Cold Comfort (17 page)

“Örlygur Sveinsson’s decided to come and give us a hand for a couple of days?” Gunna hazarded.

“Not that good.”

“Go on, don’t keep a lady in suspense.”

“It’s the prints from Svana’s flat. Positively identified, the cleaner’s prints in the hallway.”

“Which we knew we would.”

“There’s Svana’s brother’s prints, and Tinna Sigvalds, the police officer who was first on the scene.” Helgi read from the printout in front of him, holding it at arm’s length so as to be able to see without having to fumble for his glasses.

“Again, we knew Tinna’s prints would be on the door at least. So what’s your bombshell, Sherlock?”

“We have Hallur Hallbjörnsson all over the bathroom and the bedroom. Bjarki Steinsson’s prints in the kitchen, bathroom and bedroom, and the big fat man’s prints practically everywhere.”

“You mean Jónas Valur Hjaltason?”

“That’s the guy.”

“And the other miscreant?”

“Bjartmar Arnarson is conspicuous by his absence. But there’s a joker in the pack as well.”

“Which is?”

“Long Ommi.”

“What?”

“No doubt about it. Ómar Magnússon’s prints were beyond question on the door of the fridge, the kitchen door, one of the worktops and the kitchen light switch.”

Gunna sat back and thought for a moment with knitted brows. “In the kitchen where Svana was killed. It puts a new angle on things, doesn’t it?”

“Doesn’t it just?” Helgi agreed. “According to the technical team, there are some blood spots on one of the kitchen cupboard doors, which ties in with what Miss Cruz came up with.”

“Which is what?”

“Three blows to the head, which looks very much like a single blow with something heavy to the back of the head, a blow to the forehead as she hit the counter on the way down and another one when she landed on the floor. She’s done the autopsy and those are the only injuries.”

Gunna nodded. “Sounds plausible enough. We’re just missing the heavy object for the moment. What else did Miss Cruz have to say? I’ll read it all later, but give me the gist of it, will you?”

“Svana was pretty fit, as you’d expect. Loads of plastic surgery, though, some liposuction and some false bits added on, notably tits, hips, cheeks and lips. She had all her own teeth, no other significant injuries apart from some minor bruising to one forearm that’s certainly a day or two older, marks on wrists that are consistent with handcuffs or a binding of some kind, but also several days old. Oh, and she’d had it off in the last few hours of her life.”

“DNA?”

“Working on it. Also traces from the sheets and clothing.”

“So Svana had been very friendly with someone that day. A quickie that morning, or maybe whoever she was friendly with knocked her on the head afterwards?” Gunna suggested.

Helgi shook his head. “Bjarki Steinsson admitted he was with her that morning.”

“Another talk with Bjarki is called for, I think. Where’s Ommi now?”

“Not going back to Kvíabryggja, at any rate. They made a bit of space and he’ll be in solitary at Litla-Hraun tomorrow, but he’s in the cells here right now.”

“That’s handy. He has a lot of answers to come up with,” Gunna said grimly. “But as he’s not going anywhere, I’d like to let the bastard stew while we have a chat with Selma first.”

I
T WASN’T A
long drive to downtown Reykjavík, and Gunna reflected that she could have been quicker walking, with the added benefit of burning off a few calories. She parked near the lake and admired the reflection of the City Hall in the water, perfectly still for once, as she strode towards the old town house where Hallur Hallbjörnsson had his office.

As she turned a corner, a familiar figure leaped down the steps three at a time and hurried towards the car park, fumbling for keys in one pocket while hugging an armful of folders. Gunna quickened her pace and reached Hallur’s parked Mercedes just as he was stacking files and folders on the back seat.

“Morning. Need a hand?”

“Good morning,” he shot back breezily, smiling as he looked up. “Ah, Sergeant,” he said, his smile fading away suddenly as he recognized her.

“Nice car. What year?”

“Seventy-two. An uncle of mine had it from new and looked after it. Never drove it during the winter, always kept it inside. So I’ve tried to do the same. First time I’ve had it out this year. Anything I can do for you, officer? I’m afraid I’m in a hurry.”

“A word, if you have time,” Gunna said in a tone that indicated that anything else would hardly do.

