Cold Breath (Gunnhildur Mystery Book 7)

by Quentin Bates

  ‘Cool. Thanks, Lars.’

  ‘Listen, Skúli. I have a meeting to go to in a few minutes.’

  Skúli could still hear the buzz of a happy crowd in the background.

  ‘Is she pretty?’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said, this meeting you have to go to, is she pretty?’

  Lars guffawed. ‘You think of only one thing, Skúli. But you’re right, legs up to here. Listen, my friend, call me in the morning and I’ll tell you more about Ali Osman, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah, OK, Lars. Have fun . . .’

  ‘And you,’ Lars replied as a flurry of laughter enveloped him and the call came to an abrupt end.

  He sat back and nodded to himself, deep in thought, not noticing Dagga’s towel-swathed presence until she placed her hands on his shoulders.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Lars. He’s in Brussels at some meeting.’

  ‘In a bar?’

  ‘Of course. Probably surrounded by a troop of travelling pole dancers. But he gave me a story, or at least a lead.’

  ‘Something juicy?’

  ‘Steinunn Strand’s involved.’

  ‘Then it’s bound to be crooked. It’s late and I’m going to bed. Coming?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ he said with a feigned lack of interest that led to an affectionate punch on the shoulder. She stalked past him, the towel around her waist falling away in the bedroom doorway – Skúli was out of his chair almost before it hit the floor.

  Gunna listened to the house ticking. It was surprising what you could hear when the building should have been entirely silent. The bedroom nearest the front door was hers, while Osman had made himself comfortable in the spacious master bedroom that occupied one end of the long building.

  Restless, irritable and unable to sleep, she pulled on a sweater and made a tour of the darkened building. Peering through the living-room window, she could see the window of the next house gazing blindly back at her. Outside, the wind seemed to have dropped away and the bare ground of the garden was lit by the fitful moon when it appeared between the clouds.

  She checked every window, tried the doors and sat in the kitchen listening to the quiet house. The heating hummed faintly and the oven clock ticked, its sound as low as to be inaudible during the day but now as loud as clicking heels on a hard floor.

  Satisfied that the place was as secure as it could be, she sat in one of the vast armchairs in the living room, feeling herself enveloped in it, and lifting her feet onto the stone-topped coffee table. She clicked on a lamp and picked up a magazine from the rack at her side, flipping through the articles on houses and gardens belonging to people with much greater wealth and far more time on their hands than she would ever have.

  She woke to feel movement at her side, a stealthy hand creeping inside her jacket. Her eyes snapped open and she gripped the searching hand, wondering how long she had been asleep in the chair, or even if she had been asleep at all.

  Osman crouched before her. The suit was gone, replaced with grey tracksuit trousers and a dark singlet. She could see the tightness of his lips as her thumb dug deep and hard into the soft underside of his wrist. Their eyes met and she held his gaze as the hand that had been reaching for the Glock under her arm went numb. She maintained her grip, watching his face as it went blank.

  ‘Enough,’ he said quietly.

  Gunna slowly relaxed her grip.

  He stood up languidly, a quizzical smile on his face, and nodded to himself as if he were in possession of some private piece of knowledge.

  ‘I’m delighted to see you’re alert, Goon-hil-dar,’ he said quietly, rubbing his wrist. ‘I might have said something about a woman and a gun not being an ideal combination, but I don’t think I need to.’

  He turned and padded away on bare feet and Gunna heard the door of his room click shut.

  Chapter Two

  Ívar Laxdal arrived early, bearing fresh fruit and still-warm rolls for breakfast.

  ‘All shipshape, Gunnhildur?’ he asked after she had checked who was at the door before unlocking it twice and locking it again behind him.

  ‘All quiet. Coffee?’

  They talked quietly in the kitchen over mugs of better coffee than anything that ever graced the Hverfisgata police station’s canteen.

  ‘Nothing to report?’

  ‘Not a thing,’ Gunna said, hesitating. ‘I had a long walk around the garden yesterday and there’s nothing to be seen anywhere. There’s a clear line of sight all around the place, so if anyone were trying to get here, it wouldn’t be a problem for the boys up the road to spot them in good time, assuming they’re on the ball.’

