Cold Breath (Gunnhildur Mystery Book 7)

by Quentin Bates

  ‘Pleased to hear it. I expect he’ll be well enough to fly home soon.’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ Hanne said. Going home wasn’t something she had thought about, and now she realized that she would have to decide what would come next.

  ‘I expect they’ll transfer him to Reykjavík as soon as he’s stable.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll let us know. They’ve been so good over there at the hospital. I . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, first I wanted to thank you for everything you did yesterday. You and your colleague were fantastic. And thank you so much for bringing the camper for us. I couldn’t have driven it yesterday.’

  ‘All part of the job,’ he said, going from jovial to concerned as he picked up on Hanne’s uncertainty. ‘Is there a problem?’

  Hanne sank into a chair and felt her hands trembling.

  ‘Yesterday. At the place where . . .’

  ‘Staðarskáli, yes.’

  ‘That’s right. As we were leaving, I saw a newspaper there, just for a moment, with a man’s face on the cover.’

  His eyes narrowed.

  ‘Do you know which newspaper?’

  She shook her head. ‘I didn’t see the name, but it had a red border.’

  He left the room and she could hear him rummaging through papers.

  ‘This one?’ he asked, a folded newspaper in his hand.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘This is yesterday’s paper,’ he said, unfolding it and looking at the cover. He pointed at the CCTV picture of a burly man. ‘This man? What about him?’

  ‘I’ve seen him. It’s a long story.’

  Skúli found himself trembling with nerves as the car made leisurely progress up the long slope. He furiously debated with himself whether or not he was doing the right thing, certain that Lars’s murder had to be linked to his having revealed the reality behind Osman’s organisation. He told himself that Lars deserved someone making an effort to get to the truth, by some means or other, and the key had to be the man at the centre of it all, hidden away in Steinunn Strand’s second home.

  Skúli stopped at a busy filling station by the main road and pumped fuel into the tank while his mind buzzed with conflicting opinions.

  He moved the car away from the pump and went inside the building, where he sat at a bright red plastic bench and drank a cup of rank coffee that the first sip told him he didn’t really want after all.

  ‘You all right, pal?’

  He looked up to see a man in a blue overall looking down at him with concern, and realized that he had shut the world out as he’d hunched over his coffee, his head in his hands.

  ‘Yeah,’ he muttered. ‘I’m all right. Just a headache,’ he added meekly.

  He wondered how long he’d been sitting there wrapped in his own thoughts, and realized with a sudden shock that he hadn’t told anyone where he was going. If anything were to go wrong, nobody would know where he was.

  Turn round and go back to the office? Or call in sick and go home?

  Those were two options. Or he could keep going. What would Lars have done?

  His father and brothers suddenly came to mind, unbidden and unwelcome. What would they do?

  ‘You’d better get your DNA checked, Dad. I’m not sure Skúli’s one of us.’

  His eldest brother’s mocking jibe surfaced suddenly when his patience ran dry and he aired an opinion, knowing beforehand that nobody else present would share his point of view. That had been the last Christmas he had spent in the family home. An argument had been brewing for hours as his brothers had swapped business gossip with their father, while Skúli had sat in silence, excluded from their banter.

  ‘I don’t know,’ the other brother had drawled. ‘I always thought he was a gay, but now he’s got a girlfriend, there could be hope for him yet.’

  Skúli had ground his teeth. He hadn’t mentioned his relationship with Dagga to the family, but gossip had a habit of moving alarmingly fast around Reykjavík. It had made him long to be back in Denmark, where nobody knew or cared that he was Eggert Snædal’s youngest son.

  He swung the car off the main road at Grafarholt and began to wonder if he was on the right road as he drove through the suburbs, using the bulk of Korpúlfsstaðir – once an out-of-town landmark, now firmly surrounded by housing estates – as his reference point for the map he had in his mind.

  He made a few wrong turns, reversed out of silent dead-end streets, and eventually found the tarmac give way to a gravel track as he finally saw Einholt for himself. The place hadn’t been easy to find, even though he knew exactly where it was. The narrow gravel track at the far extremity of what looked like a cul-de-sac kept Einholt hidden, and he had no doubt that the house’s owners preferred it that way.

