‘Which is where?’
‘Parties sometimes, or mostly private houses for special customers. They work at hotels in town as well.’
‘Bloody hell, the stupid bastard. If his mother wasn’t still alive and kicking she’d be turning in her grave.’
‘Nonni says he’s heard that one of the girls has gone missing as well. That’s all I can tell you. He wouldn’t let on any more and I got the feeling he didn’t feel safe having told me what he had.’
Gunna rose to her feet. ‘Well done, Snorri. Did you get a name, description?’
‘The girl’s called Marika and it seems she and Matti have had something going for a while.’
‘Matti? Good grief,’ Gunna muttered.
‘The woman’s Romanian, like the rest of that bunch, and Nonni thought there were four or five of them living in one of the terraced houses somewhere in the Smárar district. He didn’t know exactly where, but I’ll bet we can lean on one of his drivers and find out easily enough.’
‘Or we could lean on Mundi Grétars, which could be a pleasure in itself. You’d better get your report done as soon as possible so we can keep on top of all this stuff. We’d better liaise with Reykjavík on this one, get Scaramanga looked into properly and see if we can track down this bunch of exotic dancers or whatever they call themselves. I don’t like the sound of all this at all.’
She shooed Snorri away to a spare computer terminal and went outside the building. Standing by the back door she was surprised to see the afternoon sun lighting up the brightly painted fishing boats on the slipway and realized that it was getting late in the day.
She felt tired, more tired than for a long time, but exhilarated that the case was making progress at last — faster than she had anticipated, as well as opening up other avenues that clearly also needed to be investigated.
Gunna fished an almost empty packet of Prince from her pocket and lit up, sucking down smoke as the door clanged open and Bjössi appeared beside her with two mugs of coffee.
‘Here y’are, sweetheart,’ he mumbled with an unlit cigarette in his mouth that Gunna lit before taking the mug from him. ‘By the way, Borgarnes are investigating a suspicious death on their patch.’
Gunna raised an eyebrow. ‘Anything to do with us?’
‘The guy was a computer programmer, a real über-nerd. Seems he had a heart attack, but managed to break his arm at the same time.’
‘Right, we’ll put someone on to it to find out the details. Bára, maybe?’
‘Bára’s busy enough as it is, but it’s up to you, sweetheart. You’re the man in charge.’
‘For the moment, anyway.’
‘It didn’t look right at all,’ Officer Unnur Matthíasdóttir at the Borgarnes police station said, shaking her ponytailed head and grimacing.
‘What happened?’
‘Well, it seems that the man’s wife had been away for a week on a shopping trip in London. She came home on the Saturday morning, which was the thirteenth and found her husband sat up against the inside of the front door, stone dead. She had to go round the back of the house and get in that way.’
‘All right, so what was the cause of death?’
‘It’s all on the sheet and the body’s still at the National Hospital if you want to go and have a look for yourself,’ she said wearily. ‘The cause of death was a heart attack, plain and simple.’
‘But there’s more to this?’
‘Hell, yes. Didn’t find that out straight away, though,’ she sighed. ‘His wife went nuts, called an ambulance and was in a proper state by the time they got there. So she was sedated, as the ambulance crew could see the bloke was past helping. They took her off to hospital and came back for him.’
Gunna leafed through the case notes she had downloaded from the police network. ‘He’d been dead for a while?’
‘That’s right. The post-mortem results put the time of death at thirty-six hours previously, give or take half a day. So, round about Tuesday the ninth, something like that. What’s suspicious is that the man had a broken arm that would definitely have been extremely painful and the pathologist reckoned that it’s not a break that could be achieved easily by falling over. He reckoned the arm had been forced.’
‘Deliberate, then?’
‘Yup. Somebody broke his arm, and then the poor chap had a heart attack, either in front of the attacker or after he’d gone. Most likely afterwards, considering he was sitting with his back to the closed front door.’
‘Arngrímur Örn Arnarson. Fifty-five years old, ran his own company,’ Gunna read from the notes.
