking an injunction right now.’

  He felt a sneaking elation at having stood his ground, although Hansína hadn’t made any great effort to get the story suppressed. He wondered if she might have a motive that he wasn’t aware of. It was no secret that Steinunn hadn’t gone out of her way to make herself popular with her staff and that consequently there was little inclination among them to offer a helping hand. Skúli made a mental note to arrange to catch up with Valgeir before too long. The last few days had passed so quickly that he wasn’t sure how long it was since they’d met and Osman’s presence in Iceland had been confirmed.

  ‘I’m going out for a few minutes,’ he said, emerging from his thoughts. ‘All right with you?’

  Helgi scowled to himself while Sævaldur was scarcely able to contain his delight at the beads of sweat on Rikki’s cheeks, clinging to the puckered skin around the tracery of scars that pitted his face.

  Rikki’s lawyer, a smooth, middle-aged man in a suit that Helgi decided would have cost him a month’s salary, sat unperturbed at his client’s side.

  ‘The witness placing you at the scene is cast iron,’ Sævaldur said. ‘He swears blind it was you, that you attacked first Thór with punches to the head, and then himself, inflicting serious injuries.’

  ‘Who’s the grass?’ Rikki snapped, and the lawyer placed a hand on his arm, shaking his head to tell him to keep quiet.

  ‘My client requests that you disclose the identity of the witness in question.’

  ‘I’m not able to do that until the witness has been treated and cleared by medical staff to be formally interviewed.’

  ‘So you have one lowlife who claims he witnessed an assault taking place on a dark street and who’s now high on painkillers. Come on, Chief Inspector. You have to do better than that,’ the lawyer said in a mocking tone.

  ‘The witness is reliable and the statements are being prepared,’ Sævaldur retorted. ‘Taking into account the serious nature of the offence – after all, there’s a dead man down at the National Hospital – there is no option but to take this man out of circulation as quickly as possible. He’s a menace to the rest of society. Unless he has a convincing alibi for the time of the murder?’

  ‘Then you had better tell us when the murder took place so that my client can explain his whereabouts at the time of the incident he had nothing to do with.’

  ‘Between eleven last night and half past midnight.’

  Rikki’s head jerked sideways and he whispered urgently to the lawyer, who nodded and frowned.

  ‘I have to speak to my client in confidence,’ he announced.

  Forehead creased, Eiríkur typed in the address.

  ‘Ketill Ómarsson?’ he asked, looking up at Helgi.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Does that name ring a bell? Ketill Ómarsson?’

  ‘In what context?’ Helgi grunted, his mind elsewhere.

  ‘Old guy. Bald head. Lives on Njálsgata. I knocked on his door and asked if anyone there might have been a witness to what happened last night, and got sent away with a flea in my ear.’

  ‘So? Not everyone’s happy to pass the time of day with us guardians of law and order.’

  Eiríkur cracked his knuckles as he stared at Ketill Ómarsson’s driving licence photograph on the screen in front of him. There was no doubt it was a smooth-faced version of the careworn older man.

  ‘I know. But there was something about this guy that . . . you know. Something that didn’t sound right. And he didn’t say he hadn’t seen anything, just that he didn’t want to be involved.’

  ‘It’s an unusual name. Tried Googling him? Or checked to see if he has a record? There can hardly be many people with a name like that.’

  ‘There are two in Reykjavík,’ Eiríkur said. ‘The other one’s in his twenties, so it’s definitely not him. This guy is suspicious. I’m wondering what he’s not telling us, and why,’ he said absently, fingers on the keyboard as he searched. ‘Ah.’

  ‘Ah?’

  ‘Ah,’ Eiríkur confirmed. ‘Eight years for grievous bodily harm and attempted murder, served four, released in nineteen eighty-nine. Nothing since then.’

  ‘Shit. No wonder he’s no pal of ours. Did you get anywhere knocking on doors, apart from this guy?’

  ‘Nothing. He was the only one who answered the door. I’ll try again later when people are back from work. But this Ketill intrigues me. He was sentenced in nineteen eighty-five and there’s no record.’

  ‘It’ll be on paper,’ Helgi said. ‘You’ll have to go and look it up.’

  ‘That could take half a day. Who’s still about who would remember a case in nineteen eighty-five?’

  ‘Thirty years ago? You’d have to go a long way up the ladder to find that out. Even Gunna wasn’t here back then, and I was still on the farm.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. Milking the horses, or whatever you hayseed types do out in the fields.’

  Helgi looked up and grinned at Eiríkur’s rare attempt at a joke.

  ‘Cows, Eiríkur. It’s cows that get milked. Or did you think milk comes from a factory somewhere that makes it out of coloured water?’

  *

  ‘You’ve been here a while, haven’t you, Sævar?’ Eiríkur asked.

  Sævar tapped the number on his shoulder.

  ‘Since before you were even a glint in your old man’s eye,’ he said, peering over the glasses that hung on the end of his nose like an ornament. ‘What are you after?’

  ‘After?’ Eiríkur said with feigned innocence. ‘What makes you think I’m after anything?’

