Cold Breath (Gunnhildur Mystery Book 7)

by Quentin Bates

  ‘What brings Eggert Snædal’s black sheep of a boy up here?’ Ívar Laxdal said. ‘As if I didn’t know already, but I want to hear it from you.’

  ‘Osman,’ he said shortly, and the three faces around the laptop looked up sharply. ‘But you probably knew that.’

  ‘I read your article, and the one your opposite number in France produced. I’m impressed at the information you pulled together, and most of it was remarkably accurate.’

  ‘Accurate, meaning there was stuff there you didn’t know?’

  Ívar Laxdal smiled briefly.

  ‘Possibly. But tell me why you were so determined to track our guest down? Incidentally, he has left and won’t be coming back here.’

  ‘He’s left the country?’

  ‘Possibly,’ Ívar Laxdal said.

  ‘That’s a very cautious answer,’ Skúli replied. ‘I imagine you’ve moved him somewhere quieter.’ He sighed and felt a wave of fatigue rise through him. He was still trembling from the shock the two men in black had given him, and his head was buzzing. ‘A friend of mine was working on Osman, and he was murdered, as you know. I don’t know who by. I wanted to confront Osman, ask him face-to-face if it’s true that his foundation is a massive money-laundering scheme and that he’s up to his neck in trading arms and desperate people. That’s why I came here today. I didn’t imagine I was going to get an answer, but I felt I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t ask the question.’

  Ívar Laxdal looked at Skúli with grudging respect.

  ‘That was remarkably courageous of you, considering what happened to your friend.’

  ‘His name was Lars Bundgaard. He worked for a human rights organization called Plain Truth, and he was shot in his apartment in Antwerp.’

  ‘Antwerp?’ Ívar Laxdal got to his feet. ‘Luc? Would you?’

  The pair of them went to the far end of the long lounge and talked in an undertone, before he came back and sat next to Skúli again.

  ‘Your friend’s death is being investigated. That’s all I can tell you. That’s all I know.’

  ‘And now that Steinunn presumably knows all about Osman, is he being kicked out of the country?’

  ‘Steinunn . . .’ Ívar Laxdal said with a smile. ‘She has other things on her mind at the moment, what with the death at the Vatnsmýri Hotel . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I guess you didn’t know? It’s been on the news already, and I think it was your colleague Agnar who reported it first, admittedly by a very narrow margin. James Kearney, one of the two members of Children of Freedom present in Iceland, was found dead in his hotel room today. So Steinunn is in the middle of an international incident, considering the controversial nature of the man’s visit.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘As you so rightly say, shit. Watch the news in the morning. Steinunn will have something to say, but probably not what you’re expecting.’ Ívar Laxdal stretched. ‘And now, young man, I have work to do, so you’d better go home. Your wife is probably wondering where you’ve got to.’

  ‘I’m not under arrest?’

  ‘What for? You blundered into a security area, but you can hardly have been aware of that. There’s the trivial matter of trespassing on private property, but I don’t imagine the house’s owner will have any inclination to pursue that.’

  ‘I thought . . .’

  ‘Well, you thought wrong. Go home, Skúli. And keep your head down. There’s nothing more you can do for your dead friend.’

  *

  The two kayaks slipped into the water as another furious squall of rain battered Geldinganes, beating down with an intensity that blotted out the lights of the city which should have greeted them as they passed the outer point. There the wind also set a chop to the waves that buffeted the two tiny boats.

  Ana concentrated on the GPS set strapped to her wrist, making sure that Michel’s kayak stayed close, until he called out.

  ‘Hey! I’ve sprung a leak!’

  ‘What?’ she called back.

  ‘A leak,’ he yelled in fury. ‘How the fuck did that happen?’

  Ana back-paddled to bring herself level with him.

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘This thing’s leaking. It’s not going to make it.’

  ‘You’d best paddle fast, get as far as you can while it’s still afloat.’

  He dug the paddle deep into the water, and Ana had to admire the man’s animal strength, powering the almost submerged kayak through the waves while she fought to keep pace with him, until it finally gave way and he swam free of it.

