Cold Breath (Gunnhildur Mystery Book 7)

by Quentin Bates

  Osman’s eyes half closed. ‘I have to communicate, but don’t worry. I can be discreet and I know how to be careful. I’ve been keeping out of sight for some time now.’ He waved at the laptop bag he had placed on the table. ‘I bought the computer at the airport, so I can be sure that it’s safe. Anything I need to put into it is here,’ he said, placing a finger to his temple.

  ‘Gunnhildur can show you where to connect your computer. Just so you know, our communications division monitors internet traffic here.’

  ‘Fine. A few emails to trusted people and a little searching for information. That is all.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Ívar Laxdal said grudgingly. ‘If there’s anything you need, then Gunnhildur will list it for delivery. Any problems, and one of us will be here.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Osman said in a gracious voice that narrowly escaped being condescending. ‘It is very kind of Mrs Strand to go to all this trouble, and it is appreciated. Now, will you show me my room? I would like to rest.’

  It was late in the day by the time Skúli had a chance to look again at the message from Lars.

  He and Lars had been interns for a few months on a regional newspaper in Jutland that both of them had seen as a valuable experience, but not one that either of them had been inclined to continue. Skúli had returned to Iceland, not without a few regrets, while Lars had found his way to Copenhagen, and from there to Brussels and a job with Plain Truth, a poorly funded, obscure but energetic NGO.

  With his feet on the heavy desk that had been bought from the Red Cross along with every other piece of furniture in Pulse’s office, he thumbed a message into his phone.

  So tell me who this guy is?

  He dropped the phone back on his desk as an email popped up on his computer screen, demanding immediate attention before he could check his phone again.

  He calls himself Ali Osman, he read a few minutes later. We think his name’s Osman Ali Deniz.

  OK, Skúli texted back, wondering what Lars was driving at, but sure that an answer would appear. While he waited, he typed Ali Osman’s name into a search engine and found himself looking at a bewildering screenful of entries before trying the other name.

  Where’s this going? he punched into his phone as a second screen of information appeared, including the picture he had already seen.

  We think he’s in Iceland. Call me later and I’ll tell you more, Lars’s message read.

  OK. Speak later.

  Cool. Google the guy if you haven’t already.

  Way ahead of you . . . Skúli texted back and dropped his phone back onto the desk.

  He sat back in thought, closed the document he’d been working on and began to read.

  The smell of cooking brought him from his room, yawning and sleepy. Gunna had decided to keep it simple with grilled chicken, rice and vegetables. The man took his plate wordlessly and sat at the table. He paused for a moment with his eyes closed and then set to, dismembering the chicken and sprinkling it with pepper.

  He stopped and his eyes widened as Gunna put her plate opposite him and sat down to eat. She poured water into two glasses from a jug, pushing one towards him.

  ‘Enjoy your meal,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you, officer. I didn’t expect you to be joining me.’

  Gunna shrugged. ‘Is there a reason I shouldn’t?’

  ‘No, of course not. I’m used to being alone, that’s all.’

  He ate fast, with the speed of a man who can’t be sure that the food won’t be snatched away before he has finished it. Bones collected in a pile at the edge of his plate, gnawed clean. He left nothing.

  ‘Good?’ Gunna asked and immediately regretted it. It wasn’t good, but it was acceptable.

  ‘Not bad.’

  He sat back in his chair with his water glass in his hand, sipping nonchalantly, watching Gunna finish her meal.

  ‘You are a cook?’ he asked finally.

  ‘No. I’m a police officer.’

  ‘For many years?’

  ‘Around twenty.’

  ‘And now secret police?’

  Gunna shook her head. ‘I’m a regular police officer. We don’t have secret police in this country.’

  ‘Really?’ There was a blend of amazement and disbelief in his voice.

  ‘Really.’

  ‘You are not in uniform like your friend.’

  ‘This isn’t an assignment that calls for uniform. And he’s not my friend. He’s my boss.’

  ‘Your name. Gunnhildur.’

