‘Looking for Símon,’ Gunna growled at the receptionist whose company-issue welcoming smile faded away quickly.
‘I’m not sure if he’s here right now,’ she said. ‘I can call his office if you like?’
‘You do that. Call his office and if he’s not there, call his mobile,’ Gunna told the young woman. ‘And if that doesn’t work you can give me his address and I’ll go and hammer on his front door.’
She walked around the lobby inspecting the vast canvases hung on the high walls of what had once been a hardware store and guessed that to get walls that high, the ceiling must have been raised by a metre or more when the place had been rebuilt.
Símon arrived looking flustered. Bags had appeared under his eyes since they had spoken that morning and he looked a dozen years older without the flirtatious twinkle in his eyes.
‘Gunnhildur,’ he greeted her with undeniable dismay. ‘What can I do for you? Any developments?’
‘You remember this place when the old hardware store was here, don’t you?’
‘I do,’ he replied, puzzled.
‘When it was turned into a hotel, how did they manage to make the ceiling higher down here? Or is it my imagination?’
‘Er . . . the whole place was gutted, floors and everything came out. The only thing that’s original are the outside walls. They more or less built a new building inside the shell of the old one.’
‘Right. I thought so. I was wondering if my memory was playing tricks. Magnús Sigmarsson should have been here for a shift yesterday and didn’t show up. Has he been seen since?’
Taken aback by the suddenness of Gunna’s change of direction, Símon’s face fell.
‘I . . . er . . . I don’t know. I need to check the rotas.’
‘Good. Let’s do that.’
Símon practically elbowed the receptionist from her position behind the desk and tapped at the computer. He sighed. ‘Twelve to eight. He should have been on a twelve to eight shift yesterday, today and again tomorrow. He’s skating on thin ice now. I could easily have him dismissed for this.’
Gunna looked over the computer screen, which was covered in blocks of colour.
‘That’s him there, is it?’ she asked, pointing to a dark green block that stretched across four days of timetable.
‘That’s him. Or should have been. One of the restaurant supervisors covered his shift yesterday, but I don’t know what today’s arrangement is.’
‘I have a feeling you might want to get his shift covered tomorrow as well. Something tells me he won’t be in.’
Símon looked shocked. ‘Has something happened to him?’
‘You tell me. Magnús was reported missing by his girlfriend. She hasn’t seen him for twenty-four hours. He hasn’t shown up for work and his car’s missing. Does he have a history of being unreliable?’
‘He’s often late, but he’s never not turned up.’
Gunna heard her phone buzz and saw Helgi’s number flashing. ‘Yes?’
‘Hæ, chief. The drippy girlfriend saw him the night before last. He didn’t turn up as expected yesterday. Phone’s dead, and his car’s gone.’
‘All right, Helgi, thanks. Can you get onto comms and see if his name’s on any flights?’
‘Already done it. He’s not on any passenger lists, and his passport’s expired anyway.’
‘You’d best circulate the registration and if it’s on the move traffic will pick it up soon enough.’
‘Ahead of you on that one as well,’ Helgi said with satisfaction. ‘Next step, we have a look at his apartment?’
Gunna walked across the lobby of the hotel with her phone to her ear to give Símon and the receptionist less of an opportunity to eavesdrop. ‘I reckon so. Can you arrange for the door to be opened? I’ll meet you there in an hour.’
‘Will do, chief. See you there,’ Helgi said cheerfully and rang off.
‘That was about Magnús, wasn’t it?’ Símon asked immediately. ‘He’s all right, surely?’
‘No idea, but I would hope so. Now, carrying on from our conversation this morning,’ Gunna said grimly. ‘It’s time you were a little more forthcoming, otherwise I’m going to be down here with a team at eight tomorrow morning to interview every single member of staff from the globetrotting managing director to the unemployed immigrant who washes dishes for cash. Do we understand each other?’
The landlord was an elderly man who wheezed up the stairs and had to stop for a breather on the landing.
