Chilled to the Bone

by Quentin Bates

  ‘No. I assume you do, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ Gussi allowed. ‘And no.’

  He raised an eyebrow and looked across the little table between them; Gussi had the feeling he was being played with.

  ‘I, er . . . I would like to know just who it is you’re working for, before I say too much,’ he said quickly. ‘I don’t suppose you’re a police officer, are you?’

  The man smiled and his hard face lit up with a flash of humour this time. ‘No, Gussi,’ he said. ‘I’m certainly not a policeman. I like to get things done quickly and discreetly, if you get my drift.’

  He continued to smile in amusement as the waitress reappeared and loaded the table with crockery, a dish of petite Danish pastries and a coffee pot. Gussi waited with impatience for the girl to finish, noticing Jón, or whatever the hell he called himself, checking out the curves of the girl’s legs as they emerged, clad in sheer black, from the short skirt that hugged her behind.

  ‘Enjoy,’ she said, straightening up.

  He’s old enough to be her father, Gussi told himself crossly, as the girl simpered in a way that spoke volumes.

  ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you who I’m working for.’

  ‘You’re not allowed?’

  ‘I don’t know myself. It’s a rather delicate operation and I’m just a small player in a bigger machine here.’

  ‘But you work in security?’

  ‘I’ve been in secure operations for a long time now.’

  Gussi looked away, needing a pretext to escape the keen eyes across the table, and put too much cream in his coffee.

  ‘Let’s just say that something sensitive has gone astray and there are people who want it back,’ Baddó said smoothly, guessing that this was probably somewhere close to the truth and watching Gussi’s broad forehead furrow.

  ‘All right,’ he said finally after he’d chewed his lip for a long moment. ‘I can give you some information but there are two things first.’

  ‘Fire away.’

  Baddó lifted his coffee cup and sipped without taking his eyes off Gussi and his flushed cheeks.

  ‘It’s not enough money,’ he said suddenly.

  ‘A quarter of a million for a whisper of information. Sounds reasonable to me.’

  ‘You’re asking me to give someone away.’

  Baddó laughed inside at the thought of this pompous fool trying to bargain with him, but merely nodded sagely. ‘And your conscience is worth more than that?’

  Gussi flushed even redder. ‘It is,’ he snapped, ‘if you want to put it like that.’

  ‘I find it’s normally best to speak as I find instead of dressing things up. How much are you looking for?’

  ‘Half a million,’ Gussi said, surprised when the hard-faced man nodded again.

  ‘And the other thing?’

  ‘An assurance that the person will come to no harm,’ he said in a shaky voice, unnerved by the indifferent reception his demand had elicited. ‘No violence.’

  ‘I’ll pass the message on and see what my clients say.’

  ‘About the half million, or the no violence?’

  ‘Both,’ Baddó said with a return of the cold smile that Gussi found both chilling and exciting.

  Something didn’t feel right. Hekla cleaned the kitchen more thoroughly than usual, glancing out of the windows at the sporadic snowfall from a grey sky that was filling the footprints at the back of the house, gradually wiping them out as if they’d never existed. The red Toyota outside had grown a white layer a hand’s breadth deep as the snow fell evenly in the still, heavy air; it felt like the lull before a storm.

  She tried to assuage her own tension by attacking the burned-on stains at the back of the oven with a scouring pad and increased vigour, hoping the activity would push the unease from her mind. An hour later the kitchen was spotless. The muted whine of Pétur’s lathe could be heard from the workshop as she decided the bathroom was next. She opened the bathroom window to let in a blast of cold, fresh air and used the opportunity to spy on the outside world, all the while telling herself that there was no need.

  By the time she had finished, the newly mopped kitchen floor was dry. She made coffee and stood staring out of the window at the greyness beyond as the horizon merged seamlessly into sky. The thickness of the weather that masked Reykjavík across the bay also muffled any sound from outside, rendering the noise of the traffic on the main road little more than a distant mutter.

  She took two mugs of coffee with her to the workshop where Pétur stood half-perched on a stool on his bad side in front of the lathe. Strips of curled wood shavings lay like a deep carpet around his ankles and Hekla breathed in the sharp aroma of newly turned wood.

