Winterlude

by Quentin Bates

  Gunna scribbled on a pad at her side, tore off the series of numbers and passed it over to Helgi.

  ‘There’s only one Borgar Jónsson in the national registry who could fit our candidate as far as age goes. Call the bank again, would you? Give them that number and date of birth, and just ask them to confirm if it’s the same character.’

  Helgi lowered his glasses to look at the note.

  ‘Will do, Chief,’ he said with a smile, and smacked his hand against his forehead. ‘And now I remember where I’ve heard the name before.’

  Gunna shivered in the still wind outside, which cut through her coat. Skies the colour of battleships loomed above the Reykjavík rooftops and that of the hostel she and Helgi quickly walked around to find the director coming towards them, his tie flapping over one shoulder.

  ‘Egill Bjarnason,’ he said in an anguished voice, thrusting his hand into Helgi’s and ignoring Gunna. ‘Could you come this way, please? There’s a TV camera already outside the front entrance, for some reason. We can get to my office through the rear door.’ He scurried ahead of them without waiting for a response, looking over his shoulder and twitching as he walked quickly through the badly cut grass that was leaving the legs of his smart suit soaked.

  He seemed more at home in his office, as if back in his natural environment, ushering Gunna and Helgi to chairs in front of a practically bare desk while he manoeuvred himself behind it.

  ‘It’s terrible,’ he tutted. ‘Dreadful.’

  ‘I’m Gunnhildur Gísladóttir and this is my colleague, Helgi Svavarsson. We’re from CID,’ Gunna told him. ‘I see it didn’t take the press long to figure out a connection between Borgar Jónsson and this place. How the hell did that happen?’

  ‘I have no idea. He’s been missing for a day, so there was an announcement on the news this morning asking for sightings of him.’

  ‘That’s unusual so soon after a disappearance, isn’t it?’ Helgi asked.

  ‘Maybe,’ Egill admitted. ‘But we considered Borgar to be somewhat vulnerable.’

  ‘So tell us about him, will you?’ Gunna instructed.

  ‘He’s been here for eight weeks and hasn’t been a problem,’ he said, coughing. ‘I have no idea what he was doing where he was found. Our residents are free to come and go during the day as long as they’re back for the evening meal at six.’

  ‘For which he presumably didn’t show up?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you informed the police?’

  ‘The manager did that, or so I’m told. Standard procedure. These people are still effectively convicts, even though they aren’t in prison.’

  ‘You said Borgar was vulnerable,’ Helgi said. ‘In what way?’

  ‘He wasn’t a well man. He was diabetic and walked with difficulty sometimes,’ replied Egill, clearing his throat. ‘It seems he hadn’t had an easy time in prison. Because of the nature of his crime, he wasn’t popular, to say the least.’

  ‘And did that reflect on the fact that he served less than half of his sentence in Litla-Hraun?’

  ‘I would imagine that would have been taken into account.’

  ‘How long do your clients normally stay?’ Helgi asked. ‘Is that the right word – clients?’

  Egill flapped his hands. ‘Clients. Residents. Whatever,’ he said, looking about him as if the panelled walls would tell him something. ‘These people are all former prisoners and they stay here for a week, two weeks, six months sometimes, while they acclimatize to normal life again. The ones who have served a long sentence tend to take longer to become de-institutionalized, so they stay here longer and find it harder to adjust, as do those who don’t have – how shall I put it? – a criminal career behind them and are used to being in and out of prison.’

  ‘How much of his sentence was left?’

  ‘Four years.’

  ‘Hell,’ Helgi muttered to himself. ‘Sometimes I wonder why we bother catching them,’ he growled. ‘Any visitors? Were you aware of any threats to his safety? Had anyone been in contact with him, do you know?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Egill floundered. ‘I don’t have a great deal to do with the day-to-day running of the hostel, you see,’ he said with a thin smile. ‘My role is more an executive one.’

  ‘Which means what?’ Gunna asked. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but we have a dead man to deal with, and whoever committed the murder running around the city. So if you can’t provide a few answers, maybe you could direct us to someone who can?’