  The low house, with its narrow windows on the landward side, hunched in a dip in the tussocky scrub that undulated down to the shore beyond, the track looping round to reach the seaward side of the house, which was out of sight. Beyond, he made out the brooding mass of Geldinganes and, on the inland side, the last of a line of houses at the end of the housing estate, which stopped a kilometre of heather-covered ground short of Einholt.

  As he wondered whether to park by the track and walk, or drive right up to the house, he reflected how isolated this place must have been in the past. Only a few years earlier there had been no houses here at all, and Einholt must have been well beyond the city limits. Yet here, almost inside the city, it had been left as a secluded enclave that hardly anyone other than the occasional birdwatcher visited. It was little surprise that Steinunn Strand had been a firm opponent of further housing development in this direction back when she had sat on the city council.

  Birna brought them an update, pushing open the door and stuttering.

  ‘There’s a massive alert,’ she said finally. Gunna watched her clench and unclench her fists as she sat down.

  ‘And?’ Ívar Laxdal rasped. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘A fatality at the Vatnsmýri Hotel. The victim is James Kearney, the young guy you saw there a few days ago with Kyle McCombie.’

  Ívar Laxdal looked blank for a moment and Gunna filled the gap.

  ‘The sidekick? You’re sure it’s murder and not an accident?’

  ‘Strangled,’ Birna said. ‘I saw the body. No doubt about it.’

  ‘Any details?’

  ‘It must have happened this morning, because he had breakfast in the restaurant. There was a Do Not Disturb hanger on his door, so he was left alone, and he had booked a late checkout. It wasn’t until he wasn’t there to meet someone from that brand-new Patriot Party who was supposed to be taking him to the airport that the staff checked the room and found him in the bathtub.’

  Gunna glanced at Ívar Laxdal, just as Matthías returned.

  ‘Where’s Osman?’ Gunna snapped.

  ‘Still over at Parliament. Why?’

  ‘You’d best get him back here fast,’ Gunna replied, and turned to Birna. ‘Better still, go over to Parliament and haul him back here right away. Then we can get him back to Einholt as quick as we can.’

  Birna sat with her mouth half open for a second, then shut it quickly and stood up.

  Matthías looked from one to the other as Birna left the room at a trot.

  ‘What’s all that about?’

  ‘The victim over at the Vatnsmýri Hotel is Kyle McCombie’s sidekick,’ Ívar Laxdal said. ‘We’re going to have to get Osman away quickly.’

  ‘Shit!’ Matthías breathed. ‘A US citizen murdered in Iceland, and not just some redneck tourist. This could be a real crisis.’

  ‘Yep. It can be someone else’s crisis,’ Gunna told him. ‘We have other stuff to worry about. Are you going to tell Steinunn we have something of an emergency on our hands?’

  ‘I’ll tell her,’ he said and the wintry smile returned. ‘But she has a crisis of her own to manage.’

  Ívar Laxdal shook his head.

  ‘What now? Don’t tell me sh
e’s been sacked.’

  ‘Steinunn has been given a golden handshake, and I have to hand it to the PM, he could hardly have done it more elegantly.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Steinunn stands down with immediate effect as both a Member of Parliament and a minister. She gets a job as the deputy director-general of the United Nations World Tourism Organization. That means she goes to live in Madrid for five years and gets a fat UN pension at the end of it. This isn’t to become public knowledge right away, mind.’

  ‘So the PM gets rid of his biggest bugbear,’ Ívar Laxdal said, ‘while she gets a comfortable berth, and nobody loses face.’

  ‘I told you the PM was a sly bastard, didn’t I?’

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ Michel grumbled.

  Ana checked the smartphone for the blue dot as she shivered in the chill of the gathering dusk. They were on the lee side of the headland, but this still gave them little shelter from the wind.

  ‘He’s moving,’ she said. ‘Coming this way. I reckon we have about twenty minutes.’