  ‘They are and that’s why this place was chosen.’

  ‘So who owns this house?’

  Ívar Laxdal’s face broke into a rare smile.

  ‘It belongs to the minister and her husband.’

  ‘This is Steinunn’s place?’

  ‘It is. I gather her husband inherited it quite a few years ago. They pulled down the old farmhouse that was here and built this. It’s an investment, I reckon. Property doesn’t lose value for long. I understand they rent it out to distinguished visitors during the summer. We had to beef up the security with extra locks and cameras, though.’

  ‘Like an up-market Airbnb?’

  ‘Exactly. But it’s not advertised anywhere and her clientele is pretty exclusive. How’s our friend?’

  ‘Very superior, in a discreet kind of way. Doesn’t say a lot. He ate everything I gave him for dinner and he didn’t offer to help with the washing up.’

  Ívar Laxdal smiled fleetingly. ‘Do you imagine he’s ever washed a dish in his life?’

  ‘So, do I get to know who he is?’

  ‘I don’t rightly know myself. All I can tell you is that the man’s a dissident of some kind, had something to do with the protests in Egypt a couple of years ago, and he daren’t go home.’

  ‘So he’s claiming asylum here?’

  ‘No idea. Not as far as I know. All I can be sure of is that he’s Steinunn’s guest, and he’s clearly something special as far as she’s concerned.’

  ‘So if he does decide he likes it here, then I guess she’ll put in a good word for him at the Immigration Directorate?’

  ‘I don’t imagine he’d have to wait as long as some of them do,’ Ívar Laxdal said drily.

  Skúli brooded while Markús dutifully swallowed one spoonful after another of yoghurt mixed with cereal and Dagga spread honey on toast for them both.

  He felt a faint but definite lethargy, a distant voice calling to him from somewhere in the back of his mind, telling him not to be too pleased with himself, not to let himself get carried away. He knew the voice and tried to hustle it out of his mind, ordering himself to ignore it, to banish the lurking self-doubt that had chosen this moment to tug at his ankle, to remind him that it was still there in the depths, waiting to break the surface.

  ‘You’re going to the office today?’ Dagga said, crunching toast.

  ‘I ought to. But I should be back in good time.’

  ‘Something juicy?’

  ‘Not sure,’ he said absently. ‘That lead Lars gave me, I’m not sure if it’s something good or not, but it looks interesting.’

  ‘So you need to chase it up? What’s it about?’

  Markús shut his mouth firmly and refused to be tempted to take another mouthful.

  ‘He’s had plenty,’ Dagga said.

  Skúli tenderly wiped his son’s mouth.

  ‘I had no idea small children could be quite so messy,’ he said with sorrow.

  Dagga snorted. ‘Wait until he’s fifteen, then you’ll see what messy really is.’

  ‘I’m not sure I was ever like that,’ Skúli protested.

  ‘I don’t suppose you were. But your family are the weirdest people in the world. You were expected to be forty the day you turned fourteen.’

  Skúli shivered at the thought of his parents, which instantly brought back
the nagging dark feeling he wanted to be rid of.

  ‘True,’ he admitted and forced a smile. ‘They are pretty nuts.’

  ‘Nuts? I’m amazed you escaped unscathed.’

  ‘You mean when you snatched me from the bosom of my family?’

  ‘Something like that. I don’t recall that you needed a lot of persuasion,’ she said through a mouthful of toast. ‘What’s this story Lars put you on to?’

  ‘This dubious character who’s come to Iceland as Steinunn Strand’s guest.’

  ‘He’d have to be something shady if he’s a friend of hers.’

  ‘Careful. My dad thinks she’s wonderful.’

  ‘Has he met her?’

  ‘Undoubtedly. Anyway, Lars reckons there’s a story in it for us, and we could do with something scandalous to get our teeth into.’

  ‘On top of that right-wing nutjob who’s supposed to be holding a public meeting on Sunday? Or is that tonight?’

  ‘The American? McCombie? Tonight and again tomorrow. Arndís is interviewing him today.’