  ‘Oh.’ Egill scowled, stung by Gunna’s words. ‘Your colleague is, er . . . forthright, I think is the word.’ He paused and coughed. ‘Maybe you should speak to Ásrún. She’s the manager here.’

  Egill pushed his chair back and stood up. Gunna felt her phone vibrate in her pocket and looked at the screen quickly, dropping the phone back into her coat pocket.

  ‘Helgi, can you go with this gentleman and get whatever you can out of the manager if she’s likely to be the best-informed person in the building. I need to get back to the shop for half an hour and then back to the scene.’

  ‘No problem, Chief,’ Helgi said smartly as Egill looked from one to the other of them and it dawned on him that Gunna was the one in charge.

  A TV camera had also been set up at the end of the unmade road on the industrial estate leading to the run-down workshop where Borgar Jónsson’s body had been found. Gunna recognized faces among the cluster around the camera but drove past without making eye contact, pulling up outside the building where an unmarked black van she knew belonged to one of the city’s undertakers was parked in front of the entrance with its back doors open.

  ‘Done?’ Gunna asked Sigmar as he peeled off his white suit, sitting on the tailgate of his 4×4.

  ‘I’m done here. We’ll have a look at our man later, but there’s no question what the cause of death is. Miss Cruz can give you details later, I expect.’

  ‘Know any more about this place?’

  ‘It was a fibreglass workshop. I understand they mostly built boats, until it closed down.’

  ‘Has the place been swept for prints?’

  ‘It has, and I have half a dozen items to take away with me. You’re free to poke around to your heart’s content. We’ve managed to get the lights to work, so there’ll be no fumbling around in the dark.’

  ‘Why? Was the power off?’

  ‘The circuit breaker for the lights had been tripped. But it could have been like that for years for all I know.’

  Gunna snapped on a pair of latex gloves and shivered as she walked around the echoing workshop. It was late in the afternoon and the transparent sections in the high roof that let in light during the day were becoming dark squares. The dust that covered every surface of the place had been disturbed across the floor and she padded cautiously around the area where Borgar Jónsson had been killed. In the shadows at the edges of the workshop were trestles and sheets of timber and plastic, all covered with the same grey dust, all quite obviously untouched for years, Gunna decided as she moved one of the trestles and a miasma of fine dust filled the air.

  The iron steps of the spiral staircase creaked and echoed as she placed her feet on them. Each step was a steel grille, so no prints were visible, but at the top of the stairs she clicked on the light to see the open area that had once been the coffee room swept clean and the tables wiped down. Even the calendar on the wall had been folded to the correct month. The sink in the corner was clean and mugs had been washed and placed on the draining board. Even the coffee machine had an inch of black liquid in its glass jug. Gunna flicked the filter drawer open and sniffed. The coffee grounds were still damp.

  A clang on the iron staircase shook her from her thoughts and she felt in her pocket to make sure the can of pepper spray was there as feet banging on the steps echoed through the building and a tousled blond head appeared at floor level, staring at her.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  Gunna bridled. ‘I could ask you the same qu
estion,’ she snapped. ‘But since you asked first, I can tell you that I’m a police officer and now I’d like to know who the hell you are and why you saw fit to barge past the tape downstairs that clearly says “Keep Out” in nice big easy-to-read letters?’

  The rest of the figure appeared as the man came up the remaining steps with a crestfallen expression on his face.

  ‘I’m Óli Baldurs. What’s going on here?’ he asked. ‘Are you a real cop?’

  Gunna flipped open her ID wallet in front of him. ‘Gunnhildur Gísladóttir, CID serious crime unit. Who are you and what brings you here?’

  ‘Like I said, I’m Óli and I sort of look after this place for my uncle while he’s . . .’ he began, and his voice faltered.

  ‘While he’s inside?’

  ‘Yeah. Exactly. I had a call from a mate who said there was something going on here so I came to have a look.’

  ‘How are you related to Borgar Jónsson?’

  ‘He’s my dad’s brother. But he and Dad don’t talk any more, so I check on this place for Borgar sometimes. It’s about the only thing the poor old guy has left.’

  Óli made to cross the floor towards the canteen area.

