Cold Steal (4 page)

Orri knew what it was and for the first time ever he wondered if he should not have taken something. His grandmother had owned a similar collection, the clasps and chain from the ornate bodice of a set of national dress of the kind worn by a well-to-do lady of maybe a century ago, while the heavy gold tube would have formed part of the long tassel of the black cap that would have topped the ensemble. The clasps were a little worn and the rich gold gleamed dully under the single harsh overhead light in his storeroom. Someone had treasured this and kept it carefully, just as his grandmother had done, keeping hers for her own daughter in the vain hope that the girl’s inheritance would not be sold at the first opportunity and converted into a weekend’s solid partying or the down payment on a car.

Running the gold chain through his fingers and arranging the clasps in their two rows on the rough timber bench, he wondered who had owned the set. It was something he had never done before. Gold was money, and money in the bank was, supposedly, security. He cursed briefly. Laptops, fancy mobile phones and iPods had none of the patina of age and affection that the old woman’s gold had, and he decided involuntarily that this was not something for the Baltic boys to melt down.

He sighed, disturbed at his own thoughts. Orri put the clasps and chain back in the paper bag and placed it at the back of the drawer under the bench. It was certainly not something to hold on to, so he would have to find a buyer for it somewhere; someone local. Conscious that a risk accompanied this, he knew that at least this way it would probably find its way onto a set of national dress. Plus it would fetch more than it would for scrap. He had no use for the thing himself, although Lísa would admire it if she ever got to see it, knowing that she had a set of national dress that she occasionally brought out for weddings and suchlike events that he preferred to steer clear of. But then, Lísa had a proper family made up of ordinary people she got on well with, not like the untrustworthy crowd of drunks and shysters that made up his motley group of relatives.

As always, Valmira drove. Natalia sat by the window and smoked in direct contravention of company rules, her head half out of the window. Emilija sat in the middle seat of the van and wrinkled her nose as each blast of smoke-laden air wafted into the cab.

‘Do you have to?’ she demanded. ‘Can’t you wait ten minutes until you get home?’

‘Hey, don’t be like that. Just because you gave up’s no reason to stop me having one.’

‘She’s right,’ Valmira said from behind the wheel. ‘You always smoke in the van and I wish you wouldn’t. It stinks.’

Natalia threw her half-smoked cigarette away and wound the window closed, trapping the poisoned air inside while Valmira drove in silence and Natalia stared sulkily at the pavements and shop windows. She got out by the shop near her flat in Breidholt without a word and stalked away, lighting another cigarette as she walked, as if to prove a point.

‘We’ve upset her now,’ Emilija said with a sly smile.

‘Yeah. And it wouldn’t be the first time. I hope she turns up in the morning. I don’t want to see her lose her job.’

‘That’s not going to happen, is it? She just turns on the charm when she needs to and Viggó melts when she gives him a smile.’

‘It’s not something you can miss, is it? She does the same with his old man as well. Have you noticed? Still, hopefully she won’t be sulking tomorrow.’

‘You know what these hot-blooded South Americans are like. She’ll have forgotten it by the morning.’

‘I know,’ Valmira said with a sigh. ‘And it’s not going to stop her smoking in the van, is it? You OK for tomorrow?’

‘I am,’ Emilija said, yawning and stretching her hands behind her head. ‘The boys are going to their father tonight, so I have an evening to myself for once.’

‘It’s a shame you’ll be on your own,’ Valmira said, shifting down a gear and listening to the van’s gearbox complain.

‘Says who?’ Emilija asked with an arch smile.

‘What? A new guy? Tell me!’

‘Early days. But who knows?’

‘Local boy?’

‘No.’ Emilija laughed. ‘Not again. He’s a sweet guy and he’s from Latvia.’

Valmira looked dubious. ‘He’s OK, this guy, is he? Not like . . . ?’

‘No, nothing like him, I’m pleased to say,’ Emilija said with a shiver.

‘Oh, did I wake you?’ Drífa asked as Gunna blearily appeared in the kitchen. ‘I’m sorry. I was trying to be as quiet as I could.’

‘It’s all right. You didn’t wake me up and I have to be in early anyway.’

‘I thought you weren’t at work until the afternoon?’

‘Something’s come up. Can’t you sleep?’