  He pronounced it Goon-hild-ar.

  ‘Gunnhildur,’ she corrected him. ‘Everyone calls me Gunna, except for Ívar. But he likes to keep things formal.’

  ‘Gunna,’ he said softly in a closer approximation of her name. ‘My name is Osman.’

  ‘So you said.’

  ‘That is my family name. You don’t know my first name?’

  ‘I’m not asking questions,’ she said and watched his teeth appear in a smile.

  ‘But you would like to ask questions?’

  She had to admit to herself that she was struggling to contain her natural curiosity, faced with this languidly handsome man, his beguiling dark eyes and an easy familiarity as he lounged comfortably in the rigid upright kitchen chair, as she cleared her plate. Again she had the feeling she was being scanned and labelled.

  ‘A lot of police work is asking questions. But occasionally you have to know when not to ask.’

  ‘You are married?’ he asked, his voice dropping.

  ‘I have been.’

  She asked herself if that was a look of disapproval that flashed across his face.

  ‘You are separated from your husband?’

  Gunna stacked the plates in front of her before answering.

  ‘No. He died. Are you washing up or am I?’

  Osman watched as Gunna loaded the dishwasher and she wondered if it would be worth getting one at home. Maybe when Laufey had left home, she decided. Until then her daughter could do most of the washing up in lieu of bed, board, laundry and a great many lifts.

  She took her time, hoping that Osman would go back to his room and sleep or occupy himself with his new laptop, but he appeared to have no such inclination. With the pans dried and put away, and the dishwasher hissing quietly in its corner, she sat down again at the table.

  ‘I’ll probably be here with you for a few days. My colleague will be here to relieve me after that, then I’ll be back the following day. All right with you? We’re keeping this as low profile as possible. I gather the minister doesn’t want too many people to know you’re here.’

  ‘That’s what she told me as well,’ Osman said. ‘She said this place is very quiet and I can work without interruption. Mrs Strand is a wonderful lady, and so generous.’

  Gunna fought back the comment that the minister was being generous with public resources rather than her own, and nodded in reply.

  ‘She’s quite a character,’ Gunna said, wondering if that was a suitably diplomatic thing to say.

  ‘You don’t like her?’ Osman asked, as if he had read her thoughts.

  ‘Let’s say that our opinions probably wouldn’t coincide on very much.’

  Osman’s smile was broad this time and his teeth flashed.

  ‘Gunna. Do you know why I’m here?’

  ‘Actually, no. I haven’t been told a great deal and I gather that seems to be part of the overall plan. The less we know, the better, from what I can make out.’

  Osman leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table and cupping his face in his hands. His fingers were long and delicate, and Gunna noticed that the first finger of his left hand was short, ending abruptly at the first joint.

  ‘I will explain, but without saying too much,’ he said, as if speaking to an innocent. ‘I am here because I know too much. There are secrets in my head that some people would prefer I did not know. They are so worried about their precious secrets that they would be glad to take my life to make sure I don’t pass them o
n to anyone. You understand?’

  Gunna felt her mouth go dry at the thought.

  ‘In that case, I understand.’

  ‘And they would take the life of anyone they thought I might have passed their secrets to.’

  ‘Like me or Ívar?’ Gunna asked. ‘Or Steinunn?’

  ‘I met Mrs Strand at a conference where I was speaking, and she invited me to come to your country for a few months as Iceland is so safe and I could work on the book I would like to write.’

  Gunna felt her heart sink at the reference to months.

  ‘I see. Your life is in danger in your own country?’

  ‘I think my life is in danger in every country,’ he said seriously and Gunna was conscious of the weight of the Glock at her side.

  Gunna prowled the bare garden, shivering with her hands deep in her jacket pockets, the bulk of the Glock bumping under her arm as she familiarized herself with the layout of the building and its surroundings, wondering what she had let herself in for. Unlike the house itself, where little expense had been spared to make it comfortable, the garden had received little attention. In the corner behind the garage a hot tub had been installed with a wooden screen around it, its plastic cover glazed with frost.

