Cold Comfort (19 page)

“How long were you together?” Helgi asked blandly, ignoring Ommi’s question.

“Hell, a few months … listen, this was years ago. We were kids.”

Helgi nodded, as if this were a nugget of information he had been searching for. Gunna suppressed a smile of satisfaction and watched Karl Einar Bjarnason as carefully as she watched Ommi’s reactions to Helgi’s questions.

“So what was the nature of your relationship with Svanhildur Mjöll? Did you live together?”

“No, we never shacked up like that. She had a flat with Elma and the other girl from that band they were in. I was around there a while.”

“Where were you living?”

“Where did I live in 1996? What’s all this? Are you going to let them carry on with this crap?” Ommi demanded of his lawyer, who merely shrugged in reply.

Helgi picked up a sheet of paper from the desk and pretended to consult it.

“According to the National Registry, your legal residence until you went to prison was at Hraungata 19 in Hvalvík. I take it you weren’t actually living there?”

“That’s where my mum lives. I haven’t even been near that dump for years.”

“How long did your relationship with Svanhildur Mjöll last?”

“A few months.”

“Why did it come to an end?”

“I don’t know. I got tired of her.”

“Not because you were abusive and violent? You have a record of violence against women.”

“Don’t drag that up again. That was years ago, and only the once.”

Helgi gazed at Ommi and tried to gauge just how angry he was getting with the line of questioning he did not see the reason for. “Isn’t it true that Svanhildur Mjöll threw you over after you hit her?”

“No! I dropped her. And I never smacked her, even if I wanted to.”

“Why would you want to?” Gunna broke in.

Ommi shook his head. “She was just nuts. She’d drive you mad sometimes, wanting this and that, wanting to go here or there and always right now. Maybe she’s slowed down by now. Felt sorry for that poor bastard she married, twisted him right round her little finger and dropped him the minute he wasn’t going to be a rich footballer.”

“You mean Sigmundur Björnsson?”

“Yeah. What happened to him? He just vanished the second Svana crossed her legs.” Ommi looked up truculently into Helgi’s eyes, as if challenging him. “Why all this stuff about Svana?”

“You were involved with Svana, and so was Óskar Óskarsson,” Helgi guessed. “You guys were the best of friends, so what was going on there?”

“Æi. Me and Skari. We were best mates and we were always trying out each other’s cast-offs. I had Svana first. Then Skari had a go at her for a while. We were mates. We shared these things like mates do.”

“And Skari and you aren’t the best of friends these days,” Helgi said. “Why’s that? Where were you on Thursday last week?”

“Can’t remember.”

“Try. We have CCTV evidence that puts you at the N1 petrol station in Keflavík shortly before Óskar Óskarsson was admitted to hospital.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, Ommi. Now, what happened between you and Skari? You’d been best mates since you were in kindergarten. Grew up on the same street. Went to Reykjavík together when Hvalvík wasn’t big enough any more. You were both involved in all kinds of stuff, pinching cars, flogging dope, collecting debts for Benni Sól—”

“I never worked for Benni,” Ommi interrupted.

“Ah, but you did. The man told us himself that you’d run errands for him.”

The lawyer coughed discreetly at Ommi’s side and Helgi’s voice hardened. “You. Skari. What went wrong?”

“Shit, man. We just fell out. It happens.”

“Over what? Svana?”

“Well, yeah. I suppose,” Ommi admitted. “She was part of it, I reckon. Skari didn’t have it in him any more, went soft.”

“When did you last see her?” Helgi asked.

“Svana? Hell, I don’t know. Didn’t see a lot of her after she got famous on TV and married that weightlifting guy, got too smart to talk to her old friends any more.”

“So when did you see her last?”

“Dunno. Before you lot banged me up.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah. Course I’m sure,” Ommi snarled.

“My client has been asked the same question a number of times now, officer,” the lawyer pointed out, trying to stifle a yawn.

“In that case it would be useful for you to explain how come we were able to retrieve your fingerprints from Svanhildur Mjöll’s flat. These prints weren’t more than a week old when we lifted them.”

Ommi’s face set hard and the lawyer’s eyebrows shot upwards.

“Ommi, we have Óskar Óskarsson in hospital in Keflavík to start with. Kristbjörn Hrafnsson, better known to you as Daft Diddi, was admitted to Casualty and when asked what happened told the officers who took him there that “it wasn’t Long Ommi.” So why did Diddi say that? And now Svana. Did you decide to settle a few scores, just for old times’ sake, Ommi?”

