Cold Breath (Gunnhildur Mystery Book 7)

by Quentin Bates

  ‘Nothing’s happened since he turned up yesterday.’

  ‘She’ll have to come up here herself if she wants to be sure it’s him.’

  ‘She’s sure.’

  The dark man shivered and looked over the binoculars at the grey skies and light frosting of snow on the brooding mountain in the distance.

  ‘Weird country,’ he grunted.

  ‘We’ve seen worse.’

  ‘Would you rather be back in Chad or Niger?’ the dark man asked.

  ‘Niger? God forbid,’ he shuddered and cradled the revolver in his hands.

  ‘Happy with that antique, are you?’

  ‘It may be an antique, but it’s simple, and that means not much to go wrong.’ He lifted the pistol and looked along the sight. ‘The sooner we can deal with this, the better. I don’t like this cloak-and-dagger shit. It feels wrong, somehow.’

  Lars appeared, with his trademark grin filling the screen.

  ‘Hey, Skúli.’

  ‘Hi Lars.’

  ‘How’s life?’

  ‘Not bad. Pulse is doing pretty well. Oh, and I’m a dad now.’

  ‘Mazel tov, my friend! Girl or boy?’

  ‘A boy. He’s ten months, crawling everywhere.’

  Lars beamed. ‘That’s wonderful, Skúli. I knew you could do it.’

  ‘Well, the technical part of it wasn’t exactly difficult, it’s all the stuff since then that’s been hard.’

  ‘Well, I wish you many more.’

  ‘Practising for the next one,’ Skúli said, and hoped Arndís on the other side of the office wasn’t listening to his conversation. ‘Now, pleasantries and family news aside, what’s all this about?’

  The grin vanished from Lars’s face and he was suddenly all business.

  ‘The guy whose picture I sent you, yeah? We’ve been watching him carefully for a while now and we’re as sure as we can be that he’s not everything he makes out he is. In fact, he’s a lot more, and it’s not pleasant.’

  ‘OK, and where do I come in to all this?’

  Lars leaned forward, close to his own screen, and his voice dropped.

  ‘He’s in Iceland, as far as we can figure out. I’ll email you all the docs so you have all the background to play with. There are gaps, but we’ve figured out the money’s coming from a bunch of unidentifiable sources, which probably means carrier bags full of cash being paid into bank accounts in countries that don’t ask too many questions. This then finds its way to Osman’s organization via a few jumping-off points along the way. As far as anyone’s concerned, these are donations to a charitable cause.’

  ‘Which isn’t as charitable as people would like to think it is?’

  ‘Precisely, Skúli,’ Lars said, his enthusiasm for the subject bubbling over. ‘It’s a scam, I suppose. A really efficient scam. Look through the details and you’ll see it’s all there, or most of it.’

  Skúli sat back and glanced over at Arndís, seeing that she had the phone to her ear and a ballpoint in her hand as she quickly scribbled notes.

  ‘And what are you proposing?’

  ‘A grand slam,’ Lars said with satisfaction. ‘We all share information, and we each come up with a story that goes live at the same time.’

  ‘When you say “we all”, what do you mean?’

  ‘Ah . . .’ Lars said. ‘I want to bring Sophie in on it if that’s all right with you.’

  ‘Sophie?’

  ‘You remember Sophie. You met her that time you came to Antwerp?’

  ‘French? Tall? Terrifying?’

  ‘That’s her. I see you recall all the main points.’

  Lars disappeared for a moment, then the screen flickered and a new window opened.

  ‘Can you hear me, Sophie?’ Lars said, and an impassive face under an ink-black fringe appeared in the third window.

  ‘I’m here. Good to see you again, Skúli.’

  ‘And you, Sophie,’ he said politely.

  ‘You’ve discussed everything? And you know what this is about, Skúli?’

  ‘I will when I’ve read through the docs Lars is sending. What’s the plan? When do you want this to go live?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Lars said. ‘Is that too soon for you?’

  ‘I’ll know when I’ve read through the info,’ Skúli said, and paused as his laptop bleeped an alert, ‘which looks like it’s just dropped into my inbox. Can you tell me what makes you think this guy’s in Iceland?’