  ‘Stay there, please,’ Gunna instructed. ‘This is a crime scene and I can do without your fingerprints all over the place.’

  ‘Crime scene?’

  ‘You’re not aware that your uncle was released from prison eight weeks ago?’

  ‘What? No.’

  ‘He’s been out for almost two months and he’s been at a transition hostel. But what’s maybe more relevant is that his body was found downstairs earlier today. You didn’t know?’

  Óli’s face had gone chalk white and he put out a hand to steady himself against the handrail at the top of the stairs. ‘What? I had no idea . . . How? What happened?’

  ‘He was assaulted.’

  Óli took some deep breaths and let out a long sigh. ‘Shit . . . I saw on the news at work that there had been a murder out this way, but I never imagined it could have been Borgar. We didn’t even know he was out of Litla-Hraun.’

  ‘Someone knew. Considering what a mess this place is in downstairs, I’m wondering why it’s so tidy up here?’

  Óli looked around in surprise. ‘Yeah. Who did this?’

  ‘I take it you didn’t? When you say you look after this place, what does that mean?’

  ‘I drop in here once a month or so to make sure nobody’s broken in or that there aren’t any burst pipes. Apart from that, nobody comes near the place.’

  ‘This was your uncle’s workshop, was it?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s all that’s left of the businesses he had before his . . .’ He gulped. ‘His accident,’ he finished.

  ‘So your uncle built boats?’

  ‘Sort of. He owned the place and he had other businesses and properties as well. This place was run by a guy called Henning, and Borgar just left him to it, as far as I know. But when he went to prison, it was all sold off and I guess Hafdís dealt with all that stuff. Then there was the crash and nobody wanted to buy any more. So this place has been pretty much forgotten. It’ll get auctioned off, I suppose, sooner or later. The council tax bills are piling up and they won’t wait forever for their money.’

  ‘Hafdís?’

  ‘Borgar’s wife. She divorced him once he was inside and moved away. Took the kids with her as well.’

  ‘Full name? And where did she move to?’

  ‘Hafdís Hafthórsdóttir. As far as I know she moved to somewhere in Norway. Our side of the family doesn’t have a lot of contact with Hafdís, but I’m in touch with one of the children on Facebook.’

  Gunna’s phone ringing in her pocket startled them both as it echoed against the bare walls.

  ‘Hæ, Helgi,’ Gunna greeted him. ‘What news?’

  ‘All sorts, Chief. All sorts. Just wondering when you’re likely to be back. I’ve made a list of people who didn’t have a very high opinion of our Borgar and I’m wondering where we make a start.’

  ‘Spoilt for choice, are we? I’ll be back in twenty minutes or so. In the meantime, can you organize a locksmith to get over to Borgar’s unit and change the lock, and a patrol to be here while the job’s being done? It needs closing up securely before we go much further.’

  ‘Will do, Chief,’ Helgi said and rang off.

  ‘You heard that?’ Gunna asked Óli, who had listened to the brief conversation with a dazed look on his face.

  ‘Yeah. I’ll stay here until the locksmith has been if you like.’

  ‘Good. I need your contact details and I’ll certainly have to ask you a few more questions, probably tomorrow,’ Gunna said, writing quickly in her notepad.

  ‘Hafdís Hafthórsdóttir, you said?’

  ‘Hafdís Helga Hafthórsdóttir, her name is. The children are Sævar and Sara Björt.’

  ‘Address?’

  ‘I don’t have it on me. Norway somewhere.’

  ‘Your name?’

  ‘Óli Már Baldursson.’

  Gunna wrote down names and a string of home, work and mobile numbers before closing her notebook and giving Óli a smile as her phone buzzed.

  Locksmith in 15 minutes. Patrol on the way. H, she read.

  ‘We’ll stand outside, if you don’t mind,’ she decided and followed him down the clanging staircase. ‘By the way, Henning – the chap who used to run this place – where’s he now?’

  ‘No idea. He was an old boy, so he ought to be retired by now,’ Óli said, discomfort evident in his voice. ‘But I don’t suppose he is. He’s not the retiring type, I guess.’

  ‘Full name?’