‘Right enough,’ Unnur confirmed. ‘An odd sort of bloke. Lived in Borgarnes about five years and kept to himself, although his wife was a bit more sociable. He did some sort of computer, internet stuff. Called himself a consultant. Anyway, what’s your interest in this one?’
Knowing the question would come, Gunna had already wondered during the two-hour drive from Keflavík how much she should say.
‘We’re investigating an unpleasant sort of character and we have confirmation that one of his associates was around here on that Tuesday. It’s too much of a coincidence to ignore.’
‘How do you know?’ Unnur asked.
‘Paid his toll at the tunnel and the number was recorded. Came back later the same day.’
Gunna placed a picture of Matti’s taxi on the desk. ‘That’s his vehicle. And it may have gone through here quite a few times. We’re actively looking out for this car now, as quietly as possible. But if there’s no response in a day or two, we’ll have to run a TV and radio appeal.’
Gunna placed pictures of Matti and Hårde on top of the taxi. ‘And if you can find anyone who has seen either of these, then we’d definitely be on to something.’
Unnur nodded. ‘All right. We’ll see what we can do.’
Gunna tapped Hårde’s face. ‘This guy is dangerous. Extremely dangerous.’
Unnur looked taken aback. ‘What are you looking for him in connection with?’
‘Well,’ Gunna said grimly, ‘if he’s responsible for Arngrímur Örn Arnarson’s death as well, then we’re looking at three killings.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Unnur whistled.
25-09-2008, 1044
Skandalblogger writes:
Oops! Rule one . . . even if you don’t tell the truth, do tell your wife . . .
Bjarni Jón, we’re feeling all warm and fuzzy today because we enjoyed your performance on Kastljós so much. However, we hear that your performance afterwards wasn’t so hot. Look, a word of advice here. We all know about ministers not bothering to brief their secretaries, aides, advisers, etc, but forgetting to let your good lady know that you were looking at chucking it in was, shall we say, a little lacking in foresight, especially as she trades so heavily on having a husband in government and the ear of the guy at the top.
We hear that the recording went pretty smoothly, a lot more smoothly than the blazing row you had with the lovely pouting Sigurjóna in the ministerial jeep.
Clickhere*for the video clip, and if anyone who canlipread would like to send us their interpretation of what the delightful Sigurjóna had to say, please email the Skandalblogger. We can have a pretty good guess at what was being said, considering that instead of being in hubby’s arms, the succulent Sigurjóna scuttled off afterwards for a girls’ night out with little sister, celebrity strimmer Erna, but we’d like to be sure.
Anonymity guaranteed!
Bæjó!
Gunna already knew that the third item on that evening’s TV news would be all about Matti. Laufey lay with her head on her mother’s shoulder and didn’t wake as Gunna lifted the remote control from her hand to increase the volume.
‘. . . Police are concerned about the whereabouts of Marteinn Georg Kristjánsson and are appealing for information. Marteinn Georg was last seen on Sunday morning, wearing dark blue tracksuit trousers and a blue polo shirt under a dark brown leather jacket. He was last seen in the Smárar area
driving a green Mercedes station wagon, number . . .’
Gunna muted the TV as the phone rang and at the same moment a picture appeared on the screen of a considerably younger Matti looking like a gangland hoodlum with his swept-down moustache.
‘Gunnhildur.’
‘Hi. It’s me.’
‘Skúli, how goes it?’
‘Still at work getting the morning edition together.’
‘Good. You’ve got enough to make a decent story about Matti? I’d appreciate it. It’s urgent that we find out what’s happened to him.’
‘That’s fixed. The story’s on an inside page, but there’s a box on the front with a ‘‘Have you seen this man?’’ caption. Er . . .’
‘Yes? What is it, Skúli?’
‘Well, actually it’s a bit embarrassing.’
‘Come on, lad, out with it.’
Gunna heard him breathe deeply as if summoning all the courage he had. ‘I wanted to ask you about Vilhjálmur Traustason.’
