‘And now you can speak Icelandic as well. At least she doesn’t use all those awful slang expressions you use all the time.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘Language, Matti.’
‘Sorry.’
Lóa stood up and banged the kettle on to the stove. ‘Matti, you always come up west when you’re in the soup, and I’m not going to ask again what it is this time. I’d like to know if it’s serious, though, and if the police are looking for you.’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Serious, or police?’
‘Both.’
‘Silly boy. You can’t stay here long without being found, you know. Hallgrímur’s wife saw you in the shop in Hólmavík yesterday. If she knows you’re here, then sooner or later everyone else will.’
‘I know,’ he admitted.
Lóa’s voice dropped to a murmur. ‘Your young lady, Marika. Seems like a nice girl. Got her head screwed on. You ought to hang on to her.’
‘Ach. She’s all right.’
‘Not your type, I’d have thought. Skinny little thing. Does she work?’
‘Yeah, in a club.’
‘So I assume that’s where you met, is it? Some dive?’
‘Sort of.’
‘What sort of work does she do?’
Matti sighed and knew that the truth wouldn’t do, although not telling the truth to Lóa could be a dangerous business.
‘She dances,’ he said finally.
‘Oh, I see. What kind of dance?’
‘The sort where you take your clothes off and people watch.’
Lóa’s brow furrowed in a way that reminded Matti uncomfortably of their cousin Gunna.
‘Bloody hell,’ she said finally.
It was late in the afternoon and they had a meeting room to themselves. Skúli thought Gunna would be impressed as they sat in their glass cage at Dagurinn’s offices, but she didn’t seem to have realized what a feat he had achieved. He could see Jonni and Dagga looking curiously at them, and turned back to the computer screen.
‘Is this all the pictures?’ Gunna demanded.
‘It’s all the ones I have, but I suppose Lára might have more.’
‘And this is the highest quality you can get?’
‘I think so. Lára didn’t compress the files, so this is as they were taken.’
Gunna peered at the picture of herself on the screen, jaw set firm, sky and mountains reflected in the mirrors of her sunglasses. ‘Zoom in, will you?’
‘On what?’
‘There.’ She pointed to the man in the middle distance looking directly at the lens from behind her.
The man’s face filled the screen, impassive blue eyes and a day’s worth of stubble on his cheeks. A very ordinary face, Gunna thought, nothing special about the combination of features, but unmistakably the face of a strong-willed character used to getting his own way.
‘Skúli, my boy, I’d very much like to get more pictures of this man if it’s possible. Can you get hold of the photographer?’
Skúli opened his mobile and thumbed buttons before holding it to his ear.
‘Hi, Lára? Skúli at Dagurinn. Yeah, fine, thanks. And you? Cool.’
Gunna sat and listened to Skúli’s half of the conversation, fascinated at the way his entire manner changed when speaking to someone of his own age.
‘Yeah, er, Lára. I need a favour if that’s OK? I have someone here who wants to see any pictures you have of the march at Hvalvík. Yeah, it was a great day, wasn’t it? Just wondering if you’re on the way over here at all?’
Gunna frowned and motioned to Skúli for him to pass the phone to her. He frowned back.
‘Er, Lára, just a moment,’ he said, and held the phone in the palm of his hand. ‘She says she has more pics, but wants to know who wants to see them?’
‘Let me speak to her.’
‘Er, OK.’
He handed the phone across with a second’s reluctance.
‘Good morning. Lára? This is Gunnhildur Gísladóttir, Hvalvík police. I’m working on an investigation and need to identify someone in one of your pictures of the march. Could you help out?’ Gunna asked in a tone that clearly expected a positive reply.
Lára’s voice crackled through a poor line. ‘Yeah, that’s OK. I can bring my laptop and you can go through all the pictures I took if you want.’
‘Excellent. When?’
‘Depends where you are? Are you in town or out at Hvalvík right now?’
‘I’m in Skúli’s office at the moment.’
‘No problem. I’ll be right with you. Five minutes.’