  ‘He’s been very friendly with your minister for a while now. She visited one of the camps in Greece that his foundation provides with support, and they’ve been seen at conferences, in particular one in Helsinki recently where they spent a long time talking.’

  ‘Have you seen him, Skúli?’ Sophie broke in. ‘He’s a goodlooking man. He charmed your minister.’

  ‘True,’ Lars agreed. ‘I met him once, about a year ago, and he should be selling second-hand cars or yachts. He’s a genuinely charismatic person. He charms everyone.’

  ‘So we go live tomorrow?’ Sophie said impatiently. ‘I’m ready to go and I don’t want to hang around until someone else gets there first.’

  Skúli scratched his chin as he thought, his thumbnail rasping on the bristles along the side of his jaw.

  ‘How time-sensitive is this?’

  ‘For me, very,’ Sophie said. ‘For Lars, not quite so pressing, but I guess for you it’s best to get this out there fast?’

  ‘I’ll have to approach the ministry. I can’t run this without giving them a chance to comment. I’ll be strung up otherwise.’

  He saw Lars and Sophie look to a corner of their respective screens, as if glancing at each other from their different countries.

  ‘If you think you have to,’ Lars said. ‘I suppose we ought to try and be ethical journalists.’

  ‘We’re going live at what time?’ Skúli asked.

  ‘Tomorrow morning. Ten European time.’

  ‘That’s nine here,’ he said and hesitated. ‘I’ll call the ministry press officer at the end of the day and ask for a comment. She might decline, but hopefully she’ll say no comment. That way I can put my hand on my heart and say I approached them, but they declined to confirm or deny. That would be ideal.’

  ‘Good,’ Sophie said in a curt tone. ‘It was good to see you again, Skúli. We’ll speak tonight if anything changes, otherwise we’ll share any new information? All right?’

  ‘Agreed,’ Skúli said.

  ‘Good. Goodbye,’ she replied and her screen vanished.

  ‘You heard the lady,’ Lars chuckled. ‘Give me a call if you have any questions. Now get to work, Skúli.’

  It had taken every ounce of persuasion he could muster to persuade Valgeir to meet, and only then for a hasty beer after work.

  Sólon wasn’t the quietest place they could meet, but it had the advantage of being close for them both. Valgeir seemed preoccupied, twisting his phone in his hands and checking it every few minutes.

  ‘Beer?’

  ‘It’s a bit early, but yeah. Make it a small one.’

  Skúli returned with a tall glass for Valgeir and a fruit juice for himself. He forced Valgeir to put his phone away for a second by holding his glass out to clink them together.

  ‘You’re not drinking?’

  Skúli shook his head. ‘Medication. Best to keep away from it,’ he mumbled.

  He felt suddenly embarrassed and hoped Valgeir wouldn’t push the conversation in that direction. He had no desire to explain that he had stopped taking the anti-depressants a few months ago and was feeling fairly well, just vulnerable and oversensitive, something that alcohol would only exacerbate. He only dared have a glass of wine at home in his own secure environment where it was safe to let down his defences. It worried him that he could feel the old symptoms starting to creep up on him again, and so far he hadn’t told Dagga that he’d stopped taking his meds.

  ‘So what’s this all about?’ Valgeir asked, sipping his beer and looking down at his pho
ne on the table in front of him.

  ‘Steinunn’s keeping you busy?’

  It was Valgeir’s turn to shake his head.

  ‘Just a bit. Run off my feet at the moment.’

  Skúli reflected that Valgeir had changed out of all recognition since they had been at university together; he wondered if he had changed as much. Valgeir had been the class joker, and he tried to think back to the last time he’d heard him tell any kind of joke. He felt a moment’s guilt at using an old friendship and the fact that he was one of Dagga’s relatives to squeeze out a lead for a story, but decided it wasn’t worth agonizing over. Two beers was all it normally took to get Valgeir to share ministry gossip, after which it was more of a challenge to stem the flow of indiscretions.

  ‘What is it you’re after?’ Valgeir asked, jolting Skúli from his thoughts.

  ‘Who says I’m after anything?’

  Valgeir’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Journalists don’t buy people like me a drink unless there’s something in it.’

  ‘Normally you wouldn’t be right. But this time you are,’ he said. ‘I hear Steinunn has a guest.’

