Cold Breath (Gunnhildur Mystery Book 7)

by Quentin Bates

  The cold breeze hit her like a slap in the face. She checked the garage doors, knowing that they were secure but checking them to justify being outside. The lights of the house cast long shadows over the threadbare garden, and at the end of the building Gunna found that the window of Osman’s en-suite bathroom was cracked open, enough for someone to force it back and crawl inside.

  She shook her head in disgust, knowing she would have to disturb the lovebirds to demand that the windows be properly locked from the inside, and walked back to the seaward side of the house in the shadow of the unlit wall when a moment’s movement caught in the moonlight between the house and shore caught her eye. She sidestepped out of the light and stood with her back against the wall, eyes fixed and unblinking on the spot where she thought she’d seen something; her heart began to race.

  She thought of clicking her communicator and asking if the team in the other house had noticed anything, but decided to wait until she was sure it was only a fox on the prowl.

  The wind had dropped and so had the temperature. A luminous moon, clear skies and bitter cold were the perfect recipe for northern lights, she thought. She shivered and was a second from turning to go inside, having decided that whatever she had seen couldn’t be anything significant, when a shadow lifted itself from the ground and loped, fast and stooping low, towards the house before dropping out of sight a second time.

  Gunna held her breath, eyes on the spot, waiting for another movement.

  She clicked the button on her communicator, thankful that she had taken it with her.

  ‘You there, boys?’ she murmured, simultaneously reaching into her fleece, extracting the Glock and clicking off the safety catch.

  ‘Problem, Gunna?’ a voice asked in her ear.

  ‘Company. Looks suspicious. Somewhere on the seaward side of the house.’

  ‘On the way.’

  ‘OK,’ she replied, eyes still glued to the spot where the figure had vanished from sight. She strained to hear the sound of the Special Unit officers approaching, knowing that she wouldn’t be likely to know they were there until they let themselves be seen.

  A peal of laughter could be heard from inside and she guessed that Sif and Osman had no idea what was unfolding outside, while she told herself it was nothing to worry about.

  The shadow appeared again, and this time she saw it move deliberately towards the house on a course oblique to her view, aiming for the corner window. She drew breath in an involuntary gasp as the figure was silhouetted against the moonlit sea and she could clearly see the long finger of a weapon in its hand.

  Her day’s firearms training came flashing back to her. Weapon secure in right hand, support with the left, feet secure, knees slightly bent, look along the sight and make sure.

  ‘Stop right there,’ Gunna called, her voice decisive, although it sounded reedy and shrill to her. ‘Police,’ she yelled. ‘Stop right there or I’ll fire.’

  There was no hesitation from the figure as it turned, and she saw the pistol lifted in the same two-handed grip as it sought a target.

  Osman and Sif could still be heard laughing faintly through the calm night air. Gunna shouted again. Last warning, she thought to herself, hoping that she could keep the figure there, indecisive, until the Special Unit guys, who lived for this kind of thing, could arrive.

  ‘I have you covered,’ she yelled, her voice quavering as she took one step sideways and two paces closer to the figure, taking her further away from the pool of light around the house. ‘Put the weapon down. Now.’

  This time the figure had an idea of where Gunna was standing and she saw it swing towards her. The crack of two shots echoed against the side of the house and one smacked into the wall where she had been standing a moment earlier. Aware that she was going to regret it, but knowing she had no choice, Gunna fired twice, hoping to hit her target but not to kill, knowing that with the man in her sights she had a good chance of doing some damage.

  The reports were louder than she remembered from her firearms training, and for some reason she remembered that she had no ear defenders this time.

  The figure dropped from sight. Ears ringing from the two reports in quick succession, heart hammering, Gunna froze.

  ‘Drop your weapon and put your hands where I can see them,’ she called, her voice hoarse as she made her way cautiously towards the place she reckoned him to be, the Glock trained on the position.

  Her earpiece burst into life.

  ‘What’s going on, Gunna? Who’s shooting?’