“I was just leaving. I have a meeting in a few minutes.”

“It won’t take long.”

“My office? I’m going to be late, and this is important,” Hallur said helplessly.

“We can sit in your car if that’s not a problem for you,” Gunna said, and half regretted the suggestion. She sank into the leather seat and Hallur sat behind the wheel, fiddling with his keys.

“Is this still about Svana?” he asked.

“Why? Is there something else you need to get off your chest?”

“Of course there isn’t.”

Hallur had spoken more irritably than he had intended.

“Sorry, Sergeant,” he said with a sigh. “It’s been, well, difficult these last few days.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Word gets around. Everyone there knows that you’ve been here to see me more than once.” He indicated with a dismissive nod the red corrugated-iron building where his office nestled in the eaves. “The rumours are flying already. I’ve had to explain myself twice to the party chairman and it’s being made pretty clear that my position could become untenable.”

His eyes flickered from the dashboard to the building on the other side of the car park and back to Gunna, who once again had the uncomfortable feeling that she was being sized up. She tugged the zip of her coat up past the cleavage line, even though her blouse was already buttoned almost to the neck.

“Results from the forensic examination of Svana and her flat. Your fingerprints are all over the bedroom and the bathroom.”

“I told you they might be, and don’t forget, I gave samples of my fingerprints willingly.”

“Duly noted,” Gunna replied. “Svana had a sexual partner the day she died. You?”

“Shit!” Hallur looked shocked.

“Fair enough. I have to ask, you understand. But I need an answer,” Gunna said with iron in her voice.

“I find it very uncomfortable, Sergeant, having my personal life dug into in this way by a woman. If you don’t mind my saying so.”

“I don’t mind your saying so and I do appreciate your position. But these questions need answers.” She tried not to smile, and bit back a suggestion that he could at least stop trying to unobtrusively check out her legs.

Hallur grunted non-committally.

“So when did you last see Svana?”

“Like I told you. On the fourth. That was my turn.”

“I’m not saying I disbelieve you, but there is evidence to the contrary. If you have anything to tell me, I’d imagine a man in your position would be very well advised to come clean. There’s DNA evidence that’s being tested now.”

“Shit! Am I a suspect?” he demanded suddenly. “Because unless I am, I think you should stop pressuring me like this.”

“If I’m pressuring you, it’s because I don’t believe you’re telling me everything that a man in your position would have a duty to,” Gunna said gently, but with a firmer tone behind the softness.

Hallur jammed the car key into the ignition. “I’m sorry, officer. I have a meeting that I’m already late for. Can I drop you somewhere?”

“Right here will do. You still haven’t answered the question I asked you.”

“And I don’t have time to now. Understand, Sergeant?” There was a new harshness in Hallur’s voice.

“Perfectly. If you’re not prepared to co-operate with a serious police investigation, then you don’t leave me too many options.”

“What are you going to do? Arrest me?”

Gunna opened the door and swung herself down to the ground, not sorry to be out of the car.

“Maybe not yet. But I’m already wondering what else a smart young MP might have to be so nervous about. See you soon,” she said, slamming the door before he could reply. She set off towards the lake with a smile on her face, wondering idly why she should be pleased with herself when Hallur’s car sped past.

J
ÓN LAY ON
his back in a widening puddle as his phone began to play the theme tune from Star Wars. It was too far away to reach easily and he decided to let it ring. He patted the floor at his side for the wrench he knew was there and closed his hand around it, the other holding the isolation valve in place under the kitchen sink. With a few swift turns the valve was secured and he hauled himself stiffly to his feet.

There was no number under the missed call message on his phone’s screen. Jón put it back on the kitchen table and rummaged in his toolbox to come up with a set of mixer taps, as good as new, left over from another job.

This time he whistled as he set about fitting them to the kitchen sink, first taking the old leaking taps off and dropping them in the bin that normally occupied the space where he had been lying in the puddle.

“Almost done?”

“Yeah. Not long. Done the hard part,” he said without looking round at the thin, blank-faced young woman who lived in the flat strewn with the debris left by small children with not enough space to play. Not bad-looking, apart from that miserable expression on her face, he thought. How old? No more than twenty-three or twenty-four? And how many sprogs?