  Valgeir spluttered into his beer and coughed violently.

  ‘How do you . . . ?’ he said once Skúli had patted his back. ‘I mean, what makes you think that?’

  Skúli winked.

  ‘I hear all kinds of rumours, so I was wondering if this one’s true.’

  Valgeir shuddered and looked around. Sólon’s upstairs bar was still relatively quiet this early in the day, with only a group of manbunned hipsters hunched over a laptop at the far end of the room.

  ‘I hear he’s a Mr Osman,’ Skúli prompted.

  ‘Hell, Skúli. Do you want to get me strung up?’

  ‘Of course not. Complete confidence and not a word to anyone. I’m just testing the water, wondering if I’m on the right track.’

  Valgeir took a deep breath, his face blank as he stared at Skúli. ‘I could do with another of these,’ he said, tapping his empty glass. ‘But I have to go back to work, so you’d better get me a coffee.’

  ‘If that gets me answers, no problem.’

  Valgeir was pecking at his phone with a forefinger when Skúli returned with a mug and placed it in front of him.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Osman.’

  Valgeir screwed up his face in a scowl and sipped his coffee, as if buying himself time and deciding what he could safely say.

  ‘Not a word?’

  ‘Absolutely. Not a word.’

  ‘Can I trust you on that?’

  ‘Come on, Valgeir. I can’t afford to burn my sources.’

  ‘I’m a source, am I?’

  ‘Friend, relative, source, in that order.’

  ‘Fuck you, Skúli. You’re putting me in a lousy position.’

  ‘And you’re helping a gentleman of the press who will be for ever in your debt.’

  ‘All right. His name’s Osman. He’s from somewhere in the Middle East, and that’s about all I know. There’s a dossier on him but I haven’t seen it and I don’t think Steinunn has either. At any rate, she has access but hasn’t read it.’

  ‘What’s he doing in Iceland?’

  Valgeir shrugged.

  ‘Search me. He’s Steinunn’s guest, and he’s here at her invitation. She’s met him a couple of times before and lapped up every word he said at a conference in Helsinki last month. She thinks he’s some kind of guru and saint all rolled into one; she believes the sun shines out of his arsehole.’

  ‘Is she . . . ?’

  ‘Hell, Skúli,’ Valgeir said with a grimace. ‘She’s fifteen years older than he is, plus Steinunn’s married. Now you’ve given me a mental image I could have done without. In any case, it couldn’t happen. There’s always someone there and he’s being minded by a security detail. They wouldn’t be able to get thirty seconds alone together without one of us knowing exactly what they’re up to, so put that thought out of your filthy mind.’

  ‘So what’s he doing here?’

  ‘Working on his memoirs, or so he says.’

  ‘And what’s he really up to?’

  Valgeir closed his eyes.

  ‘Don’t push it, please. I’m in enough shit already.’

  *

  There was a brooding menace to the darkening weather, as if winter was playing games and refusing to give up its hold until the last possible moment. There was still a chance of snow carried by the icy north wind, and Gunna hoped that winter would relax its grip before too long.

  It felt strange to be cooking a meal so early in the day, but she resigned herself to domestic duties being part of the assignment, silently regretting that she couldn’t draft Steini in to handle some of the kitchen duties he performed with such flair when he had time.

  Osman smiled as Gunna filled two plates and handed one of them to him.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said with a slight bow.

  He poured wine the colour of blood into a glass and gestured to her. Gunna shook her head.

  ‘Not for me. I’m on duty, remember?’

  They ate in silence to begin with. Osman cleaned every shred of meat from the bones, one by one, daintily licking his fingers.

  ‘So, Gunnhildur,’ he said with a satisfied sigh and a smothered belch. ‘You will have a glass of wine when you are no longer on duty?’

  ‘Maybe. Whenever that is.’

  His face opened into a warm smile, white teeth contrasting with the jet black of his thin beard.

  ‘You have always lived in Reykjavík? You like this place?’

  Gunna laid down her knife and fork.

  ‘No. And not really.’

  ‘Two answers?’

  ‘No, I haven’t always lived in Reykjavík. In fact, I don’t live in Reykjavík now. My house is in a village by the coast. So I have an hour’s drive to work every day.’

  ‘Why do you not move to a house in the city?’