‘Had to move out, you see, can’t cope with stairs any more,’ he explained. ‘Got a place with a lift now. So much easier,’ he prattled as he selected a key from a bunch. ‘This is on the level, isn’t it?’
‘How do you mean?’ Helgi asked, smothering a yawn.
‘Could get into all sorts of trouble, couldn’t I? I know it’s my flat, but it’s let and I can’t just go waltzing in there when I feel like it. Tenants have rights these days,’ he said sadly.
‘Open it, will you? If you get a complaint I think we can back you up.’
The landlord turned the key in the lock and Helgi put a hand on his arm as the door swung open.
‘I think you’d best stay here. There’s no knowing what we’re going to find,’ he said, snapping on a pair of surgical gloves.
The smell of long unwashed laundry was overpowering and Gunna wrinkled her nose as the aroma brought Gísli to mind; suddenly all the thoughts that had been running through her mind in the evenings came flooding back. She briskly banished them, forcing herself to concentrate on the job in hand as they went through the flat but found no clue as to Magnús Sigmarsson’s whereabouts.
‘At least the bastard’s not drowned in the bath,’ Helgi said with relief.
‘No, but someone’s had quite a time in here,’ Gunna said, lifting a sodden towel from the floor to reveal another below it, stained red with blood. ‘Water’s been everywhere.’
‘And somebody cut a finger over there,’ Helgi said, squinting at the rim of the bathtub against the wall where a smear of blood could be seen against the pale-blue plastic and a handprint in blood could be seen on the wall by the door. ‘We’d best get that checked, I suppose.’
‘Arrange it with forensics, would you?’ Gunna said absently, thinking back to the words of Magnús’s disgusted neighbour. ‘I wonder. Helgi, what does this look like to you? Water and blood everywhere and towels all over the floor?’
‘No idea, chief. But it seems weird. The rest of the flat’s much as you’d expect. It’s a bit grubby and he hasn’t done his laundry as often as he might have. I get the feeling something energetic has been going on in here.’
‘And I’m wondering just what. Would you like to give Magnús’s drippy girlfriend a call and ask if they made a habit of screwing in the bath? Because if not, then what went on here may not have been that friendly.’
Haraldur jumped when his phone rang and Svava looked at him oddly over the dinner table as he answered it with a quaver in his voice.
‘Haraldur.’
‘Good evening. Haraldur Samúelsson?’
‘That’s me.’
‘My name’s Gunnhildur Gísladóttir and I’m with the Reykjavík city police,’ Gunna said. Svava wondered what had happened when Haraldur twitched with nervousness.
‘I . . . er . . . what can I do for you?’ he asked and Gunna immediately sensed the dread in his voice. It went deeper than that of the law-abiding citizen caught up in something beyond his understanding and told her instantly that Haraldur’s conscience was troubled.
‘It’s to do with an investigation; your name has come up in connection with an incident at the Harbourside Hotel. You were staying there a few days ago, weren’t you?’
‘I was,’ Haraldur replied, his voice almost a squeak as Svava stood up and silently left the room.
‘I would prefer it if we could meet to discuss this. First thing tomorrow, maybe?’ Gunna said in a tone of voice that made the ‘maybe’ redundant.
&nb
sp; ‘Yes. I’ll be at the office in the morning until twelve. You can find me there. Fiskitangi 42.’
‘Fiskitangi? Where’s that?’ Gunna asked with the sinking feeling that told her the man was out of town.
‘It’s in Akureyri.’
‘Ah, right. In that case I’ll get a flight in the morning and I’ll let you know when I’m on the way.’
‘I could meet you at the airport if you like,’ Haraldur offered.
‘I’ll come and find you if you don’t mind. Since I have to go to Akureyri, there are a few other errands I can run at the same time,’ Gunna said. ‘But thanks for the offer. I’ll see you in the morning.’
Haraldur sat still on the kitchen chair for a few moments after the conversation had ended. Svava deliberately shut the door behind her and turned to face him, hands on hips.
‘Halli. Will you please tell me what the hell is going on?’