  ‘Are you sure about this? It’s the busiest time of the day.’ He gestured towards the line of lights making slow progress in the distance. ‘I don’t like it. Too many people about.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Ana retorted. ‘We finish the job, and in two minutes we’re on our way where nobody’s going to be looking for us. And by then it’ll be dark, which is even better.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Michel grunted.

  He assembled the long rifle carefully, placing it on its bipod and snapping a magazine into place.

  ‘You know, if I was them,’ he said as the parts clicked together, jerking a thumb towards Einholt, ‘this is about the first place I would have swept before putting anyone down there in a safe house.’

  ‘But you’re not them.’

  ‘So I’m asking myself why? Is there a reason they didn’t check this place out? What was it anyway?’

  ‘I don’t think there’s ever been anything here. Maybe just a few sheep, and that was a long time ago,’ Ana replied and squatted on her haunches, watching Michel lie carefully down behind the rifle, shifting to make himself comfortable. The weapon slotted into his grasp as if it belonged there. He squinted through the sights and sucked his teeth.

  ‘It’s extreme range for this thing,’ he said doubtfully.

  ‘But you’ve calibrated the sights, haven’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ Michel said, his voice laden with disdain that she should even suggest the weapon might not be ready.

  ‘So what’s your problem?’

  ‘This is a bargain-basement imitation of a sniper’s rifle and it’s good for around nine hundred metres. That looks more than a thousand.’ He shivered as the sharp breeze nipped at his face and ears. ‘At least in Africa when we did this kind of thing it was warm.’

  ‘Well, tomorrow you can be in Africa, if that’s what suits you.’

  *

  The car’s suspension groaned in protest as Skúli bumped it as gently as he could through the potholes. He heard the grinding from the exhaust as it scraped over the ground more than once, holding his breath and wondering if he’d done any damage.

  He suddenly imagined Dagga slowly shaking her head, lips pursed, which was her usual reaction when something displeased or disappointed her. This time there would be no pursed lips when he brought the car back with its exhaust intact.

  Skúli wondered what the reception would be at Einholt, assuming he was in the right place.

  Sif Strand had finally confirmed that this was where her aunt’s mysterious guest was staying, although he’d already formed an idea that the farmhouse, which had become an exclusive residence, was the most likely place.

  The car bumped off the worst part of the track and onto the smoother stretch leading to the house, before coasting down the last of the slope to a crunching halt in the gravel.

  The place was silent. There were no cars to be seen, no lights in any windows, even though it would soon be dusk.

  Skúli sat stiffly in the car. Was he too late? Had Osman been moved elsewhere? Or had he left the country?

  All the possibilities passed through his mind like a kaleidoscope of vivid images, each one telling him that he had gone wrong, should have acted earlier, ought to have been quicker off the mark and now he had missed out.

  He swore quietly to himself. It was an old habit. A profanity when he had been growing up had meant a punishment of some kind, and he had never got into the habit of swearing profusely in English as most of his contemporaries had.

  Getting out of the car, only the shrill calls of birds could be heard over the rush, rattle and hiss of the surf on the stones of the beach.

  Osman arrived with a frown on his face and Birna at his elbow.

  ‘What is happening?’ he asked, his voice soft but determined. ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘Several,’ Ívar Laxdal said shortly, a finger to his ear as he listened to his earpiece.

  Gunna glanced at him and Ívar Laxdal nodded imperceptibly.

  ‘The situation is that James Kearney has lost his life,’ she said, keeping her voice flat and watching carefully for a reaction.

  Osman’s eyes widened in surprise.

  ‘James . . . ? I was talking to him only . . .’

  ‘Yes, we know. I was there as well,’ Gunna reminded him. ‘This is all getting uglier by the day. People seem to get suddenly dead when they get close to you. Who could have done this? You seem to have known him well, so do you have any idea who would want to harm him?’

  ‘No, of course not. I’ve been in contact with James, and with Kyle, for some time. But I have only met them in person a couple of times. How did this happen? An accident?’

  Gunna shot a questioning look at Ívar Laxdal, but Birna answered instead.