  ‘Because I wasn’t born yesterday, as you’ve just pointed out.’

  ‘True. Can you think back to nineteen eighty-five?’

  ‘When Steingrímur Hermannsson was Prime Minister and Björk was still one of the Sugarcubes, you mean?’

  ‘Er, sort of. I think,’ Eiríkur said. ‘I’m not sure I know about any Sugarcubes, but . . .’

  ‘But you had a sheltered upbringing. I know. Come on. What are you after?’

  ‘Ketill Ómarsson. Eight years for assault and attempted murder. Served four. Do you remember the case and who was in charge of it?’

  ‘Páll Oddur Bjarnason was the officer who investigated that case. I went to his funeral six or seven years ago. That case wasn’t long before he retired.’ The warmth vanished from Sævar’s face. ‘Why are you asking?’

  ‘The guy’s a possible witness to a murder.’

  ‘Thór the Boxer?’

  ‘That’s the one. Ketill Ómarsson lives a few doors away and I’ve spoken to him – routine knock
ing on doors – but he refuses to say anything. Then I found he’d done time for attempted murder, but it was so long ago that the records are all on paper, so I reckoned it would be quickest to ask someone who was here back then.’

  Sævar grimaced.

  ‘I joined the force in eighty-one, and I wasn’t involved in that investigation at all, but it stank.’

  ‘And? I guess this guy has every reason not to want to talk to the police?’

  ‘Like I said, I don’t know the details. But Páll Oddur was old school, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Good grief, Eiríkur, you’re dense today. Páll Oddur liked to have everything tied up neatly and wasn’t fussy about stamping on people’s toes. He got results, even if the means weren’t always by the book.’

  ‘He cut corners?’

  Sævar glanced sideways, as if the ghost of the long-gone Páll Oddur Bjarnason might appear behind them to listen in and disapprove.

  ‘Let’s say he made sure things went his way,’ he said after a moment’s thought. ‘There are a few dinosaurs like that still, but they seem to be a dying breed.’

  Eiríkur nodded slowly.

  ‘And this particular case? Don’t tell me, he helped things come together?’

  ‘You could say that,’ Sævar said. ‘Or that’s the rumour. Only you didn’t hear it from me.’

  Osman took his coffee and sat in front of the vast television screen, flicking through the channels until he found a news programme, at which point he sat engrossed in reports from the US and Asia. Gunna cleared up the kitchen while Ívar Laxdal stalked around the house, checking windows and muttering occasionally into the communicator she had never seen him use before.

  With their guest having found a Middle Eastern news channel in English, they sat by the window.

  ‘Gunnhildur, we’re getting queries from the Security Unit.’

  ‘What about?’ she asked, an eyebrow lifting in surprise. ‘What do they want to know?’ She nodded towards Osman.

  ‘They’re asking about a journalist called Skúli Snædal. D’you know him?’

  ‘I do, although I haven’t seen him for quite a while. He’s a good lad, for a journalist.’

  ‘Politics?’

  ‘I think he writes about all kinds of stuff. He interviewed me a few years back for Dagurinn.’

  ‘Before it closed down. Yes, I remember that. I mean his politics. Anything radical about him?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. As far as I recall he comes from a blue-blooded Independence Party family, although I gather he’s something of a black sheep.’

  ‘A leftie?’

  There was an unmistakable note of disapproval in Ívar Laxdal’s voice.

  ‘You mean a Left-Green type? No, more Social Democrat, I’d have thought. There’s nothing radical about him as far as I know. He’d moved in with a girl the last time I saw him and they were expecting a child. That normally tends to knock the radical edges off people, doesn’t it? Why are they asking about him?’

  Ívar Laxdal tapped the table with a fingernail in irritation.

  ‘You’ve not been checking the news, have you?’

  ‘What’s new?’

  Ívar Laxdal looked ready to grind his teeth in frustration.

  ‘This journalist works for a website called Pulse, and this morning he, or they, splashed our friend all over the news. Half a dozen others have picked it up. I can only assume that Steinunn has seen it, but I haven’t heard any fallout yet.’

  ‘Skúli? What does he have to say?’

  ‘It’s worded quite cleverly. No outright accusations, but a lot of hints that our friend over there is involved in arms and people trafficking.’

  ‘Hell . . . And this article makes it plain that he’s here in Iceland?’ Gunna asked, deliberately avoiding saying Osman’s name and alerting him to the conversation.

  ‘The whole lot. That he’s here, that he’s been invited by Steinunn. Pretty much everything except giving directions to this place.’

  Gunna stood up and looked out of the window at the bare expanse of Geldinganes opposite, with Reykjavík in the distance behind. An expanse of white horses had turned the grey winter sea of the bay into a patchwork, with wheeling gulls diving and swooping in the wind.

  ‘It’ll be interesting when he gets to Steinunn’s place this evening,’ she said. ‘Although I don’t imagine he’ll be asked many awkward questions there.’