‘I’m not sure. First there was a policeman on the phone asking all kinds of questions about when I stayed at the Harbourside when I went to Reykjavík to meet the Daewoo guys from Denmark the other day. Now there’s this policewoman who wants to come up here tomorrow and talk to me.’
‘What’s all this about, Halli? You’ve been as nervous as a cat for two days and don’t you dare tell me there’s nothing to worry about.’
‘It might be about my wallet being stolen,’ he said vaguely, picking up his plate and carefully placing it in the dishwasher. Svava’s pursed lips indicated that she found his explanation wanting.
‘And how did whoever stole your wallet manage to get into our account?’ she demanded, her voice increasingly shrill. ‘I’m telling you, Haraldur Samúelsson. We’ve been here before and we don’t want to go there again, do we?’ She stalked out of the kitchen and slammed the door so hard that the cups and glasses in the kitchen cupboards rattled in sympathy.
Agnes just looked at him as he collapsed into one of the pair of leather armchairs.
‘Hard day, darling?’ she asked in a slightly sardonic tone that set Jóel Ingi wondering what was behind it before he noticed that her face was carefully made up and her long frame was sheathed in a startling red dress that matched her scarlet lips.
‘Going out?’
‘Yup.’
‘Will you be back late?’
‘It’s Saturday night. Of course I will.’
‘All right. Have fun,’ he said bleakly as she stood up. He admired her without saying anything, from the supple black leather boots that encased her calves to the dress that showed nothing but hinted at everything.
‘See you later, sugar,’ she said, blowing him a kiss from the door. ‘Don’t wait up. Bye.’
Hermann Finnsson was not happy to get a visit from the police. A heavily built, balding man with jowls that trembled as he shook his head, he radiated nerves and continually looked through the window of the living room of the overdecorated, overheated upstairs flat he occupied.
‘I understand that you stayed at the Arctic Hotel last week. You live in Mosfellsbær, so why stay in a hotel so close to home?’ Gunna asked, hoping to put the man at his ease and watching his fingers tremble with nerves.
‘I . . . er, I decided to stay in town that night. I’d been out with some people and didn’t want to drive.’
‘Really? A taxi home would have been cheaper, wouldn’t it?’
‘Maybe.’
‘So, why stay at such an expensive hotel?’
Hermann Finnsson shrugged, lost for words. ‘I don’t know. Does there have to be a reason?’
It was Gunna’s turn to shrug. ‘Of course not. You’re married, Hermann?’
‘Not any more. I was, a long time ago.’
‘So who did you go out with that night?’
‘Some people.’
Hermann thrust his hands into the pockets of his cardigan, Gunna guessed to stop them trembling.
‘Look, Hermann. I’m not investigating you or anything you’ve done. But I have a very good idea of what happened and I need to find the person who took you for a ride. No names, no hassle afterwards. I just want some information.’
‘Nothing happened,’ he said in a thin voice and leaned against the wall, a bead of perspiration running from his thick hair down one temple. ‘Honestly.’
‘No. Nothing didn’t happen. I have it on good authority that you checked into the hotel that morning and left that afternoon. You didn’t spend the night there, even though you had paid for it. Why was that?’
‘Am I a suspect or something?’ he blurted out as the bead of perspiration became a rivulet.
‘No. Not at all. But you could be an important witness.’
Hermann’s eyes flickered to the window and back. ‘No. I can’t. I don’t have anything to say.’
Gunna could sense his terror, so sharp as to be an almost palpable presence in the room, and the intensity of it set her wondering what he was so frightened of. Facing a blank refusal to cooperate, though, there was little she could do.
‘All right. If that’s the way you want it, I can’t force you to say anything,’ Gunna said with a grim undertone, taking a card from her wallet. ‘But if you change your mind, please give me a call. I repeat, I’m not looking for any wrongdoing on your part – just information,’ she said, putting the card into his hand and noticing that the palm was damp with sweat.