  She put one mug on the bench where Pétur could reach it and cradled the other in her hands. ‘How’s it going?’ she asked, nodding at the stack of newly turned bowls on the bench.

  ‘Not bad.’ He smiled. ‘A dozen so far and I’ll do a few more before I start polishing them up.’

  Hekla picked up a bowl and admired the pattern of grain that swept across its broad base, lost in the twists and whorls.

  ‘They’re lovely, Pétur.’

  ‘I like to think so.’

  ‘It’s just a shame that you can’t get more for them.’

  ‘I know,’ he sighed. ‘But there’s only so much people will pay for these things.’

  ‘I still reckon that wholesaler’s ripping you off.’

  Pétur shrugged. ‘Probably. But he has overheads to pay as well.’

  ‘Come on. He pays you twelve hundred for each of these bowls or cups and he sells them for at least eight thousand. I’ve seen his website. We should be selling these ourselves, not giving them to someone else to make all the money on them.’

  ‘I know. But what can I do? I can either make these things or I can stand behind a counter and wait for someone to buy them. I can’t do both.’

  ‘You could get a stall at the flea market.’

  ‘We could get a stall there, maybe.’

  Hekla decided to let it drop. The idea of standing behind a stall at the Kolaport flea market with half of Reykjavík walking past was not an idea that appealed to her, not that any of her former customers would be likely to recognize her without one or other of her wigs. Then the face of the corpulent man from the swimming pool came rushing back to her. He must have recognized her, or else made a mistake and thought she was someone else.

  ‘We could get a stall, I said,’ Pétur repeated. ‘You’re daydreaming again.’

  ‘Sorry. Yeah, I suppose we could try it and see what happens,’ she said dubiously. ‘I’ll see if I can find out how much it costs.’

  ‘Even if we only sell a few ourselves, it would make a difference, I expect. Especially if we can charge gift-shop prices for them.’

  Hekla scanned the space under the bench on the far side of the workshop and wondered what was missing.

  ‘Where’s that laptop bag that was over there?’

  ‘What laptop?’

  ‘The one I picked up cheap before Christmas. I left it under the bench.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Pétur shrugged, his mind already on the lathe again as he clamped a section of wood into it. ‘You’re sure it was there?’

  ‘Gunnhildur,’ Ívar Laxdal told her, appearing in the doorway. ‘A word, if you don’t mind.’

  Gunna wanted to laugh at the ‘if you don’t mind’ that was an instruction rather than a suggestion. Not sorry to leave the clutter on her desk, she joined him in the corridor, wondering why the man always liked to walk when he was talking.

  ‘It’s the ministry again,’ he said. ‘It’s about this laptop they’ve managed to lose somewhere.’

  ‘They really think we’re going to find a laptop that someone left in a taxi?’ Gunna asked and was rewarded with a scowl.

  ‘There’s more to this than meets the eye, Gunnhildur, and I don’t know what they’re playing at either.’ />
  Gunna wondered if the scowl had been directed at her remark or at the ministry. ‘What do they expect, then?’

  ‘They expect us to find the damned thing, that’s what. I have the serial numbers and a description.’

  ‘That’s something, I suppose. But who lost this computer, and where?’

  Ívar Laxdal grimaced. ‘That’s just what they don’t want to tell me.’

  ‘This really is a needle in a haystack, in that case?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Can I ask how this request came to you?’

  ‘You can ask, but I’m not supposed to tell you. Between ourselves, it comes through a ministry official called Már Einarsson. I’ve checked him out as far as I can and he has, naturally, a clean record. He deals with foreign relations, apparently. He’s listed simply as an adviser, whatever that means.’

  ‘And I can speak to him?’

  ‘Hell, I don’t know. Leave it with me for the moment and I’ll have another word. I’ll see if I can get these jokers to agree to a meeting this afternoon. The whole thing sounds fishy to me.’

  Gussi’s head whirled. He was trying to work out how he had managed to end up with the hard-faced man who both frightened and fascinated him sitting in the only chair in his flat looking quizzically at him.