  ‘How far? Come closer so I can hold on to your boat.’

  ‘You’ll pull it under. You’ll have to swim the rest. It’s not far.’

  Michel swam a steady breast stroke, making heavy going against the waves, and Ana could see that he was tiring rapidly.

  With a few quick strokes of her paddle, she brought the kayak close up behind him and fumbled for the carpet knife stowed inside her kayak. She reached out and slashed at Michel’s back, the razor-sharp blade slicing a long gash in his suit. He yelled in shock as the freezing water flooded into it.

  ‘What? My fucking suit’s split!’

  He trod water for a moment and looked around in desperation as she let the knife drop into the water.

  ‘Help me, will you?’

  Ana back-paddled again and watched him without a word as he fought to swim towards her, weighed down by the suit as it filled with water.

  ‘Ana! Help me . . .’

  She was surprised at how long he lasted, impressed by the man’s stamina as he swore, threatened and set off for the nearest shoreline, too hopelessly distant for him to reach. The hatred in his eyes once he realized she was going to let him die was no surprise, but she decided against telling him it was nothing personal. From the moment she’d seen his face on the TV news bulletin, there had been no other way that this was going to end.

  ‘You let him go?’ Birna said in disbelief as Skúli’s car bumped along the track away from Einholt.

  ‘What do we need to keep him here for? He hasn’t committed a crime and I’ve no intention of going before an inquiry to explain why he’d been held against his will. Not that there would ever be an inquiry,’ he added.

  ‘And where’s Osman?’ she asked. ‘Why isn’t he here?’

  ‘He’s in Gunnhildur’s hands, until such time as we can put him on a flight, and I don’t think there will be any real objections now that Steinunn’s position is changing.’

  ‘You know about that?’ Úlfur asked.

  ‘It’s my job to know things,’ Ívar Laxdal replied stiffly.

  Luc had been listening to the exchange and held up a hand.

  ‘If you don’t mind me interrupting,’ he said, ‘I have some information for you.’

  He raised his phone to show them a picture of a man glowering from the screen.

  ‘The dead man?’ Birna asked.

  ‘Your victim,’ he said.

  ‘And?’

  Luc’s finger swept and stabbed at the screen.

  ‘His name’s Carlos Pino. South American origin of some kind, according to my contact in Paris. He’s been living in Bulgaria for the last ten years. No criminal record.’

  Birna frowned.

  ‘So why’s he on your system?’

  ‘As a person of interest. He had a military background and had been a security consultant, which means he was a mercenary, active mainly in Africa. He was part of a group providing security for an oil company about five years ago and they found themselves outgunned and outnumbered. A French unit bailed them out, interrogated them all, photographed and fingerprinted each one before they let them wait a week to get on a transport flight to Europe.’

  ‘They weren’t arrested?’

  Luc shrugged. ‘They hadn’t committed any crime in Europe, so I think the French just wanted to get rid of them. But they’ve been keeping tabs, and this guy has been flagged up as having been active in the regio
n again since. Not that he’ll be doing that any more.’

  ‘Where do we send the body?’ Ívar Laxdal asked, saying what everyone had been thinking. ‘You said South American, so Chile? Argentina? Wherever he’s from, it wouldn’t be a surprise if they’re quite happy for him to be quietly buried here.’

  ‘They may well say he’s nothing to do with them,’ Luc said with another laconic shrug.

  ‘So who was he working for? And why was he here?’ Úlfur asked.

  ‘Who knows? But he wasn’t here for the scenery or the nightlife.’

  The boat bucked and juddered. Spray cascaded over the windows of the wheelhouse that was just big enough for Gunna to perch on the stool, its steel stalk bolted to the floor, with a hand on the wheel as she peered into the darkness while Osman’s face became progressively paler.

  ‘The weather,’ he said. ‘Is this safe?’

  ‘I’ve slowed down so it’ll be more comfortable. But it’s still going to be bumpy,’ she told him, looking at the radar screen. ‘We have the wind going one way and the tide the other, so that’s always going to whip the waves up.’