  In the darkness the figure had been deceptively close. With the Glock still trained on the shadow as she stepped cautiously through heather, stiff with night frost, she pulled a torch from her pocket and played the light over the figure on the ground. There was no question that the man was dead. One of her two shots had hit him squarely in the chest and his head lolled sideways at a sickeningly unnatural angle.

  ‘Gunna?’

  The voice calling was no longer in her earpiece and a second torch played over the scene.

  ‘Fuck, Gunna. That was fine shooting,’ a voice said appreciatively.

  ‘Save it for later, will you?’ she snapped, her nerves stretched to breaking point. ‘Both of you, spread out and check around. There might be another one somewhere. Check down by the shore.’

  ‘OK,’ the dark figure responded, a rifle cradled in his hands as he stalked down the gentle slope.

  ‘Ívar, are you there?’ Gunna said, clicking her communicator again.

  ‘I am now.’ He sounded drowsy. ‘Problem?’

  ‘You’d better get up here, and quick. I think we have something of a crisis on our hands.’

  The warder opened the cell and Rikki looked up. His brows knitted in question as Helgi came in and the door clanged shut behind him.

  ‘What the fuck do you want?’

  ‘Sorry to disturb your beauty sleep, Rikki,’ Helgi said. ‘I thought a quiet word without Sævaldur anywhere around might be an idea.’

  Rikki squared his shoulders and the muscles beneath his tight singlet rippled.

  ‘Why?’

  Helgi sat on the bunk and scratched his cheek.

  ‘You know, Rikki, I’m off duty right now. I’d really like to be dozing in front of the telly with a beer in my hand. But instead I’m here with you. It’s a hell of a way to spend an evening.’

  Rikki glowered and perched stiffly in the bunk.

  ‘Look,’ Helgi said in an undertone. ‘I’ve talked to Aníka Björt.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And you might find yourself being charged with having sexual relations with a minor.’

  ‘Come on. She knows what she’s doing, that one.’

  Helgi shook his head.

  ‘You know as well as I do that makes no difference. She’s fifteen. What the hell were you thinking, Rikki? I thought strippers with plastic tits were your thing, not little girls like this one.’

  ‘Shit. Let’s not go there,’ Rikki said, his head in his hands. ‘What’s the score, then?’

  ‘Search me. I don’t know whether the girl will make a statement to the effect that you were with her. She might, in which case you’re probably in the clear on one count and in less deep shit on another. She might refuse, though, and then you’re in deep shit.’

  ‘So why are you here now?’

  ‘Because you didn’t finish Thór Hersteinsson off,’ Helgi said, looking sideways at Rikki. ‘And I want to know who did.’

  Gunna had expected a team to be called out, but Ívar Laxdal arrived alone in his black Volvo, with the willowy young man from the ministry following close behind in the now familiar Patrol.

  Ívar Laxdal surveyed the scene in the glare of the floodlights the two Special Unit officers had set up, a tiny portable generator chattering away close by to feed them with power. Valgeir looked sick as he surveyed the corpse and watched Ívar Laxdal go through the man’s pockets.

  He stood up empty-handed.

  ‘Nothing at a
ll, except for a set of picks and a torch. You have the weapon?’

  Steingrímur, the raw-boned Special Unit officer Gunna had been belatedly delighted to see, handed him a revolver.

  Ívar Laxdal cracked it open and emptied the bullets into his gloved hand.

  ‘Two rounds fired.’ He looked up. ‘He fired at you, Gunnhildur?’

  ‘Two rounds that I heard.’

  ‘And that’s when you returned fire?’

  ‘I did. As soon as he fired, so did I.’

  ‘And dropped the bastard,’ Steingrímur said with admiration while Gunna shuddered at the thought of what she’d done.

  ‘Who is the man?’ Valgeir asked.

  ‘How the hell should I know?’ Ívar Laxdal snapped at him. ‘My question is how this character turned up here with an old-style police revolver in his hand, nothing to identify him and camouflage paint on his face. How did he know Osman was here?’

  Valgeir blanched. ‘I . . . I really don’t know.’