“What’s this with Svana?”

“If you’ve been holed up for a few days, maybe you’re a bit behind with the news. Svana Geirs was found murdered in her flat. It’s common enough knowledge, but maybe you haven’t been watching the news in your little hideaway?”

“Svana’s dead?” Ommi asked, eyes wide.

“Yup, and your prints are in her flat.”

“I think I need to talk to this guy without you listening,” Ommi said, ashen-faced, turning to the now wide-awake lawyer at his side.

I
N THE CANTEEN,
Gunna found Eiríkur talking to one of the police legal team, a sharp-faced woman who was respected but not generally liked. As Gunna made for their table, the other woman stood up, nodded and left with a stack of papers in one hand.

“What did our legal eagle have to say?” Gunna asked.

“Questions over why Addi the Pill has a broken wrist. I told her that he resisted arrest and assaulted an officer in the process.”

“And was she satisfied with that?”

“Oh, yes, especially when I told her to ask Helgi for details, as he was the officer in charge of the operation. I gather she rather likes Helgi.”

“Poor Helgi. Right, what did you get out of Addi the Pill?”

Eiríkur grimaced. “Shit, what a thug. Have you seen his record? There’s a bit of practically everything there.” He sighed to himself. “A real head case, this guy is. I’ve no doubt he’s the one who drove Diddi to the bank and drove him away afterwards. He fits Diddi’s description perfectly, doesn’t have an alibi. There’s a red Ford that also fits the description parked a few streets away from the house in Gardabær, registered to a sixty-three-year old woman who reported it stolen from outside her house in Reykjanesbær ten days ago, and the keys were in Addi’s jacket pocket. Technical are going over it for prints and whatever else can be found.”

“Good going, young man,” Gunna said approvingly.

“He’s having his wrist checked by the doctor again, says it hurts. When that’s done, I’ll have another session with him. How goes it with Ommi?”

“He’s tying himself in knots, but won’t admit a thing. I’m leaving Helgi to look after him while I go for a chat with Selma.”

“She’s in floods of tears, or so I’m told,” Eiríkur said with satisfaction. “I take it that’s not going to make you go soft on her, is it?”

Gunna stood up and cracked her knuckles. “You know, Eiríkur? You lot all see me as this evil old witch who’s had every shred of sympathy surgically removed. Well let me tell you, under this rough exterior there’s a heart of pure stone. Don’t you worry about Selma. She’ll be singing like a bird before you know it.”

“You know her mother’s downstairs?”

“What? Evil Eygló? Well, she’ll have a long wait.”

S
ELMA WAS NO
more collected or calm than she had been when she and Ommi had been delivered to the police station at Hverfisgata to be searched and checked in, while Addi the Pill was having treatment for his injuries and roaring about police brutality to anyone who would listen.

She sat tearfully opposite Gunna, who spread her elbows on the table in front of her to provide even more of an imposing figure than normal. A middle-aged man in an ill-fitting grey suit had been appointed as Selma’s lawyer and sat next to her, flipping unconcernedly through sheets of notes that Gunna guessed had little to do with Selma’s case.

“Is my mum here?” Selma asked querulously.

“Yup,” Gunna said.

“Can I see her?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You are aware that everything that happens in here is recorded?” Gunna asked, ignoring the question.

“Yeah.”

“Right, then. I’ve read your statements from yesterday when you spoke to my colleague. You helped Ómar to abscond from prison? Why did you do it, Selma?”

“I didn’t know he was running away,” Selma wailed. “Not until he said for me to drive out of that place, y’know, whatsitcalled? You have to do what Ommi says. He’s a sweet guy, but he can be really angry sometimes.”

“Like when?”

“If someone doesn’t agree with him, or doesn’t respect him properly.”

“Like this person?” Gunna held out a photograph of Diddi, and Selma studied it carefully.

“I don’t know,” she replied innocently. “Who’s that?”

“Kristbjörn Hrafnsson, otherwise known as Daft Diddi. He’s a nice enough lad, but has some mental problems and has lived in a hostel for years. Right, then. The truth, please, Selma. Have you seen this guy before?” Gunna demanded.

“Yeah.”

“When? Where?”

“In town. Last week. With Ommi and Addi. The guy was downtown so Ommi offered him a lift and we went for a drive around.”

