Cold Comfort (6 page)
Gunna smiled inwardly, recalling how only a few months ago Skúli had been a shy young man surprised at everything around him in the real world after all his years of study.
“There’s been a rumour flying around that Svana was linked with somebody prominent,” Skúli continued.
“Linked businesswise, or romantically?”
“Either or both. The rumour is that she had been sleeping with someone prominent, but no names. Someone prominent and married, that is. But what’s the state of things now as far as the police are concerned?”
“So the mystery deepens. We’ll confirm officially first thing in the morning that the victim is Svana Geirs. The family have been notified, so it’s all yours.”
“Can I have that now?”
Gunna thought for a moment. “The confirmation will be at eight tomorrow. But I reckon you’d be safe enough if it goes on the Dagurinn website after midnight. That won’t upset anyone and you’ll still be ahead of everyone else.”
“Brilliant,” Skúli grinned.
“Right. I’m going home,” Gunna announced, fumbling in her coat pocket for car keys. She looked down at their empty mugs, squinting at the remnants of sandwich on Skúli’s plate. “You ought to eat your crusts if you want to grow up big and strong. I’ll get these,” she added, striding towards the slackjawed young man staring into space behind the counter.
“W
HERE D’YOU GET
the number from?”
“From the brother, strange character,” Helgi replied. “I had to push him a bit, but he came up with it. It’s as if he wants us to find out what happened to his sister, but he doesn’t want to do anything that might actually help.”
“He is odd,” Gunna agreed. “You’d be odd if you’d grown up where he did. A country lad like yourself should know what these out-of-the way places are like.”
“That’s rich from someone who grew up in Vestureyri,” Helgi shot back.
“So, what have you found out since last night?”
Helgi looked pleased with himself. “There are actually two numbers registered to Svana Geirs, neither of which has been used for months. Plus there’s the number I managed to get out of Högni.”
“And?”
“It’s a contract phone, all paid up to date, and it’s registered to Fit Club. I asked for a warrant to track the phone, and according to the phone company it’s still switched on. It’s in the vicinity of the flat and hasn’t been far. At least, the connection has been through the same mast the whole time. And no, there’s no answer.”
“That’s quick work. Well done. So what do you reckon?”
“No idea,” Helgi said after a moment’s silence. “It could still be in the flat, but the place has been searched thoroughly. Or else it’s somewhere close by. Picked up by the killer and dumped in a bin, something like that?”
“Or been put somewhere we’re never likely to find it, more like,” Gunna said grimly.
“I don’t know. I’d have thought that someone who wanted to get rid of it would have switched it off first, or just taken the SIM card out and destroyed that, rather than leaving the phone lying about switched on.”
“Unless it’s some kind of false trail?” Gunna wondered.
F
IT CLUB WAS
less than its website had indicated, but managed to be everything Gunna found uncomfortable. Sandwiched between a residential area of 1960s blocks and the business district of Ármúli, the short street of which Fit Club was the main feature was full of cars parked badly across the club’s glass frontage. Gunna peered in and saw that a few of the running machines were in use. Rather than the bright young things that Fit Club’s advertising indicated, these were being pounded by middle-aged women and a few men, all on a mission to get into something slightly smaller.
“Agnar Arnalds about?” Gunna asked the waif-like blonde at the front desk.
“Er, like, who are you?” the girl demanded in return, and Gunna wondered if she really was thinner than the sad yucca plant in a pot next to the desk, of if she simply looked that way. “Police.” Gunna flashed her wallet quickly in front of the girl.
“Sorry. We get a lot of older ladies asking for him,” the girl apologized. She pressed a button on an intercom system that blared an error tone back at her. “It’s not working. Wait a moment, I’ll check. He’s not always here this early on a Sunday.”
“Older?” Gunna mouthed to herself as the girl disappeared through a door behind her desk, and she took the opportunity to look over into the reception desk. There was little to be seen other than a battered phone. An open notebook showed scribbled numbers, and packets of chewing gum and cigarettes were stacked out of sight of prying eyes.
“Good morning. You’re not here to join us, are you?”
The man had appeared silently behind her as the girl returned to her desk.
“No, far from it,” Gunna said. “Agnar?”
“That’s me.”