‘Fire away. We’ve known each other for a long time, although we’ve never got round to forming a mutual admiration society.’
‘All right. I could see there was a bit of tension between you two. But what I was wondering about was a story that the Skandalblogger came up with some time ago, about a police officer who had, quote, formed a happy working relationship with a Baltic beauty who dances nearby. End quote.’
‘And? Some sort of connection with Vilhjálmur? Anything that I need to know about?’
‘Well, yeah. This is the awkward bit. I was doing a story about prostitution that hasn’t been published yet, and I interviewed one of these girls in a room at Hotel Gullfoss. And as we were leaving the room, I saw your boss going down the corridor with another girl.’
‘Skúli, you’re sure?’
‘Absolutely, no doubt. Walked straight into them. When I saw the guy at the hotel I thought it was a bit creepy, but it wasn’t until I saw him at the press conference I realized it was the same person.’
Gunna held the receiver in the palm of her hand to muffle it. She didn’t know whether to laugh or shout with rage. She saw that the news item about Matti was over and the screen now showed an airliner on a runway somewhere warm.
‘Skúli,’ she said at last, ‘you’re still there?’
‘Yeah, of course.’
‘I’d ask you to be very careful with what you’ve just told me. As far as I’m aware, no crime has been committed and all you’ve seen is him accompanied by an unknown woman. Right?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘So if this were to get into other hands, you could destroy the man’s career, not to mention his marriage. You’re sure about this?’
‘I’m dead sure.’
Gunna cursed silently and wondered how, if ever, she would be able to broach the subject with Vilhjálmur Traustason. ‘Skúli, can you keep this under wraps?’
‘I can. But if I’ve noticed, then other people will as well.’
‘I’ll talk to him when I can. All right?’
‘OK,’ Skúli said dubiously.
‘Thanks, Skúli. I owe you a favour.’
Gunna put the phone down and Laufey stretched out on the sofa, eyes open.
‘Mum, who’s Skúli?’
‘Skúli’s a journalist on a newspaper who’s been writing a story about your old mum.’
‘So he’s not your boyfriend or anything, then?’
‘I hardly think so, young lady.’
Laufey yawned and kneaded her eyes with the backs of her fists. ‘That’s all right, then.’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Nothing. Just some of the kids at school said that my mum’s got a boyfriend at last and I said no she hasn’t.’
Gunna sighed. Dinner with Steini had been a pleasure. They had both enjoyed themselves and Gunna had forgotten for a few hours much of the weight she felt she had been carrying since Raggi’s death. Steini had called again but she hadn’t had time to do more than promise vaguely to meet.
‘Laufey, my darling. One day you’ll understand that a young man like Skúli is hardly likely to be interested in an old lady like me.’
‘You’re not old,’ Laufey said, swinging her legs down to the floor. ‘And Finnur says his dad said he’d give you a portion. What does that mean, Mum?’
Gunna spluttered as she choked back laughter. ‘And who is Finnur?’
‘A really stupid boy in my class.’
‘All right. Who’s Finnur’s dad?’
‘I’m not sure. I think he works for the council.’
‘Thank you. I’ll look out for him and see if I can give him a parking ticket.’
‘All right. I’m going to bed now.’
‘But don’t you tell Finnur that tomorrow, will you?’
Laufey yawned again, pulled off her socks and dropped them on the floor.
‘In the basket, please,’ Gunna pointed out as Laufey scowled in perfect facsimile of her father’s face, giving Gunna a sudden pang. ‘I have to go early tomorrow, so you’ll be all right to get yourself up for school, won’t you?’
‘Sure, Mum. I’m not a kid, you know.’
28
Friday, 26 September
Clean Iceland’s offices were two rooms between an artist’s studio and a health food shop a street back from Mýrargata and the slipways of Reykjavík harbour. Looking out of the window behind Kolbeinn Sverrisson’s head, Gunna could see the masts of the whaling boats that had been there for a decade without putting to sea.
