Chilled to the Bone

by Quentin Bates

  ‘Police have not yet commented on the person believed to have been found on wasteland south of Hafnarfjördur this morning. There is a strong police presence in the area following the discovery early this morning of a body, but no details are yet available,’ he heard, immediately furious. ‘The national women’s handball squad returned today from . . .’ the newsreader continued until Baddó snapped the radio off. Shit, damn and blast, he thought, hardly believing that Magnús Sigmarsson’s body could have been discovered quite so soon and realizing that the car now parked outside, which had been so useful yesterday, had become a liability that would have to be smartly disposed of.

  Standing outside Haraldur Samúelsson’s office, Gunna punched in the number that he had extracted from his phone and listened to it ring until finally the ‘number not available’ tone began, by which time Andrés had bumped his squad car across the car park.

  ‘How’d it go?’ he asked as she gave up calling the number and dropped her phone into her lap. ‘Where to now?’

  ‘Straight back to the airport, if you would be so kind. Something’s come up and I need to get back quickly.’

  ‘Weren’t you going to see someone else?’

  ‘I was, but that’ll have to wait until later,’ she said grimly. ‘We have a body out by the quarter-mile track, and it’s to do with this case I came up here for; suddenly it’s looking rather more serious than it was an hour or two ago.’

  Mercifully, the rain had held off. Under a plastic tent erected over a deep fissure in the lava rocks, Gunna looked at the remains of Magnús Sigmarsson lying twisted into an impossible position half out of sight, the visible part of him illuminated by harsh lights fed by a chattering generator.

  ‘Who found him?’

  ‘Someone out walking his dog this morning. The dog found him.’ Helgi sniffed, the beginnings of a cold thickening his voice. He shivered inside his thick coat, a woollen hat pulled down close to his bushy eyebrows, which dripped with moisture. ‘I sent the dog owner and his dog home,’ he added.

  ‘What do the forensic gurus say?’

  ‘Apart from moaning about being asked to come out here in this weather on a Sunday? Too early to say, but I’d bet anything you like his neck’s broken. You just have to look at the way his head’s twisted round.’

  Gunna shuffled her feet, aware that water was seeping into her shoes.

  ‘What we need to know is if it was broken before he landed down there, or was it the fall that did it, and when?’

  ‘Yup,’ Helgi agreed. ‘That’ll do it. How was your morning in Akureyri?’

  Gunna shook her head. ‘The poor guy was scared shitless, didn’t know what was happening to him. I just had to write it all down and now I need a few hours of peace and quiet to sort this out.’

  ‘Does any of it make sense yet?’ Helgi asked.

  ‘You know,’ Gunna said, wondering what to say, ‘so far, no. Jóhannes Karlsson had a heart attack and died. That’s simple enough to work out and there’s no foul play involved as far as I can see. There’s no evidence of any kind of violence, and the post-mortem confirmed it was a genuine heart attack, which wasn’t exactly a surprise in an elderly man with a history of heart problems.’

  ‘And this guy?’

  ‘I know. It’s weird, isn’t it? There’s nothing to link the two. Elderly man croaks from natural causes under odd circumstances, while a young man looks like he’s been murdered, and if he wasn’t, how the hell did he get out here?’

  ‘Not related?’

  Gunna shrugged her collar higher. ‘They shouldn’t be related. There’s nothing to link the two, but there’s so much else happening around these hotels that the whole thing stinks,’ she said as Helgi nodded gloomy agreement. ‘Now there’s a body I reckon we’ll be giving this priority and overtime shouldn’t be a problem.’

  Gunna looked around, as if expecting to see the stocky form of Ívar Laxdal looking over her shoulder; she was almost surprised to see he wasn’t there.

  The problem was transport. Baddó decided that getting rid of the car somewhere out of the way would be no great problem, but there was no way he was going to ask for help from anyone, least of all from that thieving shyster Hinrik. He would have taken the chance of using Magnús’s car for a few more days with its carefully switched number plates, but now the police would be looking at murder, driving the Golf was a risk he didn’t want to take. Besides, he could hear that a wheel bearing was about to wear itself out, and being stranded somewhere in the broken-down car of a murder victim would be unfortunate, to say the least.