‘Good. Thank you,’ Gunna finished, snapping Skúli’s phone shut. ‘She’ll be here in a few minutes.’
‘She’s here already,’ Skúli said, looking over Gunna’s shoulder. She swung her head round to see Lára’s gangly form approaching, lopsided with a camera bag slung over one shoulder. She stopped at Dagga’s desk, where some exaggerated air kisses took place as Jonni scowled.
‘You know,’ Skúli said, looking at the image on his computer screen, ‘I spoke to this man at the march.’
‘What? Why didn’t you say so before?’
‘Should I have?’
‘Ach, I’m sorry, Skúli. Now, tell me more.’
‘Well, not much really. He came and chatted for a minute, and then he was gone. Didn’t think much of it.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Not much. Asked if I was a journo and I said yes. He said he was working for a German magazine called Eco Zeit, but I googled it afterwards and it doesn’t seem to exist.’
‘Did he say his name?’
‘No, don’t think so.’
‘And is he German or what?’
Skúli thought. ‘Sorry, I don’t know. He spoke English very well, better than I do, but I couldn’t tell you if he had an accent or not.’
There was a tap at the door and Lára appeared, grinning.
‘Hi,’ Skúli responded with a warmth that told Gunna he was more than a little pleased to see her. ‘That was quick.’
‘Wasn’t it just? I was upstairs. Been doing some pictures for Home and Garden magazine on the next floor,’ she said, unfolding a laptop and tapping it into life. She quickly located a folder of image files, swiped across them and opened the whole series.
‘These are the pics from the march. That was a pretty good day, I even sold some photos of it in Denmark and Sweden. Now, what was it you wanted to look at?’
Skúli turned his computer towards her and pointed to the man’s face behind Gunna’s shoulder.
‘Oh, that creep,’ Lára said.
‘You spoke to him?’
‘Briefly. He asked for my phone number and said we ought to meet for a drink sometime.’
Gunna was amused to see Skúli bridle visibly.
‘A bit too smooth, I thought,’ Lára continued.
‘Where did you think he was from?’
‘Not from here, at any rate. He spoke English, but he could be from anywhere. Not England, though. His English was too precise, too perfect. Y’know what I mean? Like he’d learned it at school.’
‘Lára knows. She studied in England,’ Skúli butted in.
‘What were you studying? Photography?’ Gunna asked.
‘No. Human resource management, actually.’
‘What?’
‘Well, I wanted to study abroad, but to get a student loan it had to be something that isn’t offered in Iceland. So I went for human resource management.’
‘And now you’re a photographer?’
‘That’s right. I trained to manage a big department, and now I work for myself. Good, isn’t it?’ Lára asked brightly.
‘OK, good. But if you’re sure this guy wasn’t a native English speaker, that helps. Now, any photos?’
‘Yeah, there are a few more of him somewhere. What’s he done?’
‘Not sure yet, and as it’s an ongoing inquiry, I couldn’t tell you anyway at the moment,’
Gunna grunted, hunched over the screen as Lára tapped the space bar to toggle between pictures.
‘There he is again, behind those guys who didn’t want to let anyone pass.’
‘That’s him,’ Gunna agreed. ‘Any more?’
They scrolled through the several hundred pictures and found half a dozen showing the man’s face, each time at the periphery of the march and never far from the police presence. Lára copied the picture files and handed them to Gunna on a disk.
‘Here you are.’
‘Thanks. It’s not a problem to let me have these? Journalistic integrity and all that?’
‘Hell, no,’ Lára replied. ‘As long as you’re not stopping me doing my job, it’s not a problem. I’m happy to help the police, and I’d be even happier if they found the bastard who burgled my flat.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘Breidholt.’
Gunna thought for a moment. ‘Sævaldur Bogason’s patch, I think. I’ll remind him when I see him. Anyway, Skúli, I’m afraid I might have to ask you not to publish the photo of me with our man in the background, or at least to crop him out if that’s possible. If he is someone we’re looking for, then I’d prefer not to spook him. When does it all go to print?’
‘Week after next, I think.’