  ‘Because only my officers know about Steinunn’s friend in there. So if there’s been a leak, then I can guess where it came from.’

  ‘You’ll have to take it up with the minister . . .’

  ‘You’re damn right I will, but between now and then I have to decide what to do with this corpse. I’m inclined to dig a hole right here and roll him into it,’ he said, turning to Gunna, taking her arm and walking her away from the group clustered around the body. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m all right. Look, what the hell’s going on? What are we doing about this man? You’re not serious, surely?’

  ‘About burying him in Steinunn Strand’s back garden? I would if that damned boy wasn’t here, but I don’t dare to, Gunnhildur, much as I’d like to,’ he said savagely. ‘I should never have agreed to let Valgeir have access to our communications. That man was a professional killer and he’d have had no compunction about putting a slug in your head. Look, I want you to go back to the house and check on our guest. Are you all right to do that?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘Good. I’ll make arrangements out here and be with you as soon as I can.’

  By the time she’d unlocked the door, stepped inside and kicked off her boots, Gunna was shivering uncontrollably. She found Osman sitting in the living room, Sif nestled into his side with an expression of distraught confusion on her perfect face. She squawked as Gunna came into the room and sat heavily on one of the dining chairs, when she realized the Glock was still in her hand. She quickly took out the clip and put it and the weapon on the table.

  ‘What happened?’ Osman asked in a smooth voice.

  ‘Someone looking for you, I guess.’

  ‘And where is this person?’

  ‘He’s outside and he’s not going to answer any questions.’

  ‘He’s dead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good,’ Osman decided, and Sif pulled away from him, hauling her legs up in front of her on the sofa and hugging her knees to her chest. ‘You killed him?’ he asked.

  There was a new respect in Osman’s eyes.

  ‘No comment. But the man’s dead.’

  ‘We saw it from the window,’ Sif blurted out. ‘You killed him.’

  Gunna felt her legs begin to tremble now that she was sitting down.

  ‘I want to go home,’ Sif said suddenly, standing up and wrapping her arms around herself. She looked so different, hair in real rather than carefully contrived disarray and wrapped in a shirt that presumably belonged to Osman. Gunna wondered if this was the same person who had breezed in, bursting with allure and confidence, a few hours before.

  ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible for the moment,’ Gunna said, looking up at Sif as she got to her feet.

  ‘Why? It’s a free country. I can do what I want.’

  ‘To start with, it’s the middle of the night and everybody here has better things to do than be your taxi driver. Secondly, you’re in the middle of a serious security incident and it may not be safe for you to leave.’

  ‘I’ll call a taxi myself.’

  ‘You can try, but your phone won’t work,’ Gunna told her.

  ‘Don’t be stupid. Of course it will.’

  ‘There’s a phone jammer here. Mobiles don’t work within thirty metres of the house. You can go for a walk in the dark if you like. But my guess is that the dead guy outside with a gun in his hand wasn’t working alone.’

  Sif winced and perched on the edge of the sofa, her face in her hands. Osman watched with amusement as the shirt she was wearing flapped open, but he made no attempt to comfort her and yawned as he checked his watch.

  Gunna groaned as she got to her feet and went to the distressed Sif, putting an arm around her shoulders. Sif buried her head in Gunna’s chest and sobbed.

  ‘I want to go home,’ she repeated.

  ‘You can’t go home yet. Look, the best thing you can do is try and get some sleep,’ Gunna assured her, longing to close her eyes herself and feeling the sting of fatigue in her eyelids. ‘Use my room if you want to be on your own. Come on.’

  Chapter Five

  He inspected the beard critically. Trimmed close, it made him look slimmer and younger, different to the man with the full black beard who had grudgingly agreed that a closer look at the house would be worthwhile.

  It had been a mess, he told himself, a complete wreck. He wondered if they had been expected, if the police had been tipped off. Had someone squealed on them? Maybe the cops had got lucky? He couldn’t tell, not having been close enough to see what had happened.