“D’you want a coffee?”

“Yeah, please.”

He heard her take the jug from the percolator and fill it in the bathroom. Before long it was spluttering and hissing as the aroma of fresh coffee filled the room. Jón swung himself back under the sink with a tap spanner in one hand and gently tightened the nuts holding the new tap unit in place. As he emerged, he saw her sitting at the table with two mugs in front of her.

“Almost done,” he told her, and she nodded as he delved into his toolbox for a tube of silicone.

“I’ll just put a squirt of this around the back of your sink. If you get water into the worktop, it’ll swell up and rot, and that’s a hell of a job to replace,” he said.

Jón stretched and flexed his shoulders after an hour hunched under the sink, just as his phone began to ring again.

“Yeah?”

“Jón?” a voice asked. “This is Hrannar Antonsson at the bank.”

Jón instantly regretted answering the phone, as “private number calling” on the display generally meant trouble.

“Yeah, what do you want now?” he demanded, dreading the reply and noticing for the first time that the woman sitting at the table had brushed some life into her limp hair and changed from the loose sweatshirt she had been wearing when he arrived into a blouse that hid nothing.

“We’d really like you to come in so we can review your status,” the personal financial adviser gabbled. “Of course we realize that things aren’t easy for any of us right now, but there are a few items that we need to regularize.”

Regularize? Jón thought. Is that really a word?

“All right,” he sighed. “When?”

“Well, no pressure, obviously, but this is getting urgent and we’ve been trying to reach you for a couple of days now …”

“So there is pressure, if you say it’s getting urgent.”

“Well, yes. Er, no. I don’t want to pressure you, but we do need to achieve a settlement that’s agreeable to everyone so that we can normalize your banking status and hopefully reinstate your privileges—”

“This afternoon?” Jón broke in. “I can be there in an hour or so.”

“Er, yeah,” Hrannar said, taken aback. “Could we make it tomorrow, maybe?”

“It’s today or next week,” Jón said, anger rising inside him as he imagined the young man sitting behind his desk at the bank. The woman stared at him with a vacant expression as she listened to the conversation.

“My diary’s already full for today and I just don’t have a slot for any more appointments,” the personal financial adviser protested.

“Look, mate. I’m at work and I don’t have time to mess about. Today, or next week.”

“In that case it’ll have to be Tuesday. How’s about three twenty-five? OK for you?”

“No, it’s not. What time do you open?”

“We’re here at nine thirty.”

“Nine thirty, then. I’m not going to pack up a day’s work somewhere to come into town just to hear more bad news.”

“If that’s the way you feel, I can make you an appointment at nine fifty,” Hrannar shot back, irritation plain in his voice.

“I have to say, I feel you could be more co-operative—”

“I’ll be there when you open,” Jón told him, and ended the call without waiting to hear more, tossing his phone into his open toolbox. “Bastards …”

“Finished?” the woman asked.

“Pretty much. I’ll just give it all a wipe-down,” Jón replied, turning on the new tap and watching the water gush into the sink. He snapped the water off and put the rest of his tools and unused parts back in the toolbox.

“Your coffee’s on the table,” she reminded him softly and with the first smile he had seen from her.

“Thanks,” Jón said, sitting down and taking a mouthful. “Good coffee. Lived here long?”

“Almost a year. It’s too small for us, but it was all I could afford.”

“How many kids?” Jón asked.

“Three. All under five.” She sighed. “How much do I owe you?”

“Call it fifteen thousand for cash. That’s an hour’s work and I’ll only charge you five thousand for the taps as they were off another job. How does that sound?”

“That’s great. But, er …” She looked down at the table and leaned forward, providing a clear view down her blouse. “The thing is, I don’t have fifteen thousand right now. My maintenance hasn’t come through and the kids needed shoes and I’m a bit short.”

Bloody hell, another one. Poor cow, Jón thought, staring at her timid smile and deliberately looking into her face and not at the nipples on display. Hardly even a handful, not like Linda’s.

She glanced down at his hands clasped around the mug.

“Maybe there’s some other way we can settle this?” she said in a silky voice, looking him in the eyes and giving her shoulders a discreet shake that set off tiny tremors across her bosom.