‘Right. I’ll let you know. Give me a day or two. Lára, thank you for your assistance, it all helps.’
26
Wednesday, 24 September
Although Gunna had seen the County Sheriff before, she had never had a reason to speak to him. Seated in the incident room in front of her and flanked by Vilhjálmur Traustason and Ívar Laxdal, he looked surprisingly youthful in faded jeans and an open-necked shirt instead of his usual office wear.
‘So, what do you want to tell me about?’ the Sheriff asked as Gunna stood up in front of the whole group. Bjössi, Bára and Snorri sat behind them and waited.
‘I have some information about the person who may have been in the vicinity when Einar Eyjólfur Einarsson was murdered—’
‘Allegedly,’ Vilhjálmur broke in.
‘Allegedly,’ Gunna repeated. ‘But I felt that in the light of what we’ve been told, I’d best call you all together to save myself from having to repeat this later.’
Vilhjálmur fidgeted while the Sheriff nodded. Gunna took a deep breath and thumbed copies of a series of pictures to the wall.
‘The team have been in touch with police forces in the UK, Germany, Sweden, Denmark and Norway. Sweden came up trumps and this is the man we want to talk to.’
‘And he is?’ Vilhjálmur asked querulously.
‘Gunnar Ström. He’s been identified as having hired a car that appears to have been on the quay at Hvalvík the night Einar Eyjólfur died. He bears a striking resemblance to the person who stole the jeep that is likely to have been used to murder Egill Grímsson. We are absolutely certain he was present at the march on the InterAlu compound at Hvalvík.’
‘A lot of coincidences?’ Ívar Laxdal asked quietly.
‘Plenty of them,’ Gunna agreed, feeling her shirt start to stick to her back and wishing she had taken off her uniform tunic. ‘But considering this man’s background, I feel we need to concentrate on him.’
‘Go on,’ Ívar Laxdal prompted.
‘Not a pleasant character. Several sentences for violent crimes, involvement with narcotics, and a big car theft operation that exported stolen cars to West Africa from Scandinavia via various Baltic States. It seems he’s broken quite a few kneecaps in his time and he’s suspected of nastier things, including at least one disappearance and a very unpleasant incident with someone’s fingers and a hammer and chisel, but not much that can be proved. The man’s a pro.’
‘Is that all?’ Vilhjálmur asked, his face pale with horror.
‘His background is that he’s a Norwegian national, aged forty-two, naval PT and unarmed combat instructor until dishonourably discharged. Resident in Sweden since 1993, half a dozen stretches including a five-year sentence for grievous bodily harm, which was the hammer and chisel thing.’
‘Good God,’ Vilhjálmur whispered.
‘His real name’s Gunnar Hårde, with a little circle over the A, so I suppose he might be related to the Prime Minister, but I doubt it somehow.’
‘A proper Norwegian conspiracy?’ Bjössi shot in. For form’s sake, Gunna frowned at him and smothered the urge to laugh.
‘Something like that. Anyway, our man’s been a good boy for the last few years, travels under his own name, listed in the Södertälje phone book. But Special Branch in Sweden have been keeping an eye on him and he’s been back and forth to Estonia and Latvia quite a bit in the last few years. No idea what he’s been doing there, but he’s been declaring income from what’s described as work as a security consultant, and paying his taxes like a good boy. Still waiting to hear back from Oslo.’
‘Good. Did you run the Gunnar Ström name past them in Sweden?’
‘Yup. He’s used that name before, but a long time ago. Other names he’s used are Ekström and Angström. They’re checking with their passport office for any valid passports in those names that might fit our boy. But the fun part is that Sweden says our man is retained as a security consultant for InterAlu, which means he’s on our doorstep. He may well be in the country right now.’
Gunna surveyed the three men sitting in front of her in silence. Vilhjálmur looked aghast.
Ívar Laxdal’s expression was impassive and the County Sheriff looked thoughtful.
‘What do you need, Gunna?’ he asked quietly. ‘More people?’
‘Not right now. I need cooperation straight away from other forces and some quick backup when it’s needed. I may need to upset some people in high places, but I don’t reckon that’s something that can be avoided if we’re to get to the bottom of this.’