  Already nervous about what he had in mind for it, he walked downtown, past the bars and eateries that had sprung up in the city centre during his years away. The Gullfoss Hotel looked inviting and the warmth of the lobby hit him like a fist planted in his chest.

  ‘Good evening,’ the odd-looking man behind the desk greeted him.

  ‘Hi,’ Baddó responded. ‘The bar’s open, is it?’

  ‘It is. But it’s quiet tonight. It’s still early.’

  ‘Quiet will do nicely,’ he grinned. ‘For the moment.’

  The man smiled and gestured with a hand to the hotel’s bar with its long window looking out onto city life outside, not that there was much life so early on a weekday evening.

  The odd-looking man with the heavy tortoiseshell glasses appeared behind the bar just as Baddó placed a hand on it, looking round at the small number of drinkers already sat at tables here and there.

  ‘I didn’t think it would be this quiet.’

  ‘It’s a Sunday. Not much happens on a Sunday.’

  ‘I’ll have a beer to start with,’ he said, peering at the man’s name badge. ‘Gústav.’

  ‘A beer coming up.’

  Baddó watched as the receptionist stepped into the barman’s role with aplomb. Gústav was in late middle age, he guessed, not your average low-paid hotel droid. He reminded himself not to overdo it. Magnús Sigmarsson’s car, parked along with the crossover of Reykjavík’s early-evening revellers and late-afternoon shoppers, still needed to be dealt with and a clear head would be needed for that.

  The beer appeared in a tall glass with a flourish. ‘Voilà.’

  ‘Na zdrowie,’ Baddó replied, taking a long pull that half emptied the glass. ‘It’s been a while since I was here last,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, yes? Years or months?’

  ‘Years. A good few years,’ Baddó said, hoping that Gústav hadn’t noticed him speaking to that dim-witted Kolbeinn a few days earlier.

  ‘Been abroad, or out in the country, have you?’

  ‘Overseas. Things have changed, and not for the better.’

  ‘You’d have been better off staying somewhere a little more prosperous,’ Gústav said with a sad dip at the corners of his mouth and Baddó noticed that the man wore a cravat inside his open-necked shirt instead of the regulation hotel tie that the other staff wore. ‘Business abroad, if you don’t mind my asking?’ he enquired, and Baddó recognized the professional barman’s openness to conversation with a punter who wanted to talk.

  ‘I’ve been in security, the Baltic States,’ Baddó answered shortly, reckoning that being too specific would lead to no good.

  ‘An up-and-coming part of the world, I’m led to believe. Half of this place’s staff come from that way and, between ourselves, if we could replace the other half with Polish boys and girls, the place would run a lot better.’

  ‘Present company excepted, I presume?’ Baddó laughed, emptying his glass. ‘Another of those would go down well.’

  Gústav grinned and began pouring a second drink, which arrived with the same flourish. ‘Good health.’

  ‘And yours. I’d buy you a beer as well, but I guess that would be out of order in working hours, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Sadly, the unenlightened health and safety fanatics who run Iceland these days have made it impossible for a hard-working man to slake a decent thirst with anything other than coffee while manning t
he barricades,’ he told Baddó, pouring himself a cup from a thermos behind the bar and raising it in a mock toast. ‘More’s the pity.’

  ‘Things have changed,’ Baddó agreed, taking a sip of his second beer and warning himself to keep the pace slow. ‘But tell me, where does a man go for a little discreet action these days?’ he asked, looking down his nose with the hint of a wink.

  ‘I’m the soul of discretion. There’s action to be had, but I’m afraid I prefer to turn a blind eye.’

  There was a change in his tone, more guarded, but still with a note of curiosity.

  ‘Even if there might be something of a drink in it for a man forced to stick to coffee?’

  ‘Life is nothing but a series of possibilities and everything has its price.’

