Chilled to the Bone

by Quentin Bates

  As she approached the little settlement at Kjalarnes, she was assailed by doubt. How long had that grey car been following her, had it been behind her all the way? She thought back frantically and decided that it had been behind her in the distance all the way from Mosfellsbær; she told herself it had to be someone on the way to Akranes, or maybe further. Someone from out of town, she told herself, slowing the car and noticing that the car behind did the same, allowing a van to overtake, whose driver was pushing it to the limits of what could be considered safe on the slippery winter roads.

  She stopped to turn left and the van hurtled past, spraying slush over the red car’s windscreen as it passed. Hekla fumbled for the wipers to clear it, hoping to see the grey car follow the van, but instead she saw that it was still some way off and clearly moving slowly. She crossed the road, and rather than driving straight through the village to the house she rented on the far side, she pulled into the petrol station beside the first pump. Hekla took her time pumping fuel, hoping to give the grey car a chance to drive past, but with the tank full and only a truck having gone past, her heart sank. It had to be him, Hermann or Halfdán or Heimir or whatever the damned man’s name was – something that began with an H.

  He sat in the car at the side of the road, spots of cold rain pattering on the roof as he wondered what to do. Should he follow the woman he believed was called Sonja and confront her when the opportunity arose? Or should he simply follow her discreetly, find out where she was going and then retire and think again? He stared through the windscreen at the grey landscape, the mountains obscured by cloud and the sea to the left – a monochrome mass blending seamlessly with the sky.

  Finally he put the car into gear and started moving as a truck roared past, its horn blaring a warning as it hurtled northwards, throwing a spray of ice and water up behind its rear wheels. He cruised towards Kjalarnes and as he signalled and pulled into the middle of the road to turn left, he could see the red car at the petrol station. His hands trembling and sweaty with nerves on the wheel, he cruised past as slowly as he dared, but the red car’s driver was nowhere to be seen. He stopped and looked at the old Toyota, the red paint on its wings flaking into rust spots, and quickly wrote down the registration number on the back of his hand before sedately driving away.

  Hekla emerged from the petrol station’s shop, having lingered there as long as she could, visiting the toilets and spending as long as she dared looking at the magazines on the racks before paying for her fuel, all the while darting glances out of the window to see if the grey car, or the grey man with the pale eyes, was anywhere in sight. She emerged nervously, looking about her and hoping there had been nothing at all to worry about. There was nothing but the wind whipping spray off the sea, giving the air a piercing tang of seaweed and a freshness that made her eyes smart.

  Relieved, but still worried, Hekla drove slowly down the hill, reminding herself that she ought to collect the children from their friend’s house and next Saturday morning she would have to return the favour and have a house full of toddlers for a couple of hours.

  He liked the café by the harbour with its down-to-earth feel, but Hinrik clearly felt uncomfortable there, which was precisely why Baddó had wanted to meet in unfamiliar surroundings.

  ‘I used to love this place before I went away. There was always someone I knew in here.’

  ‘Yeah. There’s always a clientele hanging around here,’ Hinrik agreed.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Just over that way, there’s a hostel for junkies and pissheads. If you want to sell any gear, that’s the place. Want a dirty job done? Cash in hand, no questions.’

  ‘Oh, right. I had no idea.’

  ‘Things have changed while you’ve been away, Baddó.’ Hinrik smiled, sipped and grimaced at the stale coffee. ‘What’s this shit?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Hinrik. It’s coffee. Don’t be so damned fussy,’ Baddó scolded, and raised his voice to call across to the raw-boned woman behind the counter. ‘Hey, Sína, sweetheart. Any fresh coffee over there for my picky friend?’

  The woman looked over and chewed her lip at the sight of Hinrik in his leather coat pouring the contents of his coffee mug out of the window and quickly closing it again.

  ‘There’s fresh here if he wants to come and get it.’

  ‘You don’t do table service?’ Hinrik asked, flashing her a smile.

  Sína glared back at him. ‘Depends who it is.’

  ‘For crying out loud,’ Baddó swore, fetching Hinrik a fresh mug himself and banging it down in front of him so that it slopped onto the table.

