Cold Steal

by Quentin Bates

  ‘I expect you know damn well it was, you nosy old bitch,’ he snapped at her without breaking his stride and took the flights of stairs three steps at a time. ‘And I bet you showed them the way,’ he called back down.

  He locked the door behind him, kicked off his boots and soaked in the shower, washing away the smell of the police station and that sarcastic bastard who’d asked all the questions. Sitting on the bed and drying himself carefully, he told himself to think straight. The police had found him through that stupid clasp he should never have sold like that, he decided; he should never have allowed himself that moment of sentimentality.

  He wondered if he should contact the Voice and tell them what had happened. Maybe the Voice would leave him alone if he thought he was a risk?

  He shivered at his recollection of the steel in the Voice’s measured tones he had heard in the cellar of that house on Kópavogsbakki. There was no mercy there, no room for doubt. If they thought he was a risk, just how ruthless would they be? He decided that he should just tell them he had been questioned. He wouldn’t mention that the police had placed him on Kópavogsbakki.

  Call me, he wrote in a text message to the number the Voice had given him. We might have a problem.

  The back of the building bore no resemblance to the glass and steel of the front. An unloading bay for catering trucks ended with a steel roller door that was firmly shut and a set of double doors next to it. A couple of cars were parked close up against a wall, but otherwise there was a windswept space that was empty on the office block’s side. On the far side of the yard was the back of a row of shops, some of them little more than a blank wall with a door set in it, others sporting grimy windows, but every one of them with a huge bin on wheels outside.

  Gunna walked along the row, looking hopefully for CCTV cameras, but none was to be seen anywhere. Each door also had its own quiet smoking spot out of the glare of the customers at the front, with a scattering of cigarette butts on the ground or an ashtray neatly placed by the step.

  The sight gave her a pang in the centre of her chest that was instantly dispelled by the smell as she walked along the row of doors. At the end she stood in thought as one door finally opened and a man in a grubby white apron stepped outside, lighting up and taking a deep drag on his cigarette. He did a sudden double take on seeing Gunna stalking towards him in the glare of the security light and she could tell that an innate sense told him of the presence of the police.

  ‘G’day,’ he offered, cautiously rather than with any outward sign of nerves.

  ‘Hæ. You work here, do you?’ Gunna asked.

  ‘No, officer, I just come here for the fun of it.’

  ‘Sarcasm will get you nowhere, I’m afraid. Tell me, what’s on the other side?’

  ‘This place, you mean? It’s a sandwich bar. Lots of offices round here and hungry office types after their decaffeinated sandwiches and free-range coffee.’

  ‘But quiet on a Sunday evening, surely?’

  ‘Not as busy,’ the man admitted, jerking a thumb at the office block opposite. ‘But we do a good few takeaways and you’d be surprised how much business there is at weekends with all those suits and flunkies doing overtime.’

  ‘Were you here on Friday? Around midday?’

  ‘I was. Why? Who’s asking?’ he said with a sour note in his gravel voice. ‘Not that I can’t guess.’

  ‘You’ve probably guessed right. City police, CID. And you are?’

  ‘I’m Finnbogi Finnbogason. I don’t suppose you’re here to do a health and safety inspection?’

  ‘Far from it. But I’m hoping you might be able to help me.’

  Finnbogi Finnbogason looked back at her with narrowed eyes as he drew deeply on his filterless Camel. ‘Go on.’

  ‘How many shops are there in this row?’

  ‘Half a dozen. Why?’

  ‘Smokers in every one?’

  His face creased in suspicion. ‘Near enough, I reckon.’

  Gunna jerked her head towards the block of offices that towered over them. ‘I’m wondering if you see much of what goes on next door, comings and goings from that place.’

  ‘It happens. A good few people use the back door as a shortcut, and there’s a guy from the insurance company on the fourth floor who leaves arm-in-arm with his secretary while his wife’s sitting in her car out the front waiting to catch them,’ he said with a laugh as dry as rustling paper. ‘She’ll figure it out one day, and that’ll be worth watching.’