  Gunna wanted to tell him to be quiet until she had finished her meal.

  ‘I’m not all that fond of Reykjavík,’ she said, to give him as brief an explanation as she could. ‘I quite like to work there, but I prefer to live by the coast.’

  ‘But you are married?’ Osman asked, and she sensed that he had been curious about this since the moment he had set foot inside Einholt.

  ‘Like my great-grandmother used to say, I have a husband but he’s dead.’

  ‘I am so sorry,’ he murmured, two fingers of his right hand tapping his chest in a rapid gesture of sincerity.

  ‘It’s a long time ago now,’ she said.

  ‘But you must miss him?’ Osman’s voice was warm and rich, a tone perfect to deliver comfort or elicit a confidence.

  ‘Of course. I think of him every day. I see him in my daughter’s face every time I look at her. But I don’t brood on it. He’s no longer here and, although I miss him, I still have things to do. Children and grandchildren to look after. Work to be done.’

  ‘You are not lonely?’

  ‘No, Mr Osman. I have a . . .’ She paused, wondering how to describe Steini. ‘I have a friend or, as my daughter calls him, Mum’s boyfriend.’

  ‘And he is a good man?’

  ‘Of course,’ Gunna said, raising an eyebrow. ‘You think I’d let a bad man into my house? He’s a decent guy. He has children and grandchildren of his own.’

  She stacked the plates and stood up to rinse them and fill the dishwasher. Gunna could feel Osman’s eyes following her every move, until she finally wiped down the counter and clicked the coffee machine on.

  ‘And you, Mr Osman? Do you have a family somewhere?’

  All three of them had promised their respective partners that today would just be a couple of hours and then they would switch off for the rest of the day. Darkness had fallen and the buzz of rush hour traffic outside told them they had all broken their promises again.

  ‘Editorial conference,’ Agnar said with a sideways glance at Sk�
�li as they sat around the low, round table in the centre of Pulse’s office, an arrangement chosen because it meant moving away from the desks and the screens that demanded their constant attention. ‘An hour or three later than planned.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry,’ Skúli apologized. ‘I had a meeting with a contact that went on a bit longer than it should have.’

  Outside Sólon, Valgeir had shivered in his duffel coat, glancing along Laugavegur as if he’d been expecting someone from the ministry, accompanied by a posse of policemen, to appear from around the corner with Ingólfsstræti and handcuff him on the spot.

  ‘What do we have?’ Agnar asked.

  ‘You go first,’ Arndís suggested.

  ‘All right. A hefty series of ads from Sunwise Travel, and they want to know if we can run a puff about them.’

  ‘If there’s a week in Tenerife in it, then I’m in,’ Arndís said before Skúli could open his mouth. ‘I’m prepared to sacrifice journalistic integrity for a decent holiday.’

  Agnar looked sour. ‘Not a chance. They’ll supply the copy, but it has to at least be written by someone we know, so it won’t be total crap or appear anywhere else.’

  ‘Fair enough. I’m used to not getting lucky with freebies.’

  ‘I met Dagga on a freebie,’ Skúli said. ‘So I reckon I’ve already had more than my share of luck.’

  ‘Speaking of which, we ought to get Dagga into the office more often, shouldn’t we?’

  ‘Childcare,’ Skúli shrugged.

  ‘Yeah, I know, but just so we can all talk together for once.’

  ‘OK, we can do that. But she’d probably have to bring Markús with her. What have you got for tomorrow?’

  The even more sour expression on Arndís’s face outdid Agnar’s effort.

  ‘Kyle McCombie, the American ultra-right nutcase who’s holding a public meeting tonight. I’ve interviewed him and I’ll go to the meeting tonight as well, so we can have that for tomorrow. It’ll make a splash. And you? What have you been quietly digging into, young Skúli?’

  ‘This guy,’ Skúli said, leaning forward to place his phone on the table, to show them Osman’s face on the screen. ‘Ali Osman. He’s a businessman, Lebanese or Turkish, or so we think, involved in all kinds of unpleasant deals in the Middle East. Lived until recently in Northern Cyprus, now resident in Brussels where he runs a charitable foundation. He’s here as Steinunn Strand’s guest, a very secret guest, and under police protection.’