  ‘Hell. Why did you want to meet in this dump?’

  ‘Because at this time of day it’s quiet. That’s why. Are you keeping tabs on me, or what?’

  ‘Baddó, old friend,’ Hinrik said, sitting back and smiling unconvincingly. ‘Of course I’m keeping tabs on you. What do you expect? I’ve paid you a wedge of cash to do a job that I’ve been contracted to sort out by someone I’d like to keep on the right side of. Wouldn’t you?’

  Disarmed by Hinrik’s honesty, Baddó had to agree.

  ‘Yeah. Well, what is it you wanted to know, anyway?’

  ‘Just a progress report. That’ll do.’

  ‘Calls herself Sonja. Operates here and there at the better hotels, including that smart place up there,’ he said, jerking a thumb towards the harbour and the smart district above the slipways that had appeared during his years away.

  ‘How did you find that out?’

  ‘You don’t really want to know, do you?’

  ‘Probably not,’ Hinrik agreed. ‘Probably best if I don’t know. What else?’

  ‘I’m getting there. I’ll have more for you tomorrow. But if there’s no time to meet you, it’ll be because I’m on top of this,’ Baddó said, tapping the table with a forefinger and leaning forward. ‘Listen. If your client, whoever he is, wants this done quickly and quietly, why doesn’t he tell me what he knows so I can get it done a bit faster?’

  ‘Discretion, Baddó, old friend,’ Hinrik said. ‘I told you, this is delicate stuff. I’m the only one who knows who this person is, and that’s the way it has to stay, so there was no opportunity to pass details to you.’

  ‘You mean someone was skinned by this bitch, doesn’t want anyone to know and is out for revenge?’

  ‘Never you mind, Baddó. Never you mind. Just come up with a name and an address, and you won’t need to worry your sweet head about it any more. We’ll see to the rest.’

  Even Baddó felt a chill at the lopsided leer of a smile that revealed how Hinrik’s row of broken teeth had been patched with a single gold replacement.

  ‘This might be of some interest to you,’ Ívar Laxdal said, handing Gunna a folded printout.

  He had been on his way down the back stairs at the central police station at Hverfisgata and Gunna had been on her way up. She wondered if he had known she was there; the man’s uncanny ability to head people off at the pass when they would have preferred to avoid him was well known. She wondered idly if he had a crystal ball secreted in one of his office filing cabinets, and if so, could she put in a request for one as well? But instead of saying so, she skimmed through the sheet of paper.

  ‘Links to your case, doesn’t it?’

  ‘You mean the Gullfoss Hotel thing? Yes. When did this come in?’ she asked, wondering just how carefully Ívar Laxdal was following what should be a fairly mundane investigation.

  ‘An hour ago. A young woman called in tears and wanted to report this fellow missing. It’s early days. It’s only yesterday since she saw him last, so there’s a uniform around there now taking a statement. Just so you know,’ he said, continuing downwards and giving the impression that the conversation had taken place without his having stopped at all on the way to the ground floor.

  Gunna read Magnús Jóhann Sigmarsson’s name and her heart sank.

  It was an evening session and the place was full. Normally Jóel Ingi prefe
rred to train in the mornings before work, but the business with Hinrik had derailed his usual schedule. He had spent half the afternoon at home as Agnes daubed at her inexplicable canvas and he lounged with his iPod in his ears, ignoring the music as he ran events back and forth in his mind.

  When Agnes finally stood up, smiled and announced that she had finished painting, he looked at the canvas, shook his head in incomprehension and decided to go to the gym for an hour.

  The look on her face spoke volumes in terms of disapproval.

  ‘I’ll pick up a takeaway on the way back. Thai or Chinese?’

  ‘Thai,’ Agnes instructed, hauling the smock over her head and dropping it by the bedroom door.

  At the eight-kilometre mark, he realized that if he had cycled to the gym he would have covered the same distance but through the early evening traffic instead of under pounding heavy metal. He decided to do at least another two kilometres before he stopped, not least because a slender young woman had just mounted the machine in front of him and the view of her muscular buttocks immediately inspired him to complete the extra distance.