  He looked around appreciatively. ‘Nice place.’

  ‘It’ll do. It’s a bolt-hole really.’

  ‘How come?’

  Gussi didn’t want to be reminded, but he had to come up with an answer. ‘I had a larger place. I still own it, actually, but I can’t afford to live there and it’s rented out.’

  ‘Came out of the crash badly, did you?’

  ‘I did.’

  Gussi poured a little brandy into a tumbler and handed it across to his guest, the only guest the little apartment had ever seen.

  ‘Sorry to hear that. I missed out on all that stuff.’

  ‘You were abroad?’

  He nodded and smiled in a way that set Gussi’s stomach doing somersaults. ‘Back to business. Four hundred thousand is on the table for the information I’m after. Cash, no comebacks, no questions. No reason to see me ever again as long as your information is accurate.’

  Gussi grimaced and started to shake his head as he sat down on the three-legged stool that belonged in the tiny kitchen.

  ‘It’s just a name you’re looking for?’

  ‘A name will do fine.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Gussi wavered. ‘Four hundred thousand doesn’t go far these days. Can we stretch to half a million?’

  ‘You drive a hard bargain.’

  Gussi sighed, reminding himself that he had been determined to ask for double that. ‘I have plenty of debts,’ he said finally. ‘If you could stretch a little further than that . . . ?’

  There was that enigmatic smile again, and Gussi felt unnerved as it vanished suddenly.

  ‘I don’t like to do things the hard way, but sometimes there’s no alternative,’ Baddó said in a soft tone and delved into the inside pocket of his jacket to take out a fat envelope. He placed it on the chair’s armrest. ‘Four hundred thousand. Take it or leave it.’ He looked at Gussi with an unwavering gaze that made it plain there was no more on offer. ‘I’d advise you to take it.’

  ‘I, er . . . I don’t know.’

  Gussi stretched to pick up the envelope and, as he did so, Baddó shot out a hand that caught Gussi at the wrist in a solid grip that left him leaning forward with the stool about to collapse underneath him.

  ‘The name.’

  ‘What the hell . . . ?’

  ‘The name. Before you pick up the cash. A name.’

  ‘Hekla,’ Gussi gasped.

  ‘And the rest?’

  ‘Hauksdóttir. Hekla Elín Hauksdóttir.’

  The grip relaxed. ‘You know where she lives?’

  Gussi shook his head, his breath coming in gasps. The man’s hand released his wrist so that the stool sat back on its three legs again with Gussi, red-faced, slumped on it with his back against the wall.

  ‘How come you know this girl?’

  ‘We were in Othello at the National Theatre. I played Iago,’ Gussi said with a pride in his voice that he couldn’t conceal. ‘It was ten years ago, or more. She had a part in it as well. I remembered her, that’s all.’

  ‘And is she going to remember who you are, Gussi?’

  ‘I don’t know. I doubt it.’ He could feel his chest heaving and took off his glasses to wipe the sweat from his forehead onto the sleeve of his shirt. ‘It was a long time ago.’

  ‘And you’ve come down in the world, haven’t you? So this woman was an actress,’ Baddó mused. ‘That’s interesting.’

  Gussi stuffed the envelope full of cash into his trouser pocket. ‘No harm will come to her, will it? You gave me your word.’

  ‘How long has she been pulling this stunt with rich old men? It’s a smart idea.’

  ‘I’ve really no idea. I haven’t been taking notes.’

  ‘No, but you’ve been able to put two and two together, haven’t you?’

  The gaze remained unflickering, and Gussi felt that the man sitting calmly in the chair was stripping him bare, fully aware of any lie he might try to tell. He shivered in spite of the warmth in the little apartment. ‘I’ve seen her once or twice,’ he admitted.

  ‘And at a few other hotels as well? Word gets around, surely, and you people compare notes.’

  Gussi nodded glumly. ‘It happens. But it’s not often.’

  ‘When did you last see Hekla Elín Hauksdóttir?’ he asked, rolling the names slowly across his tongue, as if testing them for flavour.