‘That can all be arranged, can’t it, Ívar?’
Ívar Laxdal nodded and grunted, his chin in one hand.
‘And as this guy is clearly dangerous, I want access to the Special Unit if some strong-arm stuff looks likely.’
‘As this appears to be a unique case for Icelandic policing, I feel a more senior officer should be handling it,’ Vilhjálmur said abruptly.
‘I was wondering when this was going to occur to you,’ Gunna murmured.
Ívar Laxdal and the Sheriff frowned in unison.
‘Gunnhildur is a highly competent officer. I don’t see a problem with her taking charge of this investigation, particularly as she has been with it from the outset,’ the Sheriff pointed out.
‘This is an exceptional case,’ Vilhjálmur responded stiffly.
‘And in my view Gunnhildur is an exceptional police officer,’ Ívar Laxdal said. ‘She’s familiar with every aspect of the investigation so far and we risk losing time by handing over to someone more senior. Do you have another officer in mind? Do you feel you should be in personal charge?’
Vilhjálmur opened his mouth and closed it again, while Gunna wondered when they were going to stop discussing her as if she were in another room. Unlike the three men sitting in front of her, she could see frowns on the faces of Bjössi, Snorri and Bára behind them. There was silence for a moment until Ívar Laxdal broke it.
‘This is something you’re confident to handle, isn’t it, Gunnhildur?’
‘It is,’ she answered hoarsely.
‘That’s settled, then,’ Ívar Laxdal said with satisfaction. ‘Now, where are you taking this?’
‘As low-profile as possible for the moment.’
She turned to the desk, picked up Matti’s picture and one of the green taxi and added them to the row of photographs on the wall.
‘I would very much like to track down this character, Marteinn Georg Kristjánsson, known as Fat Matti. He’s a taxi driver and small-time criminal who we understand has been ferrying Ström/ Hårde, whatever we decide to call him, around the country. Matti has disappeared and I’m concerned for his safety. I’m hoping that he hasn’t be
en quietly disposed of, as he may well be able to provide some information about Hårde’s activities.’
Ívar Laxdal nodded. ‘I think the best we can do is to leave you to get on with it. Agreed?’ he asked, turning first to the Sheriff and then to Vilhjálmur before shoving his chair backwards as they all rose to their feet.
‘If you need anything, call me,’ he said as the door swung shut behind them.
‘Well done, sweetheart,’ Bjössi announced, breaking the silence and clapping his hands slowly. ‘Knocked ’em dead. Now what?’
Gunna sat down and felt her legs turn to jelly. ‘Snorri, I’d like you to start with a quick scout around Reykjavík and see if you can find Matti anywhere before we put out an alert for him. Bára, anything from Clean Iceland about Egill Grímsson and Einar Eyjólfur?’
‘Nothing concrete. Supposed to be meeting them this afternoon.’
‘All right,’ Gunna decided. ‘Keep to that, but let me know. Bára, would you check to see if Fat Matti’s taxi has been picked up anywhere and check all the flights as far back as you can for Ström or Hårde? That’s it for now. I have to get back to Hvalvík for an hour and I’ll see you all here in …’ She craned her neck to see the clock on the wall. ‘In two hours.’
Reynir Óli scowled. Sometimes Dagurinn’s editor felt that a little discipline could be applied to Jonni Kristinsson, but a feeling that he would be unlikely to come out of it well had always held him back.
‘Well? What do you have?’
Jonni looked sideways at her as Dagga took a deep breath.
‘ESC,’ she said.
Reynir Óli’s head jerked up, eyes wide. ‘What?’
‘Energy Supply Consultation.’
‘I know what it stands for,’ he snapped. ‘What’s the story?’
‘It’s to do with that Hvalvík aluminium project, the one that went quiet when National Power decided not to sell them electricity.’
Reynir Óli had recovered his composure, but had a nasty taste in his mouth and was sure that Jonni was scrutinizing him. He nodded slowly. ‘And?’
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