“Who was driving? You?”

“Yeah.”

“In your mother’s car?”

“No! In Ommi’s car that he bought the other week. The red one.”

“He bought it? Who from?”

“I don’t know. Some guy.”

“Some guy who stole it,” Gunna said.

“Oh.”

“When Diddi was in the car, what did they talk about?”

“Money and stuff. I didn’t listen much.”

“And what was your impression of Diddi? How did he come across? Frightened?”

“Er, maybe. A bit,” Selma said after a long moment’s thought.

“Come on, Selma. Don’t play games with me. I think Ommi and his mate threatened Diddi and forced him to go into a bank with a knife. In fact I know so, and unless I’m convinced otherwise, I won’t have much of an option but to see you as an accessory.”

“Please, officer,” the lawyer at Selma’s side said without looking up from his notes.

“What’s an access … sery?” Selma asked.

“It means that you would be seen as having taken part in the alleged crime,” the lawyer said in a dry voice.

“But I didn’t! It was them!” Selma squawked.

“Ah. So now we’re getting somewhere. You’re saying that Ommi and Addi forced Diddi to commit a crime?”

“Yeah,” Selma said sulkily.

“What did they tell him to do?”

“They said that he owed them money from sometime years ago before your lot put my Ommi in prison. Diddi said he didn’t have it. Ommi said he could help him find it and all he had to do was go into the bank and get it. Look, I was just driving them around, OK?”

“Which one of them gave Diddi a lift on the day?”

“When?”

“Don’t act stupid, Selma. Which one of them drove Diddi to the bank, parked in the next street and drove him away afterwards?”

“I don’t know. Not me.”

“Selma, why did Ommi abscond from Kvíabryggja?”

“Ab-what?”

“Do a runner.”

Selma’s shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “Dunno.”

“There has to be a good reason for it. He had less than a year to go and then he would have been out on parole. Why jeopardize that? Something to do with this Addi? Did they have some business together?”

“Dunno,” Selma said quietly, the sour looked fixed to her features.

“Come on, Selma. I know you’re not as thick as you make out. Ommi’s going away again for a good long time and if you’re not careful, so will you. What was Addi there for? Why did Ommi do a bunk? Something to do with Addi’s business, or was it something else?”

“Dunno,” Selma repeated stonily. “Look, I want a cigarette. I’ve been here for hours.”

“Sorry,” Gunna said. “It’s a government building, so it’s a smokeless zone.”

I
T WAS PAST
six o’clock when Gunna, Eiríkur and Helgi gathered to compare notes. All of them were tired after spending a full day in the interview rooms with Ommi, Selma and the taciturn Addi the Pill when he was brought back, one wrist in plaster and prepared only to comment bitterly on his ill-treatment. Gunna felt her uniform shirt sticking to her back and longed for a shower.

“I’m leaving in …” She looked at her watch, “five minutes and not a second longer. What have we found out?”

Helgi yawned and his phone yodelled to him as he switched it on. “Daft Diddi’s escapade was orchestrated by Ommi and Addi. No doubt. Even if Ommi didn’t have a good few years of his sentence ahead of him, we’d have grounds for keeping him. We have custody for Addi and it won’t be a problem to keep him in. What about Selma?”

“We’re letting her out tomorrow morning. Evil Eygló has been shouting about her daughter being banged up without good cause all day, so no harm in giving her a bit more to yell about.”

“Did you get anything out of Selma?” Helgi asked, scrolling through a day’s worth of accumulated text messages. “Shit. Halla wanted me home at four. Oh well. It’s the doghouse for me tonight,” he said, almost cheerfully.

“Selma knows a lot of it, certainly more than she’s letting on. What I really want to know is the Ommi-Bjartmar-Svana triangle. How do these three tie up? What are the links? Who owes who a favour? Who did Ommi do time for, and in return for what? If there was some kind of a deal, why abscond? Is Ommi acting on his own initiative or what? Did he do a runner because of something happening outside? If so, what? Was it Bjartmar he was doing the time for?”

Eiríkur looked blank. “I’ve no idea, chief. Really no idea. It’s like talking to a wall in there. I don’t know how long Addi the Pill has been sampling his own merchandise, but the guy is completely spaced out.”

Gunna shuffled through papers on her desk and screwed up tired eyes to look at the screen of her computer, scrolling through new emails and deleting as she went until only a few remained. She clicked Shut Down and stood up.