Leaving the flat, Gunna felt its windows glaring at her back, certain that Hermann would be dropping her card into the bin and trying to forget that he had ever seen her.
Baddó found the internet confusing. Since the two mustachioed gorillas had delivered him to Kåstrup and a flight to Iceland, he had seen many differences. The world had changed. Reykjavík had gone from a wayward child with too much cash in its pockets to a surly, suspicious teenager wary of receiving another hiding like the last one, but slowly becoming bold again.
He had noticed how construction had stopped, although that shiny square box of an opera house where the fish market had once been took him by surprise. Unlike the boisterous city of the boom years when the place was awash with money and the nightlife continued past dawn and into the next day, Reykjavík had a brooding presence now, as if it were waiting patiently for the good times to roll again. Not that Baddó had much time for the suited yuppies who’d taken the cash and run; what amazed him was that so many of them were able to go about their lives without being assaulted.
Nothing had surprised him for long, although it was still a shock to see how little his money would buy these days and it hurt to see his sister struggling to put food on the table for the two of them, refusing to take his money while he wasn’t earning anything. The internet had changed the most. After the years that he hadn’t had access to it, it now seemed that half the world could be found online and much of the world seemed to have disappeared inside a computer screen.
He typed in the letters Haraldur had given him – a stupid-sounding name, he thought, but what the hell? Personal.is opened gradually on María’s old computer, although as far as Baddó was concerned, it was impressively fast.
It was a simple enough format, like a dating website, he thought, while wondering how it paid for itself. Users were either pink or blue, for men and women, Baddó guessed, and he clicked on one at random. As the profile appeared, and with it a picture, he instinctively looked over his shoulder to check María wasn’t watching, even though he knew she was at work. He read that Kitten70 had a passion for horses and the outdoors, and while she was looking for the ‘right one’ to fill her tummy with butterflies, she wasn’t there for the taking. The profile picture showed a three-quarter view of a well-built woman from chin to midriff in a flowery, low-cut dress that left little of her physique to the imagination. CityGirl’s and RannaH’s profiles told him that men old enough to be their granddads weren’t tempting, while Baddó nodded appreciatively at HotXHot’s profile, which told him she appreciated the charms of a financially secure older man or even a professional couple.
Getting som
ewhere now, Baddó decided.
Noticing a search box in one corner, he typed in ‘Sonja’ and waited until four profiles appeared. Looking at the pictures accompanying the SonjaSoy and 92Sonja, he discounted them immediately as teenagers. TinySonja gave her age as 30 and, as there was no picture, he read through the profile that described a quiet lady who combined a love of literature and music with an adventurous side; he wondered just what she meant by adventurous. Sonja2 made him shiver as there was an out-of-focus picture showing a foot tied with a scarf and the bold statement that Sonja2 preferred to be in charge. He read through the additional information, which told him she would message on MSN and his picture would get hers. Then there was a string of lettering that Baddó finally figured out was a cleverly coded email address.
At the top of her profile, he also noticed that Sonja2 hadn’t been online for several days. He wrote a quick message in the box that personal.is provided as he clicked on the ‘contact’ button and filled in the brand-new email address that María had set up for him, creating a user profile of his own at the same time. Baddó sat back once the message had gone and scrolled down to the rest of Sonja2’s profile, where at the bottom of the page he found a row of thumbnail pictures under a ‘similar to’ banner.
Ten minutes of browsing showed him that Bella specialized in discipline, Portia also liked to be in charge, while Lolla made no bones about her preference for submissive men who ‘enjoy a little pain’. Baddó winced at the idea. He thought of himself as an old-fashioned sort of character, and while he wasn’t of the opinion that a woman’s place was confined to the home, he drew the line at women having too much control and the thought of a woman delivering pain went against the grain. On the other hand, the porn that some of the better-connected prisoners at Kaunas had access to showed the strangest aberrations, and the fact that some of his fellow prisoners clearly relished aspects of the discipline was something that was alien to him. Like Portia, Bella, Sonja and Lolla, Baddó preferred to be in charge.
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