  He had followed the plan, heard the shots and withdrawn as soon as he heard the answering bark of an automatic pistol. Was Pino dead? He had watched him fall through the night vision glasses, but hadn’t been able to see if it had been fatal, although that seemed likely. There had been four more bullets in the revolver’s chambers, and as he hadn’t heard any more shots, it seemed most likely that he was dead. From a safe distance he had seen lights set up, cars going to and fro.

  Whatever had happened, the job was going to become ten times more difficult now that the police knew there was someone watching.

  He had followed the contingency plans to the letter. The hire car had been returned and a replacement rented from another company under a different name. The apartment had been vacated for another in a quiet street, rented online.

  It was with a heavy heart that he sent the jovial text message to his aunt reporting that he had extended his holiday – Ana would know what it meant and they would have to agree a course of action.

  The sensible thing would be to disengage completely, to withdraw and return to the job later when routine had returned and complacency had set in. But he and Pino went back a long way and had done a good few dangerous jobs together in the past.

  Finishing the job was almost a secondary consideration, he admitted to himself. A face-to-face meeting with whoever had shot Pino was what he was really looking forward to.

  There was a hush over the house. Gunna huddled beneath a duvet on the sofa, sunk deep in its embrace, eyes closed but awake, numb after the unreal events of the night. She wondered if she would go down in history as a killer. Would she even keep her job? It was more than likely that she could be prosecuted, and there would certainly be an inquiry, which could become uncomfortably public.

  Ívar Laxdal sat at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, muttering into his communicator while Valgeir sat along from him, nervous and unsure of himself. Osman appeared to be unaffected, while Sif had cried herself to sleep in Gunna’s room. Steingrímur came and went, exchanging a few muttered words with Ívar Laxdal.

  Gunna heard Valgeir stand up and leave the room. She gave up trying to sleep, got to her feet and poured herself a mug of half-stale coffee from the jug. As always when stress was becoming overwhelming, she ruthlessly stifled the craving for a cigarette.

  ‘All right, Gunnhildur?’ Ívar Laxdal asked, concern clear in his voice.

  ‘Yea
h. I’ll get through it.’

  ‘There’s counselling, you know,’ he said in an unusually gentle tone. ‘Anything you need.’

  ‘Just tell me what’s going on.’

  ‘It’s a damned mess, I don’t mind telling you. Not your doing, Gunnhildur. Not your doing at all,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I’m trying to figure out how to keep this contained without putting a foot wrong, if you know what I mean.’ He looked around. ‘Where did that bloody boy get to? It’s like having a toddler under your feet all the time.’

  He strode to the door, banged it behind him and Gunna could hear raised voices outside.

  She looked out of the window, wondering how far away dawn might be, and looked at the clock on the oven to check the time. She tried to remember the last time she had been awake all night.

  Ívar Laxdal returned, fuming, with Valgeir’s phone in his hand and Valgeir trailing in his wake. He threw the phone into the sink and dropped onto a stool while Valgeir sat down gingerly at the far end of the bar.

  ‘Well,’ he thundered, ‘who were you on the phone to? And how?’

  ‘I went far away enough to get a signal and spoke to Steinunn. Told her what happened.’

  ‘And what did she say?’

  ‘That she’d send someone.’

  ‘You fucking idiot,’ Ívar Laxdal seethed, getting to his feet and pacing the room. ‘Dear God, where do they breed fuckwits like you these days?’

  ‘The minister needs to know. I’d like to remind you that she’s not just my boss. She’s your boss as well.’

  ‘I’m sure Steinunn is delighted that you’ve just taken a shit on her doorstep,’ Ívar Laxdal said, a furious finger prodding Valgeir’s chest. ‘Doesn’t it occur to you that what the minister doesn’t know the minister doesn’t have to deny knowledge of later? And if one of the minister’s staff drops a turd on the minister’s living-room floor, then the staff are going to be the ones who take the blame when the lid blows off. Understood?’

  ‘I . . . er. I didn’t think of it like that. I thought, naturally, that the minister ought to know.’