‘I was hungry and Kjartan needed a feed.’

There was a newspaper on the table that Drífa had been reading, scattered with the crumbs of a sandwich. Gunna poured herself orange juice, squinting at the clock and dismayed to see it was a few minutes past five and there was light outside beyond the kitchen curtains. ‘That’s both of us then. Too early to be up and too late to be going back to sleep,’ she decided. ‘I’d best make some coffee.’

Drífa watched as Gunna set the percolator to run and disappeared back to the bedroom, emerging in uniform trousers and shirt.

‘Have you heard from Gísli?’ Gunna asked

‘Yesterday. He should be back tomorrow.’

‘Already? That was a short trip, only two weeks. What did he say?’

‘He said he’s staying ashore for a few weeks now.’

Gunna nodded and listened to the percolator hiss and mutter. She was dreading her son’s return from sea, hoping that she would be able to contain the bitter recriminations she wanted to let fly at him over his having given her two grandsons in the space of a few weeks. At the same time she longed to have their old close relationship back, while admitting to herself that it could take years and effort on both sides for them to regain that old intimacy.

She knew that Laufey missed her big brother and that the two of them were in touch, something that was a comfort while she and Gísli had become estranged for the first time in their lives. There was a bond between the half-siblings that she appreciated and which was something she had missed in her own upbringing with two considerably older brothers who she felt still treated her like an irritating youngster.

‘They’re docking in Hafnarfjördur,’ Drífa said, startling Gunna from her thoughts. ‘Steini said he’d go and pick Gísli up from the ship.’

‘Oh, that’s good of him.’

‘I don’t think Steini minds. He and Gísli really get on, don’t they? Is it because Gísli . . . ?’

‘Because Gísli what?’ Gunna asked.

‘Because Gísli’s father was never about?’

She could see Drífa biting her lip, as if the question might be a step too far.

‘Could be,’ Gunna admitted. ‘Or it might be because Steini doesn’t have sons of his own.’

‘Oh, I see,’ Drífa said, relieved that the question hadn’t elicited a sharp reply.

‘Thanks for letting us stay the night,’ she added after a pause.

‘Don’t be silly. You’re always welcome.’

A little over a year ago a heavily pregnant Drífa had appeared on Gunna’s doorstep, deep black hair in disarray, mascara in streaks down her face and looking for a sympathetic shoulder to cry on. Since then the mascara made only rare appearances and the black hair dye had grown out as Drífa’s priorities had been forced to change dramatically.

‘Just as well,’ Gunna muttered to herself.

‘Sorry?’

‘What?’

‘You said something?’

‘It’s all right. Just thinking to myself.’

Drífa lapsed back into silence as the percolator hissed to a standstill. Gunna poured her first mug of coffee of the day and pulled back the curtains to let in the first thin hint of pre-sunrise daylight.

He had finished his collections and was unloading when Alex returned from his pick-ups. Orri drove carefully, cautious not to let the forklift slide on the rain-wet concrete as he lifted the pallet that had weighed down his van on the way back. The forklift whined and complained but did as it was asked, under protest, unwillingly depositing its load on the warehouse floor. Orri hoped that it would lift it onto the truck later when it came to be collected.

Alex stood in the doorway and lit a cigarette, watching as Orri moved the forklift across the floor to the charging bay on the far side and plugged it in.

‘You have anything for me?’ he asked with a dramatic look around him as Orri stood outside and took a breath of cold air.

‘A few bits. Not a lot.’

‘What sort of gear?’

‘A couple of electric drills, good brands, no rubbish. An iPad. A couple of phones. A couple of good watches. A bit of metal.’

Alex wrinkled his nose. ‘Not much,’ he said dismissively. ‘You not working too hard, are you?’

‘Just being careful. That’s all.’

‘Bruno won’t be happy.’

‘Bruno can kiss my arse,’ Orri replied. ‘If I get caught, you guys aren’t the ones who’ll be doing time for it.’

Alex looked shocked for a moment, and then smiled. ‘Maybe Bruno don’t buy from you if you don’t have the goods.’

Orri shrugged elaborately to demonstrate his lack of interest. ‘Plenty of people willing to buy good stuff,’ he said with a wink just as theatrical as the shrug. ‘There are other buyers than just Bruno out there. You know, sometimes I wonder if this Bruno guy really exists.’