  ‘How long will this go on?’

  ‘Like I said, we’re fighting the tide, so we’re only making five knots. It’s another eighteen miles, so let’s say a bit less than four hours. Do you want to lie down?’

  ‘No. I’m fine,’ Osman said and she could see he was making a huge effort to control himself.

  Gunna slid from the stool and stepped down into the little cabin, clicked on the light and hunted for the five-litre container she knew was there. She slopped water into a kettle, lit the gas on the camping stove that was built into the bench and put the water on to boil before going back up to the wheelhouse.

  Osman’s face was ashen. She wondered whether to offer him a bucket, just in case, but decided not to dent his pride.

  ‘There’s no coffee on board, but there are a few teabags down there, so you can have a hot drink in a few minutes.’

  Osman nodded and sat in unhappy silence while she checked the radar and adjusted the autopilot a couple of degrees.

  ‘Gunnhildur, this is your boat?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ she said. ‘Well, sort of.’

  ‘I don’t understand what you mean.’

  ‘On paper it’s half my boat. My son bought it last year, but for all sorts of reasons it’s in both our names. He’s been fixing it up, which is why it doesn’t look much. But everything under the engine hatch is as good as new.’

  With a glance at the radar, Gunna swung herself back down the steps into the cabin, turned off the kettle, poured water into a couple of mugs, dropped a teabag in each and stirred with an almost black teaspoon. She handed one mug out of the cabin’s opening. Osman opened his eyes and took it, cradling it in both hands to warm his fingers.

  ‘Sorry, there wasn’t time to get any stores,’ she told him cheerfully. ‘If you’re hungry you’ll have to wait until we tie up.’

  She followed at a distance, the occasional sweep with the paddle enough to keep herself within sight of him but far enough to be out of reach, while his strength ebbed away.

  It wasn’t until she was sure he was finished that she came closer and grabbed a handful of sodden hair. To be certain, she held his head under the surface and counted slowly to a hundred.

  She checked the GPS on her wrist, calculated how far they had drifted and took a length of cord from her knee pocket. She tied one end under the dead man’s arm and put her own arm through the loop at the other end, hooking it around her elbow.

  It was heavy work paddling the kayak with the drag of the dead man behind it, and she dug deep into her reserves of strength. Here in more sheltered waters the sea was almost calm, and with the black shadow of the beach within sight, she abandoned the kayak and waded the rest of the way, dragging the corpse behind her into the shallows.

  It wasn’t easy hauling the drysuit off him, and she almost gave up, sitting down in the lapping waves more than once to catch her breath. Once it was off, she stuffed the cord into an inside pocket of his jacket and rolled the body back into the water, wading out again and helping it float off, wondering how far the tide would take it.

  It was a struggle to tramp through the heather, and for a few minutes she wondered if her sense of direction had let her down, until she made out the landmark of the solitary house that stood back from the shore. Keeping it to her right, she struck out across the scrub and hit the gravel path she was looking for. Behind a shipping container she stripped off her own drysuit, noticing with distaste that her clothes were damp with sweat. She rolled both her suit and Michel’s into the tightest bundle she could and pushed it deep between stacks of pallets before jogging to the car park.

  Ana clicked the fob of the car key in her pocket and saw the lights flash. It was time to go.

  It was almost midnight by the time Osman looked hopeful at the sight of the approaching lights of Akranes. Gunna cut the engine revs and pushed open the cabin door, hooking it back and shivering at the chill.

  Osman was on his feet, his face to the wheelhouse window.

  ‘What is this place?’

  ‘It’s called Akranes.’

  ‘And what is here?’ he asked.

  ‘A few thousand people, a few factories, some shops, a cinema, and I think there’s a museum as well. That’s about it.’

  ‘So why are we here?’ he asked as Gunna clicked off the autopilot and gave the wheel a turn, feeling the rudder bite.