  Már appeared as he approached eleven kilometres, a towel round his neck to soak up some of the sweat a session on the rowing machine had produced. He nodded at the girl on the exercise bike in front and winked. Jóel Ingi grinned back. Már made a drinking motion and he nodded back, holding up two fingers to signify two more minutes.

  ‘Didn’t expect to see you here,’ Már said, handing him a bottle of chilled water.

  ‘Ach. I had to get out of the house, y’know. Agnes is . . .’ he shook his head.

  ‘Agnes is what? She’s OK, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yeah, she’s fine. She’s just being a bit hard work at the moment.’

  ‘As long as she’s OK,’ Már said doubtfully.

  ‘I said, she’s fine, all right?’ Jóel Ingi snapped, and immediately regretted the sharp tone. Már had known Agnes since childhood and had introduced them. But still Jóel Ingi sometimes resented her affection for Már and that the friendship pre-dated his and Agnes’s relationship, as well as the nagging curiosity that sometimes irked him. He wanted to know if Már’s and Agnes’s friendship had been anything more than that, but had never dared ask.

  ‘Does she know?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About the computer you mislaid?’

  As far as Már knew, the missing laptop in its bag had been lifted from Jóel Ingi’s shoulder by a pair of teenagers, one on a mountain bike, who pedalled along Pósthússstræti into the evening darkness, while his friend had been the distraction. Only Hinrik knew what had really happened, and he knew only a fraction of the truth, just enough to allow him to get CCTV stills from the hotel. Jóel Ingi didn’t even want to ask how he had obtained the pictures so rapidly, guessing that someone on the hotel staff had either been bribed or intimidated into extracting them from the surveillance system.

  His mind elsewhere, Jóel Ingi realized that Már was speaking.

  ‘Look, can’t you take some time off? You’re wandering around in a daze. Ægir’s noticed you’ve gone off the boil and he’ll rip you up if you put a foot wrong.’

  ‘I’m all right. I can hold my own against that overblown windbag.’

  ‘You think so? The minister hangs on his every word. He can blight your career like that,’ he said, snapping his fingers to illustrate the point. ‘You’re like me. No friends or relatives upstairs to fight our corner. Be careful.’

  Jóel Ingi scowled and said nothing, sipping from his bottle of water and watching as a gaggle of toned teenagers strolled through the chairs scattered around the gym’s health bar.

  ‘So what are you doing about this?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I have someone looking after it.’

  ‘Police?’

  ‘Hell, no! A friend. Well, a friend of a friend.’

  Már’s eyes narrowed. ‘Explain, will you?’

  ‘Look, it’s all in hand,’ Jóel Ingi told him, breathing deeply to keep his temper intact. ‘It’s a friend of someone my brother knows.’

  ‘Your brother’s not the most reliable character, is he?’

  ‘Junkies aren’t normally the most reliable people.’

  ‘So is his friend trustworthy?’

  ‘I don’t suppose so. But there’s money involved and he’s being paid to do a job.’

  ‘I’m not going to ask who this person is, but wouldn’t you be safer going to the police?’

  ‘Yeah. The police already know, and I’ll bet you anything they’ve filed it away and forgotten about it. If I thought they’d actually do something, I wouldn’t have had to find someone else to do the job. Anyway, I don’t know the guy who’s doing this, and it’s better if I don’t.’

  He almost wanted to cry when he saw how much his stash of foreign currency had been depleted. Everyone had thought he was mad at the time, selling his shareholdings just as everything had been going up, and leaving the financial sector for a boring job with a bunch of grey-faced old men at the ministry. But as the currency tumbled and the banks tottered, Jóel Ingi quietly congratulated himself on his astuteness. Another six months and things would have been very different, painfully different, he reflected.

  But the stacks of euro notes that he’d originally stored in a bank deposit box, having decided that a foreign exchange account wasn’t the safest option, were now looking decidedly thinner, and the equivalent of another million krónur in Hinrik’s pocket was painful.