  ‘Poor her.’

  ‘Don’t you miss this stuff?”

  Dagga thought for a second as she plucked Markús from his high chair and bounced him on one knee.

  ‘I used to,’ she said. ‘But when I think of having to interview shitbags like McCombie, I don’t miss it any more.’

  Ívar Laxdal ate much of the breakfast he had brought himself.

  ‘Our friend’s still asleep?’

  ‘I assume so. I haven’t seen him yet this morning.’

  He peered at his watch. ‘It’s still early.’

  ‘Early for some. It’s almost ten. That’s half the day gone.’

  Ívar Laxdal stretched for the coffee and poured himself another mug, munching one of the pastries he’d brought with him.

  ‘If Sleeping Beauty’s not up in time for breakfast, then I suppose we’ll have to eat it ourselves,’ he said, opening a notebook. ‘He’s going into town today, so we have a few security headaches to deal with. He has a meeting at the Vatnsmýri Hotel, and that means us as well.’

  Gunna helped herself to a fresh kringla twist and took a critical bite, reflecting that they always took her back to her childhood in the West.

  ‘Not a patch on the ones from back home,’ she said, but finished it anyway. ‘So what does Osman’s social whirl have in store for us?’

  Ívar Laxdal looked up from his hardback notebook. Anyone else would have made a note in their phone.

  ‘Today there’s the meeting with Kyle McCombie at Hotel Vatnsmýri. There’s dinner with Steinunn at her house, date to be confirmed. Then there’s a day in Thingvellir lined up, depending on the weather, and after that there’s a visit to Parliament. He also has a couple of other meetings pencilled in.’

  ‘And are we joining him for all of these? Including the meeting with the weirdo?’

  Ívar Laxdal coughed.

  ‘Weirdo?’

  ‘McCombie. The crazy white supremacist from the other side of the Atlantic. I was reading an interview with him and he’s completely mad.’

  Ívar Laxdal nodded sagely.

  ‘I would be inclined to agree with you. There have been petitions to get him denied entry to the country and there’s a demonstration supposed to be taking place outside the public meeting he’s holding this evening – every available officer has been drafted to jump in if it boils over.’

  ‘Laufey was talking about him last week. I have a feeling she’s going to be at the demo, so I’d appreciate it if she didn’t find herself in a cell.’

  ‘She won’t.’ He chuckled. ‘As long as she just shouts and doesn’t throw bottles, she should be fine. Anyway, we take him to meet McCombie at the hotel. Once that’s over, we bring him back here. Osman’s not going to the meeting.’

  ‘I wonder what they have to talk about,’ Gunna mused. ‘A dissident Middle Eastern philanthropist and a hardline string-’em-up right winger; what do they have in common?’

  ‘Extremism, I imagine, Gunnhildur,’ Ívar Laxdal said. ‘Who knows? Maybe they’ll hate each other?’

  When Ívar Laxdal had left, Gunna walked a circuit of the garden, enjoying the freshness of the morning air and the wind blowing off the sea bringing a sharp tang of seaweed with it. The upper slopes of Mount Esja were decked with a thicker covering of snow than the day before and she was sure it was only the warmish southerly wind that was keeping the snow down here at sea level at bay. The thought of her son Gísli, back at sea in this weather, was uncomfortable but nothing alarming. He was working on a smaller boat than the one he’d spent the last few years on, sacrificing a level of comfort for shorter trips that would bring him home to his young family every few days instead of once a month.

  Gunna shivered. Gísli was the least of her worries at the moment. This assignment to look after the mysterious Osman meant that she was out of touch with Laufey and Steini, although she had no doubt that they would look after themselves well enough during her absence, possibly with more frequent visits to the Chinese takeaway in Keflavík than would be normal; the bin would be crammed with foil cartons by the time she next got home.

  She unlocked the door, glancing around to make sure she wasn’t being watched, took a last breath of salt-laden sea air and stepped into the house’s warm interior. Boots off and replaced by sandals, she completed a circuit indoors, checking the windows and doors, making sure the back door leading to the hot tub was secure and satisfying herself that everything was as it should be.