  Gunna took out the picture of Jóhann Hjálmarsson from her pocket. ‘I’m looking for this man; he probably came out of that door sometime on Friday.’

  Finnbogi’s eyes narrowed even further. ‘And what’s he done, may I ask?’

  ‘You may ask if you like, but I reckon you know I shouldn’t tell you. Let’s just say that we’re concerned about his safety. It’s no secret. He’ll be on the evening news tonight.’

  This time his eyes widened. He dropped the butt of his cigarette and quickly ground it out under his toe. ‘Dead?’

  ‘I hope not. I’m looking for when he came out of there and who was with him.’

  ‘I didn’t see anything.’

  ‘No, but you could ask around among the staff and the people who work in the other shops.’

  His lip curled. ‘You’re asking me to do your police work for you?’

  ‘Not at all. I’m asking you to be a public-spirited citizen who doesn’t want an unexpected visit from environmental health. I’ll drop by tomorrow and see what you’ve found out.’ She handed him a card. ‘Or call me if you find something.’

  He shook his head and grinned, as if accepting defeat with good grace. ‘Strange women giving me their phone numbers doesn’t happen every day, sweetheart,’ he said, tucking her card into a pocket and patting it. ‘I’ll give you a call if I hear anything. Hell, I might give you a call even if I don’t hear anything,’ he added with a lewd wink.

  * * *

  ‘Eiríkur let him go?’

  ‘He did,’ Gunna said. ‘We could have arrested and charged him for the theft of the clasp that came from Aunt Bertha.’

  Ívar Laxdal looked dubious. ‘And why didn’t you?’

  ‘What’s the hurry?’ she asked, looking up as Eiríkur came in and hung his coat on the back of his chair. ‘We can pick Orri Björnsson up whenever we want, but all we have to charge him with is an offence that will get him a suspended sentence, and that’s assuming it even gets to court.’

  ‘You have all the evidence.’

  ‘We do, but a smart lawyer could argue that the old lady is too senile to know what day it is or that there’s a reasonable likelihood that Aunt Bertha could have mixed things up,’ Gunna said. ‘Plus, he’s worried now. He knows we’re interested in him and I’d like to keep him worried.’

  ‘It’s up to you, Gunnhildur. I’d have charged the bastard and made it formal, myself.’

  ‘That’s not a problem. We can pick Orri up and charge him whenever we feel like it. Eiríkur, I hope you don’t feel you’ve had a wasted day?’

  ‘What? I’ve watched that evil bastard Oggi fall off a motorbike and break his ankle. That’s a great day as far as I’m concerned.’

  Gísli looked more uncomfortable than Gunna thought she had ever seen him before, his broad shoulders hunched as he sat on a stool in the corner. She felt a sudden pang at the sight of him, the uncertain, lonely teenager suddenly brought back to life as if he had never been away, but instead of the skinny boy there was a brawny man with a goatee in the corner.

  Soffía and Drífa sat together on the sofa, chatting animatedly.

  ‘Wow! How many stitches?’ she heard Drífa ask Soffía as she pushed open the door to see plates and cups all over the table, Laufey spooning yoghurt into Kjartan Gíslason and Steini lying on the rug tickling the soles of a laughing Ari Gíslason’s bare feet. The only one who didn’t seem to be having a great time was Gísli in the corner.

  She stood silently in the doorway fo
r a moment and took in the scene of her two grandsons together in the same room for the first time. Gísli was the first to look up and notice her. He stood up and went across to wrap his arms around her.

  ‘Hæ, Mum. I tried to call you yesterday,’ he said as his embrace slackened and Gunna regained the breath he had squeezed out of her.

  ‘I know, sweetheart. I’m really sorry, but everything’s gone arse-shaped at work these last few days and I didn’t have a chance to call you back.’

  She perched on one of the stools by the little breakfast bar and poured herself a cup of coffee. Gísli sat next to her and did the same as they watched Laufey and Steini play with the children, while the two girls seemed to be sunk in conversation.

  ‘Are you all right, Gísli?’ Gunna asked, the hangdog look on his face stabbing her through the heart as she appreciated the turmoil he must be going through as a result of the same sight that brought her so much pleasure.