  This time they met at a bookshop; they were practically the only people there who weren’t sitting behind laptops and tablets over their designer coffees. Hinrik sipped his coffee with distaste. A proper drink would have been preferable at this late hour of the afternoon. Jóel Ingi had a tall glass in front of him that Hinrik eyed with suspicion.

  ‘What’s that, then?’

  ‘Latte. Try one.’

  Hinrik wrinkled his nose. ‘Nah. Not for me. Got it?’

  ‘Half,’ he said and watched Hinrik’s eyes narrow in suspicion. ‘No results yet. Half now, and half when there’s a name and address.’ Jóel Ingi pushed a padded envelope across the table between the cups. ‘Cash. In euros,’ he added.

  The sour expression across Hinrik’s face lingered and then dissolved into a smile devoid of any warmth. ‘In that case, as you’re a valued customer, leave it with me.’ The smile vanished as if it had been turned off at the mains. ‘But we’re a little light on information and you haven’t given us a lot to go on. What’s going on here? You’re complaining that this isn’t moving fast enough, but you won’t tell me what I need to get the job done fast.’

  Jóel Ingi stared back at him.

  ‘I mean,’ Hinrik continued, almost disconcerted by Jóel Ingi’s dispassionate look, which told him nothing about what was happening behind those grey eyes. ‘You want this done quick, so give me an idea what it’s all about,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘You know I offer a comprehensive service, don’t you? No need to get your own hands dirty.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  Hekla was exhausted. The day since she had returned from the pool so abruptly had dragged by and she had been unable to settle into doing anything. She sat at the kitchen table, Alda happily colouring in a picture and Alli spellbound by the TV as Hekla flipped through the newspapers she had picked up at the garage that morning. Without reading anything much, she took in the headlines and checked that her own advertisement was still among the classifieds, not that she’d be renewing it. The morning’s scare had told her that line of business had to come to an end, and immediately.

  She listened to the radio, punctuated by the whine of Pétur’s lathe in the garage, where he sat propped on a stool as he carefully turned out dishes, cups and ornaments from the lengths of wood stacked on the bench next to him. The whine stopped but she only noticed as the click of Pétur’s crutch told her he was on the way along the short corridor; she wondered how long he would be able to get in and out without help.
<
br />   ‘There’s coffee in the machine,’ she said without turning round as she heard the clicks that accompanied the shuffle of every step Pétur took. He stooped to kiss the back of her neck, wincing as he straightened up again and smiling as he watched Alda concentrating on the colouring book.

  Hekla turned a page in the paper and felt a chill run through her as coffee gurgled into Pétur’s mug. He turned to her. ‘D’you want some as well?’

  She felt unable to speak, transfixed by the picture in front of her.

  ‘Are you all right, love?’ Pétur asked, bemused. ‘Something interesting?’

  Hekla shook herself back to reality. ‘No, fine. Just someone I thought I knew, but it’s not. Yes, please,’ she added, pushing a mug to the edge of the table.

  Mug in hand, Pétur looked at her fondly and made for the door again. ‘I’ll do another hour and then call it a day,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll come and get you. Don’t overdo it. You know what the doc said.’

  Pétur snorted. ‘The doc. What the hell does he know?’ he demanded and was gone, with his step-shuffle-click signalling his progress down the hall and back out to the garage, leaving Hekla to stare aghast at the photograph of a young and dynamic Jóhannes Karlsson staring back at her from the midst of his full-page obituary.

  With Helgi dispatched to Kópavogur to speak to the tearful girlfriend who had reported Magnús Jóhann Sigmarsson’s disappearance, Gunna parked outside the Harbourside Hotel for the second time that day. The building was an imposing one, giving the upper floors some fine views over the bay, and Esja beyond it, with the stiff wind whipping up white horses on Faxa Bay in what remained of the daylight. Not that Reykjavík’s favourite mountain could be seen in the gloom, Gunna reflected as she slammed the leased car’s door and made for the entrance. Darkness fell early at this time of year and January was a bleak month, with New Year over and people nervously awaiting the first post-Christmas credit card bill of the year.