Bára stood by the door while Gunna took the only other chair in Kolbeinn’s cramped and crowded cubbyhole of an office. Every surface was covered with snowdrifts of paperwork, folders, books and papers. The floor could only be seen in the shape of a corridor threading its way between boxes of more files.
‘It’s a mess,’ Kolbeinn sighed. ‘We only moved in here last week and there hasn’t been time to sort anything out yet. We don’t even have phones connected yet.’
‘How many of you are there here?’ Gunna asked.
‘Just two of us. Me and Ásta full time, then there’s loads of people who donate a few hours a week to the cause.’
Kolbeinn Sverrison was a raw-boned man with cropped dark hair and an open, engaging face cross-hatched with several days’ worth of stubble. Gunna had seen him in the distance at the march and wondered if the anger and passion he had shown then were far below the surface. He looked different, more vulnerable than the clown-like figure she had seen in his outsize green hat at the head of the march and later addressing the crowd with a fury that had left him drained.
‘Are you here to donate a few hours to Clean Iceland?’ he asked wryly, pouring coffee from a thermos into three cracked cups on the edge of his desk.
‘No, sorry. Do you have the pictures, Bára?’ Gunna asked, swivelling in her seat. Bára passed forward a folder and Gunna extracted pictures of Egill Grímsson and Einar Eyjólfur Einarsson. She placed them one by one alongside the row of cups.
‘Anyone here you recognize?’
‘Could be.’
‘And?’
Kolbeinn’s brows knitted in a frown as he lifted a cup and sipped.
‘Why do you need to know?’ he asked finally.
‘Because, as you must be aware, these two people are dead and we’d like to know why and who’s responsible.’
‘InterAlu is responsible,’ he said flatly.
‘Would you care to explain?’
‘Both of these men were close to us here at Clean Iceland. Egill was one of the founders of the movement and one of our most energetic campaigners. He poured a huge amount of energy into lobbying politicians and government departments, highlighting illegal acts, generally making himself a nuisance to InterAlu and all the other aluminium manufacturers who want to set up shop here.’
‘But particularly InterAlu? Why?’
‘Because it’s just so fucking blatant. The environmental survey was a sham to begin with. Then there was the issue
of power, when the National Power Authority refused to supply them. So they went ahead and started building their own hydro-electric plant in a nature reserve, after they had bribed or bamboozled the government into declassifying the reserve and allowing the power station to be built. The pollution will be horrendous when it’s finished. It’s crooked government. It’s worse than that. It’s stupid government being diddled by a pack of crooks.’
Gunna felt that she was seeing a burst of the same passion: the man’s presence had gone from quiet to electrifying in a matter of seconds. ‘And Einar Eyjólfur?’
The passion vanished as soon as it had appeared. ‘Ach. Einar. He was a great guy.’
‘You knew he worked at Spearpoint and that Spearpoint is involved with the power plant?’
‘Involved? Don’t you know that the owners of Spearpoint also own fifty per cent of ESC, the company that’s building the power station? They’re more than just involved and it’s even more of a fucking scandal if you remember that one of these people is a government minister,’ Kolbeinn spat. ‘But yes, we were fully aware that Einar Eyjólfur was working at Spearpoint and he was an invaluable source of inside information. I have no doubt this is why he was killed.’
‘Why haven’t you contacted the police about this?’
Kolbeinn laughed. ‘What? And you think anyone would believe us? Come on.’
Gunna picked up the pictures from the desk and replaced them with one of Gunnar Hårde. ‘Recognize this guy?’
‘Nope. Who is he?’
‘OK. And this one?’
This time she placed a picture of Arngrímur Örn Arnarson on the table.
‘I know this one. He’s a computer programmer who did some work for us years ago. In fact, he set up our first website in the nineties. Haven’t seen him for a long time. I thought he’d moved away?’
‘Not far. He moved to Borgarnes. We believe he was murdered a couple of weeks ago and that he could be linked to Egill and Einar Eyjólfur. Do you know anything of Arngrímur’s activities?’
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