  ‘Henning Simonsen. It’s a Faroese name, I think, although I don’t know if he’s from the Faroes or if his family came from there.’

  ‘Any idea where he lives?’

  ‘Sorry. I try and steer clear of my uncle’s affairs as far as possible. I can do without the headaches, if you know what I mean.’

  A blast of wind met them as Gunna pulled open the heavy outside door just as a burly uniformed officer was about to push it open.

  ‘Hæ, Gunna. Job for us, is there?’ he asked, looking Óli up and down suspiciously.

  ‘Just a quick one, Geiri. There should be a locksmith here in a few minutes to change the lock on this place. I’d like you to be here while it’s done and drop the keys in at Hverfisgata when he’s finished. Oh, and get him to secure the other doors while he’s at it, would you? Just make sure they’re bolted from the inside.’

  ‘But what about me?’ Óli asked. ‘Don’t I get a key?’

  ‘When it’s no longer a crime scene you can have all the keys,’ Gunna told him. ‘But until then it stays locked up tight.’

  Gunna shook the rain off her coat as she walked in at the main police station on Hverfisgata and found Sævaldur Bogason on the way out. They had regularly clashed as uniformed officers more than a decade ago, before Gunna left Reykjavík for a country beat in her coastal village of Hvalvík, where she still lived, resolutely refusing to move to the city and commuting for almost an hour each way every morning and evening instead. Returning to Reykjavík after almost ten years to join CID, Gunna found that Sævaldur was still there and had been promoted, most recently to chief inspector. Wary of each other and each other’s methods, they generally kept out of the other’s way.

  ‘How goes it with Borgar?’ Sævaldur asked, and Gunna wondered if he was being friendly, helpful or simply inquisitive.

  ‘Early days yet. Plenty of people to quiz.’

  Sævaldur spun a set of car keys on his little finger, twirling them and catching them in his palm. ‘There’s a guy called Kjartan you ought to talk to,’ he said finally. ‘The father of the boy Borgar drove over and killed.’

  ‘That’s understandable. You reckon he could have done it?’

  Sævaldur shrugged. ‘No idea. But I was there on the last day of Borgar Jónsson’s trial and Kjartan was in the gallery as well. Kjartan went wild when the verdict was giv
en. Snapped, I suppose. He yelled across the court that he’d be waiting at the prison gate for Borgar when he came out.’

  Gunna’s eyebrows lifted and she nodded. ‘Like I said, that’s understandable. Eight years for killing the boy and then he’s out in four. Have you heard anything of this Kjartan since?’

  ‘Not a word. He was a sailor back then and he was at sea when his son was killed, somewhere off West Africa, and it was three days before he could get home.’

  ‘Must have been three nightmare days,’ Gunna declared.

  ‘I’d imagine he’s probably still at sea, and if it’s an Icelandic ship he’s on, he’ll be registered on board.’

  ‘Which means a chat with Customs. Thanks, Sæsi.’

  ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with Sævaldur,’ Gunna grumbled when she reached her desk.

  ‘What’s the awkward old fool done now?’

  ‘Nothing. That’s what’s so confusing. He’s actually been helpful.’

  Helgi lifted his glasses from his face and let them drop to the table in front of him as he rubbed his eyes. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I suppose there has to be a first time for everything. Midlife crisis, maybe?’

  ‘Hell, I don’t know. I’ve never understood much about how men think.’

  ‘Speaking of which, how is your Gísli?’

  Gunna sat down and nudged her computer into life. ‘You know, Helgi, I don’t see a lot of the lad at the moment. Hardly surprising considering he’s at sea for weeks at a stretch.’

  ‘He still lives with you, does he?’

  ‘You have all this to come. He lives with me in the sense that there’s a stack of post for him, I keep tripping over his boots in the hall and there’s a room in my house that’s full of his stuff. But that’s as far as it goes. He’s either at sea or he’s in Reykjavík with Soffía. He stops off, gives his old mum a kiss on the cheek if she happens to be home, grazes through the contents of the fridge, picks up his car and he’s gone.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to it already, although it’s more likely their mother will be the one who has to deal with all that stuff.’

  ‘And then you’ll get it again in, what? Fifteen years’ time?’