  ‘We’re here because it’s quiet, and because the only people who know you’re here are you, me and Ívar. We didn’t even tell Birna or Úlfur, or Steinunn for that matter. Nobody followed us across the bay; if they had, I would have seen them on the radar. So if you’re followed here, then there’s something very wrong.’

  ‘So this is a safe place?’

  ‘It’s quiet. It should be safe, as long as we don’t stay for long,’ Gunna confirmed as the boat slipped past a couple of ships tied up at a long quay snaking into the water. She peered through the window, looking for the berth. ‘Now, this is what I need you to do . . .’

  She brought the boat up to the pontoon with the engine ticking over, sliding the bow up to it, and quickly put the engine back into gear with a brief burst of power astern to bring it alongside.

  ‘Go on!’ she called to Osman and he stretched awkwardly across the narrowing gap, finding his footing on the planks of the pontoon, much to Gunna’s relief, as she had imagined him floundering in the black water.

  She went to the stern and handed him a rope, pointing at a cleat on the pontoon.

  ‘Put the loop around that,’ she ordered, hauling at the rope as it was made fast and whipping it quickly around the bitts. ‘The same at the bow,’ she instructed, and uncoiled the bow rope from where it had been secured by the wheelhouse door.

  Osman took it, looped it over another cleat and stood back with a smile on his face, his motion sickness miraculously gone.

  ‘What happens now?’

  ‘Now? Now we have to walk.’

  Chapter Seven

  They walked up the hill from the harbour and were soon among silent houses. The wind had eased, although rain pattered softly on the ground around them. Gunna could see that Osman was drenched, the elegant overcoat he had worn to visit Parliament only a few hours earlier had picked up smears of grease and was heavy with water.

  She could hear his shoes squelch with every step, and he looked around curiously at the dark houses lining the silent street.

  ‘This way,’ Gunna said, pushing open an iron gate into the gloom of a garden and leading the way around a high-sided house that loomed above them.

  She went down a couple of steps at the side of the house and punched a series of numbers into a glass-fronted box screwed to the wall by the door. To her relief, the box dropped open, releasing the key, and she opened the door, fumbling for the light switch inside.

  ‘Shoes off, please,’ she instructed, kicking off her own
boots and striding through the apartment, clicking on lights and peering into rooms. ‘I know it’s late, but I think we deserve some coffee, don’t you?’

  ‘Please.’

  Osman stood uncertainly, dripping water on the kitchen floor.

  ‘Hang your coat up by the door and come in here.’ Gunna quickly set the percolator to run, and found mugs and a carton of long-life milk. ‘We’re in luck,’ she announced, placing a packet of biscuits on the table. ‘But that’s all the food there is.’

  She patted her pockets for her phone and tapped in a text message.

  Docked. G

  Seconds later her phone buzzed with a response.

  Good. See you tomorrow. ÍL

  Gunna wondered if she ought to send Steini a message, and suddenly felt very alone.

  ‘Gunnhildur, what is this place?’ Osman asked, looking around the cramped kitchen and gingerly sitting on a stool, as if he expected it to give way beneath him.

  ‘This place? It belongs to my son. He inherited it when his father died,’ she said gruffly. ‘It’s no business of mine, but I think he’ll probably sell it, or else rent it out.’

  ‘Your son? His father?’ Osman said softly.

  ‘It’s a long story and I don’t want to go into it.’

  ‘But I have told you my whole story,’ Osman said in a low, slightly mocking tone. Under the dim kitchen light he looked more tired than she had seen him before, with lines under the dark eyes that drew her in. ‘And we have been through so much together.’

  Gunna stripped off her fleece and hung it on the back of a chair, hoping it would be dry by morning. As she sat down she realized that she still had the Glock under her arm. For a moment she was surprised that she had become accustomed to its presence there.

  ‘I have a son from a short relationship when I was young. I hadn’t seen my son’s father for more than twenty years, and then he turned up not long ago, terminally ill. My son and his father had been in occasional contact, but they weren’t reconciled until close to the end. He had a lot of children, with half a dozen mothers, as far as I know. But my son – our son – was the only one who was with him during his illness and when he died.’