  The garden had been planted and then neglected. What had been intended to become flower beds were being invaded by grass, and Gunna guessed that by the end of the summer they would be indistinguishable from the scrubby grass surrounding them. A row of bare shrubs planted to turn into a hedge around the place looked like a row of forlorn sticks waiting for summer to bring them back to life. The outside of the house looked bare, and had an abandoned feel compared to the smartly furnished interior.

  Looking around, she could see the next house half a kilometre away along an unmade track. It was a fairly new building, at the furthest edge of a spreading estate, and the tall, narrow windows in the end wall overlooked Einholt. Gunna hoped that in one of them was a Special Unit officer with his eyes to a pair of binoculars on a tripod. She waved a hand at the house, fairly confident that she would know whoever might be watching.

  On the lower side of the house the ground shelved away gently downhill to the shoreline. On a day like today, with no sunshine breaking through the clouds, the dark rocks by the shore faded seamlessly into the sea that lapped against them, while the grey sea and sky merged together in the distance beyond the black hump of Geldinganes.

  A sudden flurry of snow startled her and Gunna huddled deeper into her coat, blinking the sharp grains from her eyes. There was no noise beyond a practically indiscernible hum of distant traffic and the mutter of waves nagging at the rocks below.

  The grey landscape would be fading into darkness soon. Her circuit complete, Gunna was sure that everything was quiet. With a final look around her, she unlocked the door and stepped inside the lobby, double locking the door behind her as Ívar Laxdal had instructed.

  Skúli was tired, and little Markús laughed with delight to see him home. The last year had been a tough one, but in the past few months fate seemed to be smiling on them. First an elderly relative of Dagga’s had given them a basement flat in Seltjarnarnes – a part of town they would never otherwise have been able to afford – in return for a rent they could actually manage. Then, after much soul-searching and calculating how long they could survive on their remaining savings, they had taken the plunge and joined the group setting up Pulse, providing news of the kind the newspapers rarely touched, as well as often controversial comment and opinions.

  ‘Good day?’ Dagga asked as Skúli shrugged the laptop bag from his shoulder and kicked off his shoes.

  ‘Not bad. And you?’

  ‘It’s been all right. There’s some dinner left if you’re hungry.’

  Dagga’s unplanned but nonetheless welcome pregnancy had thrown all their plans into disarray. Now she spent most of her working time at a laptop at the kitchen table when Markús was with her parents while Skúli commuted to Pulse’s office in an old building on Hverfisgata that would undoubtedly be demolished sooner or later, but in the meantime they made the most of the place. Best of all, Pulse had stopped losing money after only a few weeks.

  Skúli admitted to himself that this had been a surprise, and although it wasn’t making huge amounts, each of them was now able to take a modest wage from the venture. Best of all, there were investors sniffing around with real interest, looking to buy a stake with an injection of cash that would be enough to lift them off the ground properly, or so they hoped.

  ‘Great. Has Markús been fed yet?’

  ‘Yeah. But he’s still hungry. Can you take over? I deserve a long bath.’

  ‘Right away?’ Skúli asked, slightly dismayed as he still had his coat on.

  ‘Yes. As close to right away as possible. I love our son with all my heart, but I’ll go nuts if I have him on my hip for a minute longer.’

  There was a note of determination in Dagga’s voice which Skúli knew from experience he should ignore at his peril. So as water roared into the tub in the flat’s cramped, old-fashioned bathroom, he arranged himself a plate of microwaved goulash and a tub of yoghurt for his son on the kitchen table. Then he opened his laptop out of reach of Markús’s inquisitive fingers.

  They ate in a desultory fashion as he spooned food alternately into himself and then Markús, checking Pulse’s website and social media channels in between. He checked Lars’s profile and logged into Skype, looking to see Lars appear in his list of contacts and puzzled to see ‘offline’ against his name.