  In the kitchen she checked the time, saw that it was three hours before they would be collected. She sat in the living room’s largest armchair, trying to concentrate on a book, but felt herself constantly conscious of the Glock under her arm and the communicator earpiece, as if she were waiting for something to happen. When Osman appeared, casual in jeans and an open-necked shirt, she was happy to put the book down.

  Osman lounged on the sofa opposite.

  ‘Have you been able to work?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, thank you. This is a very peaceful place. A lovely little house,’ he observed, looking round at the walls hung with paintings that Gunna suspected included a few genuine Kjarvals. He poured himself a glass of juice, and draped himself across another armchair as he sipped it. ‘Tell me about yourself, Gunna,’ he said, that brilliant smile returning. ‘Tell me again: how long have you done this job?’

  ‘Twenty years, with a break or two.’

  ‘And is being a policeman in Iceland exciting?’

  ‘I didn’t join for the excitement.’

  ‘So why did you join the police? You must have been young, no?’

  ‘More for the variety, I guess. I couldn’t stand the thought of doing the same thing day after day in some office or factory. The opportunity was there and I took it,’ Gunna said, reluctant to go into her own life story in any detail. ‘What brought you to Iceland, if you don’t mind my asking? It seems a strange place for someone who’s used to a warmer climate.’

  The smile flashed again.

  ‘I met Steinunn at a human rights conference in Helsinki where I had been asked to speak, and again in Paris several times at receptions and meetings. She invited me here if I wanted to get away from everything for a while. I wanted to work on a book, so it seemed the perfect opportunity.’

  ‘What’s the book about?’

  Osman thought for a moment, and Gunna could see him deciding what he ought to tell her.

  ‘A little about my life when I was younger, when things were very difficult. And there will be a lot about the situation as it is at present in the Middle East, where I am not as popular as I would prefer to be.’

  ‘You must be in a difficult position if your life’s in danger if you go home.’

  ‘Much danger.’ He laughed. ‘But I’m not sure I should tell you too much. In my country we do not talk to the police willingly.’

  ‘So where is your country?’

  Osman winked and his teeth gleamed.

&
nbsp; ‘I have several countries, and at the moment I’m not welcome in any of them.’

  ‘So where do you live?’

  ‘In Brussels mostly. It’s the most convenient place for me to work as it’s central. It’s not as grey as London, but it’s less interesting. The authorities there are sympathetic to my position – for the moment, in any case – but it’s not a safe city.’

  ‘And Iceland’s safe?’

  ‘I hope so,’ he said and the dazzling smile flashed back into action. ‘Gunna, I think a cup of coffee would be welcome, don’t you?’

  It took a moment for her to realize that he expected her to make coffee.

  ‘Help yourself,’ she said. ‘It’s in the cupboard at the end.’

  This time his smile was tinged with regret, but not embarrassment. ‘I don’t make coffee.’

  Or cook, or wash up, Gunna thought as she got up from the chair. I wonder what’s going to happen when we get to laundry?

  ‘It’s easy enough. I’ll show you.’

  She filled the jug with water and poured it into the percolator while Osman stood next to her, closer than was necessary. She could smell a spicy fragrance to him, elusive but with a hint of warmth to it.

  ‘Water in there,’ she explained, filling the machine before opening the drawer to put a paper filter inside. ‘Then the coffee,’ she added, and froze for a moment as a hand alighted on her waist and slid gently downwards to rest on one buttock. ‘Three spoonfuls,’ she said through gritted teeth, counting them out as his hand gently kneaded.

  She flipped the machine’s drawer shut and could feel Osman’s breath on her neck as his hand travelled up and snaked back around her waist.

  ‘Switch on here and in a few minutes you’ll have coffee,’ she said, flipping the switch and twisting out of his grasp. She lifted the hand that was reluctant to be moved and placed it firmly on the worktop. ‘I’m afraid there are some things that are definitely not included in the minister’s hospitality, Mr Osman.’

  The pale man was checking the pistol again, turning it over in his hands.

  His broad-chested, black-bearded companion lay in the hollow and peered through binoculars set up on a tripod behind tufts of long grass.