  ‘Yeah, I’m OK, I suppose,’ he said with a wry smile that showed just the opposite. ‘Been working a bit too hard recently.’

  ‘You’re still on the freezer, are you? They kept your berth open, didn’t they?’

  ‘Sailing next weekend.’

  ‘A shame you couldn’t finish college.’

  ‘I know. But there are mouths to feed now and I can go back next winter and finish.’

  ‘Make sure you do,’ Gunna said, patting his hand. There were hundreds of questions she wanted to ask, but this was neither the time nor the place for it. Gunna desperately wanted to know which of the two girls he planned on staying with, assuming that either of them still wanted him. She imagined that the sharp and independent Soffía would have some serious reservations on that score.

  ‘Thanks for looking after Drífa and Kjartan, Mum. I know she’s been as lonely as hell away from her own family.’

  ‘I gather she still hasn’t spoken to her mother yet,’ Gunna said in a murmur as their heads came close together over the coffee cups.

  ‘No. I had a call from her, though.’

  ‘From Ranna?’

  ‘Yep. She was very drunk and absolutely steaming with rage. Called me all the names under the sun.’

  Gunna took a deep breath. ‘That’s no big surprise. Ranna’s never been what you might call even-tempered.’

  ‘I really screwed up, didn’t I?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘You’re not angry?’

  ‘Gísli, of course I’m upset. But there’s nothing I can do about it now except make the best of it. I can’t turn the clock back and I can’t make things any different. Look, you have two handsome boys. The circumstances might have been easier, but just be satisfied that they’re both healthy and being looked after properly.’

  Gísli sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right, Mum.’

  ‘It’s up to you to make sure that you stay part of their lives and don’t just fade into the background.’

  ‘Like my dad did, you mean?’

  It was as if an electric current had jolted through her.

  ‘Yes,’ Gunna said with gritted teeth. ‘I’m afraid your father wasn’t much of a role model, was he?’ She paused. ‘Why? Have you seen him?’

  ‘Not for a while,’ Gísli admitted. ‘I know you didn’t want me to, but I did go and find him a couple of years ago.’

  ‘And?’ she asked with trepidation.

  Gísli shrugged. ‘To be honest, I wish I hadn’t taken the trouble. He wasn’t particularly interested. I went to visit him a couple of times and felt I was more of an embarrassment than anything else. His wife wasn’t impressed.’

  ‘She didn’t appreciate a long-forgotten child from her husband’s past showing up all of a sudden? I can’t say I’m surprised. And I’m even less surprised that he wasn’t interested in seeing you. He didn’t want to know all the years you were growing up. Oh, and if you do see him, you can maybe tell him that he still owes me about fifteen years’ worth of maintenance.’

  ‘Really, Mum?’ Gísli’s brows thickened in dislike as his eyebrows merged into one dark line across his forehead. ‘If I’d have known that, I wouldn’t have bothered at all.’

  ‘It’s probably best you did,’ Gunna said, patting his hand again. ‘Just don’t follow his example, all right?’

  He awoke with a clearer head. The headaches of the previous days had gone and Jóhann decided that the withdrawal symptoms from his life-long caffeine habit had dissipated remarkably quickly. There was no buzz in his ears. The low sun was peeping over the distant hills and today’s stronger wind from the west brought a tang of the sea.

  This time lighting a fire was a quicker job and he was determined to do it before the sun rose into the clouds and out of sight. He hurried to collect grass and the lumps of offcut wood that the men who had built the huge drying racks had dropped.

  Jóhann cursed the lack of any tools. He needed something more substantial than his fingernails to split the wood and fell back on pounding them with some of the round grey rocks that were everywhere until pieces came away. The dry grass smoked into life and he lay flat to blow the fire into flames, which he nurtured with handfuls of heather until it was burning robustly enough to be given pieces of wood.

  He threw everything on the fire, deciding against keeping any wood for later. Today was the day to leave, he decided, gnawing at one of the dried cod he had snatched from the racks the day before. The only worry was would it rain? It was something he had never had to think about before. Rain could be an inconvenience between the car and the door, or something that could mean bringing the party indoors. It had never occurred to him before that a good shower of rain could kill him rather than being just an occasional annoyance on the golf course.