  ‘Still in the tub?’ he called out to Dagga.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Going to be long?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  Dagga had left the bathroom door open. Skúli carried Markús in and grinned to see her lying stretched out in the bath with a candle burning by her head and a book in her hands.

  ‘Has Markús had a bath?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Drop him in with you for a minute?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ she agreed, eyes on the paperback in her hand.

  Skúli closed the toilet lid and sat on it to undress Markús, then leaned over and lowered him into the water as Dagga moved her legs aside to make room for him. The little boy splashed happily, then gasped and shook his head as Skúli gently poured warm water over his head, smoothing his hair back from his eyes.

  ‘Good book?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  Skúli peeked at the cover and saw an Arctic landscape. A thriller, nothing romantic this time, he reflected as he lifted Markús clear of the water and wrapped him in a towel, then in his arms.

  ‘Going to be long?’ he repeated gently.

  Dagga lowered the book. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Nothing special,’ he said with a smirk, enjoying what he could see of her beneath the milky water. She arched her back slightly and stretched. For a moment her dark bush broke the surface and he felt a rush of excitement before she sank back into the depths. ‘I have a call to make in a minute, then I’m all yours once Markús is asleep.’

  ‘If you’re lucky,’ Dagga told him. ‘Once the water’s cooled off I might be all yours, young man.’

  It was a private joke in their circle of friends that Dagga was a shameless cradle-snatcher, having ensnared a man a couple of years younger than herself. Occasionally it irritated him when it was alluded to in company, but between the two of them it was mentioned with a tenderness that hinted at good things to come later.

  They had known each other for a long time, as colleagues and friends, long before they had found themselves on the same interminably dull press trip to the east of Iceland, during which their shared sense of the ridiculous had gelled into something deeper. On the last morning of the trip, the group of invited journalists had listened to a long and intense presentation without two of their number, much to the consternation of the press officer, who had been determined to shepherd the group around every nook and cranny of a new factory and its offices.

 
Markús was soon asleep in his cot and Skúli went back to the kitchen table. He found himself brooding, thinking back to the press trip where he and Dagga had finally fallen into each other’s arms and a hotel bed that had creaked and squeaked alarmingly.

  He shook his head, telling himself to snap out of it and concentrate. But a vague suspicion formed distressingly at the back of his mind, something he desperately wanted not to think through as the shadow of his deeply buried fear snaked around his ankles like an unwelcome mist.

  Lars was still logged out of Skype, so Skúli tapped in his mobile number and listened to it ring. He was about to give up when it was finally answered.

  ‘Yah?’

  ‘Lars? It’s Skúli. What’s new?’

  ‘Ah, Skúli. I’m really sorry. I’m in a bar, I forgot you were going to call.’

  ‘You busy? I can call back tomorrow.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s best,’ he heard Lars say, half-distractedly, and Skúli could hear the hubbub of a busy bar in the background.

  ‘Listen, what did you find out about Ali Osman?’

  ‘Not that much,’ Skúli admitted. ‘He’s a dissident of some kind? From Lebanon? That’s what I read anyway.’

  Lars laughed. ‘He’s a dissident right enough, but not for the right reasons.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘He’s a dissident because he fell out with the wrong people over a lot of money. He says he’s Lebanese originally, but I have my doubts.’

  ‘OK. So what’s your interest in him?’

  ‘As always,’ Lars said, ‘human rights. He’s been involved in people trafficking, or at least in the finance side of it.’

  ‘So he’s not everything he claims to be?’

  ‘Is anyone?’

  ‘And why bring this to me?’

  Lars laughed again. ‘Because Ali Osman, or Osman Ali Deniz, whichever name he happens to be using at the moment, but I guess he’s Ali Osman right now, is a discreet and honoured guest of your Minister of Justice. He arrived yesterday or today, as far as we can work out. You might want to ask a few questions.’

  ‘And report back to you?’

  ‘Of course. I get to know where this bastard is, and you get a scandal to put on your front page. Everybody wins, eh?’