  Gunna stared gloomily at the screen on Eiríkur’s computer, replaying the footage from Hotel Gullfoss for the fifth time. She was tired and the early start had left her feeling drained. Eiríkur and Helgi were busy interviewing Magnús Sigmarsson’s relatives, girlfriend and those of his friends who could be tracked down, while she yawned at her desk at the Hverfisgata station, watching the fashionable blonde woman stride purposefully across the lush carpet of the Gullfoss Hotel, then watching her dark-haired incarnation slouch down a dim corridor in baggy tracksuit bottoms and a hooded sweater.

  She played the footage back again, then looked through the stills, including a couple of computer-enhanced versions of the same pictures, which showed what the woman could look like.

  The darkness outside filled her with foreboding and she wondered for the first time if she ought to relocate somewhere closer to the city than her quiet village, which could be an hour or more’s drive to work if the weather were unkind. Almost without thinking, she dismissed the thought, even with the wind whipping raindrops like bullets against the office windows from the blackness outside.

  She stood up and looked along the row of mostly deserted desks, spying a head at the far end.

  ‘Dísa, would you come and have a look at this? I could do with a second opinion.’

  The woman at the far end nodded, tapped briefly at her computer and stood up. ‘What can I do for you, Gunna? You need some help from the drug squad?’

  ‘Just wondering if you recognize this face, that’s all,’ she said, setting the first sequence to run.

  Dísa stood with her chin cupped in one hand, nodding as the blonde woman with the dress that showed off long legs took a dozen steps across the Gullfoss Hotel’s bar and disappeared through the doorway leading to the lifts.

  ‘Familiar?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so,’ Dísa said slowly. ‘Is this someone new?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Gunna said. ‘You know the old guy who died at the Gullfoss Hotel the other day? This is the woman we think was with him when he blew a gasket.’

  ‘For sale, you reckon?’

  ‘I thought so, but now I’m not so sure. I was wondering if there might be a narcotics angle. Someone you might know, maybe?’

  Dísa shook her head. ‘No, doesn’t look like any of the regulars we get to see.’

  ‘Any progress, Gunnhildur?’ Ivar Laxdal’s voice startled them from behind and Gunna turned to see that his attention was focused on the screen as well.

  ‘Nothing so far, I’m afraid,’ Gunna said, feeling foolish at being taken by surprise and wondering if Ívar Laxdal made a point of moving as silently as a cat so as to keep his staff on their toes. ‘There’s this as well,’ Gunna said, starting the grainy sequence from the hotel’s CCTV cameras in the corridor. They watched as the woman with the mass of black curls made her way quickly along the passage, avoiding the lift and making for the stairs, providing a close view of her angular face with its strong nose and deep-set eyes under the fake fringe, before the cameras watched her walking away and disappearing around a corner.

  ‘Nope. Sorry. That’s not one of our regulars,’ Dísa said. ‘I don’t think this is drugs-related, do you? There are some about who will screw for dope, a couple of regulars, but most of them just now and then as far as we know. Not that they work anywhere as classy as the Gullfoss.’

  ‘That woman has kids,’ Ívar Laxdal rumbled behind them.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Scroll that sequence back to where she walks under the camera.’

  They watched the woman walk away from them again, and then a third time.

  ‘Look at her hips and the way she walks,’ Ívar Laxdal said. ‘I’d wager a month’s salary that woman has a couple of children.’

  Gunna wanted to ask if he meant his salary or hers, but thought better of it as she switched back to the first sequence in the bar, this time paying attention to the woman’s gait.

  ‘It’s not so obvious there, I suppose because she’s dressed up and isn’t wearing completely flat shoes,’ she mused, then went back to the corridor sequence. ‘What do you think, Dísa?’

  ‘I agree with Ívar. There she’s wearing trainers and she’s in a hurry, you can see she walks like a horse pulling a cart. I’d reckon she’s either had a car accident or something at some point that’s damaged her hips, or else she’s popped out a few kids. You can tell from her butt as well,’ she added. ‘Tracksuit bottoms aren’t very forgiving, are they?’

  ‘You’re right,’ Ivar Laxdal agreed. ‘They don’t do you ladies any favours, and they don’t turn heads like that dress does. So, how does it look?’