A beefy hand was extended, with a discreet hint of smile that indicated its wearer knew why she was there.
“Gunnhildur Gísladóttir, Serious Crime Unit. It’s about Svana Geirs, but I reckon you’d guessed that already.”
“Thought so. Come with me.”
Agnar Arnalds stood over two metres tall, waves of brown hair falling to his shoulders, and Gunna looked appreciatively at the expanse of the man’s muscular back as he took the stairs three at a time. Fit Club’s office provided a remarkable contrast to the hardwood floor and floor-to-ceiling mirror walls downstairs. The decor in here was cheap chipboard, and Gunna guessed that it had been years since the place had seen a paintbrush. Agnar waved her to a seat, but sat himself on his own desk, feet on a chair. Gunna decided to stay standing rather than have the man towering over her.
“I’m here about Svana,” she repeated. Agnar’s face became melancholy as if a switch had been turned inside him. His shoulders dropped and the smile disappeared.
“Poor Svana,” he sighed. “She was a wonderful person. So full of life.”
“Right now I’m working on building up a picture of her movements over her last few days—who she spoke to, who she met, places she went to, that sort of thing. When did you last see her?”
“The day she died. She was here, took an early class in the morning for her foldies—”
“Foldies?” Gunna asked.
“Fat oldies. Sorry, I mean older ladies. When was she … killed?” Agnar gulped out the last word.
“In the afternoon. What time did she leave here?”
Agnar thought for a moment with his chin in one hand, a pose that Gunna was sure he must have practised frequently.
“She normally had three classes here between eight and eleven. But that day she had just one and someone else took the other classes. I remember she showered here and left. I think she had a meeting somewhere,” he said carefully. “No, I don’t know who with,” he added as soon as he saw Gunna about to ask.
“All right. What’s the nature of her involvement with this business?”
“How do you mean?”
“Svana was one of the three owners, or so I understand?”
“You’ve been doing your homework, haven’t you?” Agnar asked with a winning smile.
“That’s the nature of the job,” Gunna replied coldly.
“There are … were,” he corrected himself, “three partners in the company that owns this place. Me, Svana and an investment company.”
“Which is?”
Agnar twisted uncomfortably. “KópInvest has a lot of shareholders. Svana owned thirty per cent, the same as me. KópInvest holds the rest. That’s it.”
Gunna consulted her folder of notes. “Svana’s mobile phone, number ending 868. It’s registered to Fit Club?”
Agnar nodded.
“Any idea where that phone is?”
Agnar looked blank and Gunna knew immediately that he had been taken by surprise.
“She always had it. Used it all the time,” he said slowly. “Wasn’t it with her?”
“No sign of it.”
“Can’t understand that. She was lost without it. She’d put it on silent when she had a class, but apart from then, it was pretty much stuck to her ear all the time.”
“Did she have another phone?”
“Not any more. She changed numbers a few months ago after some deadbeat started making crank calls to her. Svana swore she was being stalked.”
“Did she go to the police?”
“God, no,” he said, rummaging in a drawer. “Here’s her old one. It’s a Fit Club phone as well.”
“I’ll take that if I may,” Gunna said firmly as Agnar unwillingly placed the phone in her palm. “Did she report these crank calls? Any idea what sort of calls they were? Silence? Heavy breathing? That’s the normal sort of thing.”
“She didn’t say, just that some creep was pestering her.”
“All right. I could do with a list of friends and acquaintances. I take it she had a busy social life?”
“Just a bit.”
“Any particular close friends?”
“Loads of them. Jenna Hrannars, Ásd’s Ósk Gunnars, Hulda Gróa Waage. You must have read about them?” Agnar looked satisfied, as if there could be no greater accomplishment than having talked-about friends.
“Can’t say I have,” Gunna replied drily. “Any new acquaintances? Anything unusual?”
“Last week she had a screaming argument right outside here. That was a surprise,” Agnar said, rubbing his square chin. “She told me afterwards that the bloke she was yelling at was her brother and that they’d sorted it all out afterwards. Svana wanted him to become a personal trainer.”
“And what did you think of that idea?”
“Not a lot,” he said flatly. “I spoke to him and I thought he was an idiot. Well overweight, so he’d need to lose a lot.”
“How about Svana’s lovers?” Gunna asked.