  ‘And Steinunn has enough on her plate as it is, especially with the public meeting the Children of Freedom held last night. It all went peacefully, but there are some loud voices demanding that Kyle McCombie should be asked to leave, including some in Parliament itself.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s going to be in a delightful mood.’

  ‘She’ll be sweetness and light, as always in public,’ Ívar Laxdal said with a morose sigh. ‘What I’m not looking forward to is the one-to-one with her. Anyhow, I gather Skúli Snædal has been in contact with someone in mainland Europe who knows about our friend’s movements, and that’s a concern. If they know, who else does? And how do they know?’

  ‘Questions and not many answers,’ Gunna said sourly, tipping her head in Osman’s direction. ‘Welcome to my world. Look, Skúli’s a decent enough lad. I can’t vouch for him as far as his politics go, but he’s been very fair and honest in all the dealings I’ve had with him. I can’t imagine him being linked to anything illegal.’

  ‘Good,’ Ívar Laxdal said. ‘I’ll pass that on. But I think he’s in for a rough ride.’

  There was no doorbell. Eiríkur rattled the letterbox and rapped at the door just as he had done that morning.

  It was late in the afternoon and a gaggle of children had taken over the playground. These were bigger than the morning’s playgroup children, unaccompanied and raucous as they hurtled from one end of the playground to the other.

  ‘What?’

  The door opened a crack. Ketill Ómarsson’s face appeared in the gap, mouth half-open in surprise, before the door slammed shut in his face.

  ‘Ketill!’ Eiríkur banged on the door as the children across the street fell silent.

  ‘I’ve nothing to say to you,’ he heard a muffled voice say through the door.

  ‘Come on, Ketill. I just want to talk to you for a few minutes,’ Eiríkur called, hoping his voice would carry through the door.

  There was no reply. Eiríkur crouched down in front of the door, pulling open the letterbox.

  ‘Ketill!’ he called, peering through the letterbox at a narrow slice of the hallway inside.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  Eiríkur looked up from the letterbox to see two stocky men in running gear standing shoulder to shoulder, glaring down at him.

  ‘I could ask you the same thing,’ he said, rising to his feet.

  ‘Look, pal. This is a quiet neighbourhood and we want to keep it that way.’

  ‘Good for you,’ Eiríkur said impatiently, glancing back at Ketill Ómarsson’s door as if expecting it to open by itself.

  ‘Go on, will you? Get out of here. We don’t want anyone causing trouble.’

  ‘Some kind of local militia, are you?’ Eiríkur asked, his hackles rising.

  The taller of the two stepped forward, chin thrust out.

  ‘Make yourself scarce and there won’t be a problem, understand?’

  ‘And if there is a problem?’

  ‘Then we’ll sit you down on the pavement and keep you there until the police arrive. We’ve had enough trouble around here as it is.’

  ‘Ah. In that case, I’m way ahead of you,’ Eiríkur said, raising a hand and slowly delving into his coat pocket. ‘As the police are already here, I think you two fine gentlemen can be on your way and not worry about trouble in your neighbourhood for the moment.’

  He held up his identification card. The taller man squinted at it, deflated, and stepped back, while his shorter, broader friend relaxed.

  ‘Sorry, man.
No offence.’

  ‘None taken,’ Eiríkur assured him. ‘Now, if you’ll get yourselves out of here, I can get back to work.’

  Eiríkur watched them jog down the street, and the sound of children playing resumed.

  ‘Ketill!’ he called again through the letterbox. ‘Come on, I only want to talk for a few minutes. This is important.’

  He rapped again on the door and heard his knocks echoing inside.

  ‘Hey. Listen to me,’ he called. ‘I know what happened. I know about Páll Oddur Bjarnason. I know about Snorri and Pálina. I don’t want the same thing to happen again. That’s why I want to talk to you.’

  ‘What the fuck do you know?’

  The fury in Ketill’s face was unmistakable as the door was snatched open and he stared down at Eiríkur, who was still crouched on his haunches where the letterbox had been a moment earlier.

  Skúli huddled into his coat, wishing he’d worn a warmer one, and strode uphill and around the corner onto Laugavegur. He wasn’t going anywhere, just intending to get some fresh air and a coffee in peace and quiet.

  The cold was refreshing and he felt his earlier anxiety slipping away. The story was done. He had written the Icelandic angle alone, and Sophie in Paris had published her story within a few seconds of his going live.

  It had been a stressful few days, with the uncertainty of how successfully they could keep on top of the story before, inevitably, other media stumbled across it, but they had; and he could feel in his bones that this was going to make waves.

  He sat back with a flat white and a slice of carrot cake, shook off his jacket and placed his phone on the table in front of him. It was still early, and the coffee shop above his preferred bookshop was quiet.

  He had taken one mouthful of cake when his phone began to buzz, and he saw the number of the lawyer who handled Pulse’s business on the screen.

  ‘Skúli.’

  ‘Hey, great story. Where did you dig that one up?’

  ‘Hæ, Tommi. Thanks. It sort of dropped into my lap.’

  ‘Well done. Like it. You’re going to have trouble over this, let me tell you,’ the lawyer cheerfully assured him.