  ‘It was not an accident,’ she said curtly.

  ‘And Kyle?’ Osman asked. ‘Is Kyle safe?’

  ‘Mr McCombie could hardly be safer,’ Birna said.

  Osman looked from face to grim face.

  ‘I am shocked,’ he said finally. ‘Do you know who did this? Do you have the person?’

  ‘I don’t know the details, but we have to get you back to Einholt right now,’ Ívar Laxdal said, and muttered into his communicator.

  Gunna pulled on her fleece and zipped it up, hiding the Glock from view.

  ‘Where is Steinunn? I ought to speak to her,’ Osman said.

  ‘I’m sorry, but that’s not possible,’ Matthías said from the doorway.

  Osman’s eyes flashed.

  ‘Why? Is she not here?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but Steinunn is with the Prime Minister right now and they’re not to be disturbed,’ Matthías lied with a smooth half-smile. ‘I’m sure she’ll be in touch as soon as she’s available. But as I’m sure you understand, there’s an unprecedented situation that she and the PM are closely concerned with.’

  ‘And Kyle? Where is Kyle?’

  ‘His flight left the country last night,’ Ívar Laxdal said. ‘Come on. Steingrímur is outside with a squad car so we can get an escort back to Einholt.’

  ‘Something’s happening,’ Michel said, his eye to the sights of the rifle. ‘There’s someone there.’

  Ana looked up from the smartphone in her hand and frowned.

  ‘Police?’ she asked. ‘The target is moving now and fast enough to be in a vehicle, but that can’t be him.’

  ‘No. It’s a guy in a crappy old 206. He’s got out of the car and is walking round the house.’

  Ana took a compact pair of binoculars from her backpack and focused on Einholt.

  ‘No idea,’ she said eventually. ‘Someone lost? A pizza delivery? What the fuck are they playing at?’

  Michel watched through the rifle’s sight, the cross hairs neatly intersecting across Skúli’s chest as he stood on the seaward side of the house, gazing at the imposing bulk of Geldinganes.

  ‘Take him out if you like?’ he suggested with a snigger.<
br />
  ‘Don’t talk such shit,’ Ana snapped, eyes on the smartphone’s screen again. ‘The last thing we want to do is tell them where we are before the target shows up, and he’s moving this way.’

  ‘I’m joking,’ he said sharply, and settled back to look through the sights. ‘No point knocking off some guy who’s just delivering a takeaway. But if it was the guy who shot Pino, then he’d be pretty high on my list,’ he grunted.

  ‘Target first,’ Ana said. ‘Settling scores comes a long way behind.’

  ‘Hey, wait a moment. There’s company. Let’s see how good these guys are.’

  The suddenness of it took Skúli by completely surprise. There was no warning until a voice bellowed so loudly that he almost missed his footing and fell over.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ the voice roared in English. ‘Hands over your head right now.’

  Skúli looked from side to side in confusion, slowly raising his arms.

  Hands grabbed his shoulders and propelled him hard against the wall, knocking the breath out of him, and he gasped as his face was pushed into the concrete. A moment later his hands were hauled hard behind his back and cuffed, before the door was opened and he was half-dragged, half-pushed inside.

  He could hear voices muttering behind him and lifted his head, only to find it roughly shoved back down; the hands rapidly went through his pockets, extracting everything from them and heaping the contents on the tiles.

  His head was buzzing by the time he was hauled into a sitting position and propped against the wall, by which time he realized he had failed to notice that cable ties had been used to bind his ankles together.

  One black-clad man squatted next to him, hard blue eyes glaring through the holes of a balaclava that hid the rest of his face, while a second cradled a sinister black machine gun in his arms as he muttered into a microphone on his jacket.

  The squad car was ahead of them, its flashing lights and occasional bursts from its siren clearing a path through the late afternoon traffic. They were quickly past the city centre and took Sæbraut at a steady speed until the siren howled again as they slipped onto the cloverleaf interchange and up onto Vesturlandsvegur, heading out of the city.

  Ívar Laxdal drove, while Gunna sat in the back with Osman, his face etched with concern.