The look of satisfaction vanished from Agnar’s handsome features and was replaced with a scowl. “A few. They came and went.”
“Frequently? Occasionally? Who’s in the picture? You?”
“That’s ancient history,” Agnar said with a sour look that appeared incongruous on his open features. “We were good friends and business partners. We worked well together, but we didn’t share every personal detail.”
“That’s as far as it went?” Gunna asked, inwardly pleased to have found a chink in the man’s self-satisfied armour.
“We were an item for a while about five years ago, after she divorced Bjarni Örn. That’s all in the past. Nothing since.”
“Fair enough. Do you know who was she seeing recently?”
“No. She didn’t say and I didn’t ask. But there was one she kept quiet, like she wanted to stay discreet about him. Maybe he’s married, I don’t know.”
“Did she make a habit of that?”
“What? Screwing married men? It happens,” he replied with a shrug. “Is it important?”
“Murders are generally about either money or jealousy. If anything comes to mind, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know. How’s business?” she asked abruptly.
Agnar scowled again. “It’s OK. Could be worse. At least we’re still in business, which is more than can be said for a lot of places. But I don’t know how we’re going to manage now. Svana was this place’s main attraction, you know.”
G
UNNA SAW THE
moment the door opened that Hallur Hallbjörnsson was sweating. His face was flushed, in sharp contrast to the urbane persona she had seen him present so skilfully on television.
His office was in the eaves of one of the old corrugated-iron houses a stone’s throw from Parliament and the incongruously modern city hall bordering Reykjavík’s shallow, duck-filled lake. Gunna knew that the city hall behind its modern columns was where Hallur had been a rising star in municipal politics before standing for Parliament. She was surprised to see just how small a junior MP’s office was, a book-lined cubbyhole crammed into the roof space that had probably been a servant’s bedroom a century before, and guessed that this represented a temporary drop in status compared to the echoing spaces of his previous workplace.
Hallur waved Gunna to a seat in the only spare chair in the room, and placed himself behind the desk in the corner, as if he knew the angled light coming in through the skylight would accentuate his chiselled features.
“Thanks for finding time—” Gunna began, but Hallur waved her words away.
“I’m often here on a Sunday morning when it’s quiet. How can I help you?” he asked with a show of suavity.
“I expect you probably have an idea already. I’m working on the investigation into the death of Svanhildur Mjöll Sigurgeirsdóttir. You were acquainted with her?” Gunna said, going straight to the point.
“I, er, yes. I had an acquaintance with her,” Hallur mumbled, and Gunna looked at him enquiringly. He raised his chin to speak clearly and met her gaze. “I did know her and I am deeply saddened by her unfortunate death.”
Soundbite talk, Gunna thought, wondering if or when the mask would be allowed to slip.
“I’m trying to track her movements leading up to her death. When did you see her last?”
“On the fourth. Ten days ago,” he replied promptly.
“You’re sure?”
Hallur nodded. “I checked my diary when I knew you were on the way. I had an idea what you’d want to ask me about.”
“And how did she strike you then?”
“As usual,” Hallur said with a shrug. “Lively, happy, excited at the possibility of being back on TV.”
“I take it she wasn’t going to be hosting any heavyweight political debates?”
“That’s an unkind comment, officer. She had an offer from a production company to front a fashion show of some kind.”
“D’you know the name of the company?” Gunna asked, jotting down notes.
“I’m sorry. We didn’t tend to discuss business.”
“What did you discuss, if you don’t mind my asking?”
A rivulet of perspiration made its way from the parting in Hallur’s groomed dark hair and came to rest in the stubble on his jaw. “All sorts. But I wouldn’t say we were close friends.”
“What sort of friends were you? Lovers?” Gunna asked. A jolt of discomfort passed through Hallur’s shoulders.
“We were… good friends,” he admitted finally.
“It seems an unusual friendship,” Gunna said drily. “A wellknown politician with a high-profile wife and some strong opinions, and a rather shallow woman. From what I’ve been able to make out, you couldn’t have had a great deal in common.”
“Sport, mostly. I trained at Fit Club once or twice a week when I was a city councillor. It was as good a reason as any for getting out of the building for an hour when the office politics were making me lose the will to live.”