  ‘Last week.’

  Baddó thought rapidly without dropping his gaze from Gussi’s eyes. Last week meant that the woman was still working, still pulling her stunts. ‘What day was that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Gussi said, flustered and hot, levering himself to his feet. ‘Four or five days ago.’

  ‘The same day that old guy was found dead at the hotel, was it? Anything to do with your friend?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that,’ Gussi said quickly.

  ‘Ah, but I think you do, my friend, and I think you may have told me more than you were going to,’ he said, standing up from the chair with a grace that Gussi found beguiling in a man of his bulk. ‘You said anything to the police?’

  ‘No. Not a word.’

  ‘Good. And you’re not going to, are you? I assure you, it wouldn’t be worth your while,’ Baddó said with soft menace. ‘Not if you want to keep your health.’

  Jóel Ingi threw two pills down his throat and washed them down with a cup of chilled water from the cooler. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms until the lights behind his eyelids flickered red.

  ‘All right, Jóel Ingi?’

  He looked up to see the grinning face of Katrín, the plump press officer from the next floor.

  ‘I don’t know. Flu coming on, I think.’

  ‘Well, I’d prefer it if you don’t give it to me. I’m on holiday in a couple of weeks, going to Dublin for a few days rest and a couple of nights on the town. Now that I’m single again, I’m allowed to start enjoying myself,’ she said. ‘That’s what you need, to let your hair down for a few days.’

  ‘I’m OK,’ he assured her, refilling his plastic cup and draining it. ‘It’s this place, I’m sure of it. Air conditioning all year round isn’t healthy. What happened between you and Axel? I thought you were rock solid?’

  Katrín lifted her shoulders in an unspoken question, hindered by the files she had hugged to her ample chest. ‘I don’t know,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I guess I must have realized that deep down he was never going to grow up mentally to be more than fourteen. That’s fine when you’re young, but after a certain point enough is enough.’

  ‘I’m really sorry to hear it.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Katrín told him with an arch lift of her eyebrows. ‘I’m working out again as well now, s
o maybe I’ll see you at the gym?’ she suggested, looking over her shoulder as she left him at the water cooler in bemusement.

  ‘All right, are you?’ Már asked, finding him standing there with a dull look on his face.

  Jóel Ingi shook his head. ‘I don’t know. That fat Katrín just came on to me two minutes ago right here.’

  ‘In broad daylight?’ Már laughed, his smile brought to a sudden death by the morose look on Jóel Ingi’s face.

  ‘That’s about it.’

  ‘I’m shocked. I’ll have a word with her line manager and see that she’s given a written warning for flirting with the fourth floor,’ Már said, breaking into a laugh as he saw the serious look on Jóel Ingi’s face. ‘Seriously, though. Be flattered. I mean, I always thought you were queer.’

  ‘Get away, you bastard,’ Jóel Ingi retorted, a smile finally appearing on his face.

  ‘Listen, though. A quiet word.’

  Már’s suddenly serious tone switched off the laughter.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s that laptop you had stolen before Christmas. Ægir’s as nervous as hell. A human rights group in Holland has figured out that those four Arabs left Germany and travelled to Amsterdam. That’s where they lose track of them. They got hold of the same information as we did about those four being found shot in the back of the head in Tripoli, plus I don’t know what else . . .’

  ‘They were tortured?’

  ‘I don’t know. But they weren’t being sent to a summer camp with four meals a day and team-building exercises. I’d be amazed if they hadn’t been.’

  Jóel Ingi’s pale face went a shade paler. He poured cold water from the cooler and drank it down fast, wiping away the sweat that had suddenly appeared on his forehead. ‘Good God, what have we done?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s done. There’s nothing we can do about it, except keep quiet. Listen, the do-gooders lose track of them in Amsterdam. They may know they came through Keflavík, but they don’t have anything to prove it. Let’s keep it that way, shall we?’

  ‘Ægir knows all this?’

  ‘Hell no. Not all of it. But he’s a shrewd bastard and he can read you like a book. That’s enough to tell him that something’s up. He’s been on to the police about it.’