  Leaving the ruined farm would mean abandoning shelter, such as it was. Wearing only the office clothes he had been in when he left the Harbourside Hotel and the filthy overcoat he had woken up in, he was painfully aware that these would give him little protection against the weather. A decent downpour could result in hypothermia and a quick death out here in the wilderness.

  Maybe that was the intention? He had tried to avoid thinking about what had happened to him, preferring to concentrate on survival, but now, with the fire burning merrily in the lee of the wrecked house and a half-eaten fish in his hands, those thoughts came flooding back to him.

  He had gone to the lawyer’s offices as he had agreed to. He had taken a taxi that turned up as if it had been called for him, but that was not unusual outside a busy hotel. He would probably have just walked, he reflected, if the taxi hadn’t turned up, and wondered if that might have made a difference in some way.

  Someone he knew had been there, he was sure of that. Had anyone else been present? It was hard to be sure. He wasn’t even sure who, but somehow the man’s ridiculous moustache had remained fixed in his mind. Jóhann suddenly felt tired and sat back against the rough wall of the farmhouse as thoughts of Sunna María flooded into his mind. Would she be missing him? Would she be distraught? More likely, would she simply be angry, he wondered, clawing at his memory for fragments that might tell him what had happened. And what about Nina? She would worry at his unaccustomed silence and that knowledge gave him a pang of deep regret.

  Through all this, the question that burned was why? Why had they dumped him up here in the wilds to die? If the intention had been to do away with him, why had they not done it quickly? Why transport a man to the back of beyond to starve?

  Gunna arrived to find an impromptu conference in progress. Sævaldur’s face was redder with frustration than she had ever seen it, and Eiríkur quailed in the face of his fury while Ívar Laxdal mediated.

  ‘I don’t call it poaching from under your nose, Sævaldur,’ he said quietly, fingers entwined into a bridge below his square face. ‘I’d be more inclined to call it an excellent piece of police work that gets you closer to the villain you’ve spent weeks looking for.’

  ‘Months I’ve been chasing this housebreaker, and this lad w
hose balls have only just dropped turns up on a Monday morning and gives me his name and phone number?’ He gurgled and coughed, sitting down and pounding his chest with a fist to get his breath back. ‘It’s a bloody cheek,’ he said finally.

  Ívar Laxdal took off the glasses he wore for reading and pointed with them, emphasizing his point. He looked up to see Gunna.

  ‘Gunnhildur, we have a minor disagreement.’

  ‘Problem, boys?’ she asked, taking off her coat as Sævaldur spluttered.

  ‘Your boy has only gone and found the bastard I’ve been after for months,’ he said. ‘And then let him go.’

  Gunna sat down and opened her notes on the table in front of her.

  ‘We could have charged him yesterday, in which case he would have been released anyway within a few hours. We have all the evidence, witness statements and the rest of it. We know where he works and where he lives. So what’s your problem? A golden opportunity for you to gather evidence and build a convincing case, I’d have thought. Or did you just want to gloat over him for an hour or two before you’d have to let him out anyway?’

  ‘Don’t talk shit, Gunna. I’d have made the little fucker sweat and confess everything he’d ever done from primary school onwards.’

  ‘And then watched him walk out of here,’ Gunna said, trying not to sound sarcastic. ‘Now. Alex Snetzler. I’ve just had a visit to the hospital on the way here and apparently the guy who lives in the flat is called Alex. He’s from Latvia, the same as Maris.’ She looked up. ‘Eiríkur, have you filled Sævaldur in on our broken-fingered Latvian?’

  ‘I haven’t had a chance,’ he said in a hurt tone.

  ‘In that case, Sæsi, for your information, a Latvian called Maris had all the fingers of one hand smashed by Big Oggi and his brother the other night. The interesting thing is that we found a pile of stolen goods in the flat, mostly electrical. The flat is rented by Alex. Maris was only staying there temporarily while he was looking for a place of his own, or so he says, and it seems certain that we’re looking at mistaken identity here.’