Alex’s eyes widened in unconcealed curiosity and he ground out his cigarette beneath the toe of his boot. ‘You believe so? Not so many now, I think.’ He made a play of elaborately extracting another cigarette from its packet and looked into the grey distance as he lit it. ‘I have a few contacts as well,’ he said quietly. ‘Just so you know.’

‘You’re telling me that you’re in competition with Bruno? That might be a dangerous game.’

This time Alex shrugged and Orri sensed the bravado. ‘Bruno is not so much here now. He’s busy back home. Some of his friends there come to me and ask if I can send to them. Tools, electronics,’ he said. ‘Metal.’

Orri could see the gleam in his eye and understood that Alex desperately wanted to be a kingpin himself, not just the messenger boy who ran the risks.

‘Yeah, right,’ Orri said. ‘What happened to Juris? I think it’s a risky game you’re getting into, Alex.’

Alex snapped his fingers and winked again. ‘Juris was careless. I have friends. Juris didn’t have friends like mine.’

Vilhelm Thorleifsson’s wife was remarkably composed for a brand-new widow, Gunna thought, and her mind was inexorably dragged back to Raggi’s sudden loss. It was a long time ago, she told herself ruthlessly, but someone else’s loss always reminded her of that devastating shock and the terrible aimless year of depression that followed it. The fact that it was a long time ago made no difference on the occasions when the thought caught her unawares and the misery came flooding back.

‘Gunnhildur Gísladóttir, I’m with the CID team investigating your husband’s death. My condolences,’ she offered, knowing in advance that they would not be wanted.

Vilhelm Thorleifsson’s wife sat stiff on the edge of a leather sofa at her parents’ vast house where nothing was out of place and Gunna wondered if dust would ever dare to get past the front door, let alone settle in the corners.

‘What happened?’ She asked in a blank voice.

‘Your husband was murdered by two attackers,’ she said baldly, deciding that Saga probably had no desire to be shielded from any gory details. ‘He was shot, twice, at close range.’

‘Was it quick?’

‘Probably.’

‘That’s a shame. Was his extremely personal assistant with him?’

‘Personal assistant?’

‘Yulia. The Russian girl.’

‘Yes, so it seems.’

‘And was she hurt?’

‘Physically, no.’

‘That’s a shame as well.’

‘I take it you didn’t get on?’

‘Me and Villi or me and the Russian girl?’

‘I meant you and your husband.’

‘We had our moments. But not for a few years. He led his life and I lead mine.’

She sat almost immobile, her face a mask that Gunna guessed had to be artificial to achieve quite such an unnatural lack of mobility. Saga’s knees were pressed together as she sat on the edge of the sofa, her back straight. Her skirt and jacket looked to Gunna’s eyes as if they had been tailored from the same supple leather as the sofa’s covering. A starched blouse was buttoned to the throat and ink black hair shrouded a narrow face that might have been attractive if it were to see a little animation.

‘How long had you been living separately?’

‘We live together, just in separate rooms. Villi chased his businesses from country to country and I’d given up asking him when we were likely to see him next.’

‘How about his business affairs? Did you have any involvement in his work?’

‘No. Nothing. Occasionally he’d give me something to sign as I was a name on some of his companies, but I just signed without looking too closely.’

‘Isn’t that rash? Signing something without reading the small print?’

‘Villi was a shit husband, but he knew how to make money. Cashwise, I could trust him. But not dickwise.’

‘We’ll need to take a look at his business affairs.’

‘Good luck. Most of Villi’s business was in his head, and what wasn’t there is in his laptop, if you can get into it.’

‘Property?’

‘The house in Copenhagen is mine. I made sure of that when the first personal assistant showed up five or six years ago.’

‘There’s more than one?’

‘Three to my knowledge. Maybe more. They’re always bright and beautiful. Gold diggers. That’s why the houses are in my name only. I hold the real estate; Villi got to play. It was – what do you call it? – a mutual understanding.’

‘Holiday? What’s that?’

Emilija looked up, the toilet brush held in front of her like a sword.

‘I just asked,’ Natalia said, propping herself against the basin and feeling in her pockets for a cigarette before reminding herself that smoking on the job was a sackable offence. ‘When did you last have a trip home? When did you last see your parents?’