  ‘Not great. We’ve no idea yet who the woman is, or even if she had anything to do with Jóhannes Karlsson turning up dead.’

  ‘And the body out by the quarter-mile track? Is it anything to do with this?’

  ‘There isn’t a shred of evidence to link the two, but to my mind it’s too close to be a coincidence.’

  ‘Definitely murder, not an accident?’

  ‘I’d say so. We’ll know when the post-mortem has been done. But I’d say he didn’t wind up in that hole in the ground willingly.’

  ‘Good,’ Ívar Laxdal said. ‘You should be off soon, Gunna, considering you were at the airport at seven this morning and it’s getting on for six now. But come and find me before you leave, would you?’

  Baddó drained his glass with a flourish as theatrical as the barman’s had been when he filled it.

  ‘Another?’ Gústav reached for the glass.

  ‘Why not? One for the road,’ Baddó decided, scenting what he was looking for. ‘And how much do I owe you?’

  A tall glass appeared at his elbow and Gústav tapped at the till behind the bar. ‘That’ll be two thousand two hundred,’ he said, almost apologetically.

  Baddó carefully placed a pair of 5000 krónur notes on the bar with one finger resting lightly on them, increasing the pressure to hold the cash in place as a hand was extended to take it. ‘I’m still wondering where a man can find a little enjoyment around here.’

  Gústav looked nonplussed behind his oversized glasses. ‘Doesn’t it depend on who wants to know?’ he said quietly.

  Baddó made a tiny downward movement of his chin towards the 10,000 krónur still held firm under his finger. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Well, if you put it like that, I suppose it doesn’t.’ He smiled and Baddó released the notes, which vanished with practised speed.

  ‘Had a bit of trouble here recently, haven’t you? Word gets around.’

  ‘Æi, don’t ask. It’s been a nightmare these last few days. Police everywhere and management running around with their heads up their fundaments,’ Gústav said with gusto. Baddó nodded with satisfaction that the cash had done the trick.

  ‘From what’s whispered in my ear, this has been going on a while, hasn’t it?’

  Gústav cocked his head to one side, as if wondering what to make of Baddó’s question. ‘That depends.’

  ‘Depends on what?’

  Gústav shrugged. ‘On your point of view as much as anything. Sometimes it’s not healthy to notice too much.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Baddó agreed, sipping his
beer to make it last. ‘But sometimes keeping your eyes skinned can be profitable. There’s a scam doing the rounds and I understand that it came unstuck the other day when the old guy on the receiving end of it conked out. Am I right?’

  ‘That’s about right,’ Gústav admitted, uncomfortable by now, glancing around the bar, and giving up any pretence. ‘Look, pal. What is it you’re after?’

  ‘A name,’ Baddó said quietly. ‘The price is right.’ He quickly scribbled on a beer mat and slid it across the bar. Gústav glanced at it and slipped it into a pocket. ‘Give me a call on that number when your shift’s over.’

  He drained his glass and left it standing in front of Gústav, who was wondering just what he’d meant by ‘the price is right’.

  Sif could hear them talking in the other room with the burbling of the TV in the background. Dad wasn’t a problem, his injured hip made him pretty slow on his feet and she could hear him coming, but Hekla was another matter. A good bit younger than Dad and faster on her feet, Hekla could appear without warning with that bony nose of hers wrinkled in disapproval.

  The laptop bag that had been stashed carelessly under the workbench had intrigued her and she wanted to know why it was there. Her own laptop was struggling and there were no more tweaks or upgrades that would improve it. It was all right for schoolwork, but there were games that she found herself excluded from. Here was a computer hidden away under the bench that might be better than hers and she wondered why it was there.

  Opening it in her room, Sif found herself facing a blank screen with a single blinking cursor and a row of blank spaces. The damned thing was password protected. She wondered where her stepmother had got it from, and assumed that it probably hadn’t been acquired honestly.

  She tried ‘password’ and nothing happened. The computer’s screen gazed patiently back at her, waiting for the magic word. A string of zeros also failed to work, and she wondered how many attempts she could make before the computer failed to cooperate.