Chilled to the Bone

by Quentin Bates

  ‘What’s happened?’ Jóel Ingi asked with dread in his voice. ‘What’s this hack saying?’

  Már took a deep breath. ‘He’s asking if the minister can categorically deny that three Libyan men and one woman who were murdered in 2010 in Tripoli passed through Iceland the year before. He has names and dates.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘How the fuck should I know? It was between us and the Yanks. If you remember, we didn’t even have a minister then. One was leaving just as the new guy was having his office measured for carpets.’

  Jóel Ingi felt his fingers go numb. ‘But all this was nothing to do with the minister. He can deny having known anything about it.’

  ‘You know that and I know that, but we both know where the buck stops. Laughing boy was the minister. The fact that he’d been in the job five minutes means nothing.’

  ‘So what now?’

  Már glared. ‘I don’t know what information that greasy hack has, but without any proof, they’re not going to get far on hearsay. So I’m hoping they don’t have the laptop you’ve been insisting is about to be recovered.’

  ‘So what now? What am I going to tell Ægir?’

  The lift stopped and Már stood in the door, stopping it from closing. ‘I’d recommend that you go home, phone in sick and then find that fucking laptop, even if it costs you money.’

  ‘It’s cost me a fortune already!’

  ‘That’s your problem. You shouldn’t have mislaid it to start with, should you?’

  Baddó looked at himself in the bathroom mirror and didn’t like what he saw. His rough-cut beard had been left lopsided and he grimaced with discomfort as he trimmed it back as far as he could with a pair of scissors he’d found at the back of María’s bathroom cabinet.

  He looked ruefully at his handiwork and scowled at the livid cut across his face. Pain was one thing – pain could be managed – but this was going to make him unmistakable. It was as bad as having an orange flashing light on top of his head, he thought furiously.

  Deep in a cupboard he found an old hoodie that had belonged to María’s son, a young man who had long flown the nest but had neglected to take many of his discarded belongings with him. It wasn’t something that María had mentioned, but Baddó knew the boy was in prison after being caught at Keflavík airport with a bag of pills, a steady job in a bakery abandoned in the quest for a quick payday, Baddó guessed. He wondered if he’d be joining his nephew inside if he couldn’t turn things around quickly. With the hood of the sweater shrouding his head and his chin tucked deep in a scarf, the cut could almost be hidden, and in this dark winter weather a man wrapped up warmly would be nothing remarkable.

  Baddó scribbled a note for María and left it on the kitchen table. He made a quick sandwich and ate it in a few rapid mouthfuls, anxious to be away before his sister came home and started asking awkward questions. Worse still, the police could be on their way to pay him a visit as that ham-fisted thug he’d cut with the broken wine bottle would probably have spilled his guts by now.

  He switched on his phone as he closed the door behind him, clicking it quietly shut. Money and transport were the main things on his mind as he slipped down the stairs and out into the street. Hinrik’s mobile rang a dozen times before he gave up and stabbed the red button. He cursed under his breath and punched in another number from memory, marching along the street, hunched inside his coat to keep the bitter cold off his aching face.

  ‘Hello,’ a pleasant voice answered.

  ‘Hæ, Ebba, it’s me. You all right?’

  ‘I was expecting to see you yesterday,’ she answered, her voice cool.

  ‘I’m sorry about yesterday. I had some trouble and I was in casualty until the early hours.’

  ‘Casualty? You’re hurt?’

  He was pleased to hear some alarm in her voice. ‘I had an accident and it needed some stitches. So I’m not a pretty sight right now.’

  ‘What sort of accident?’

  ‘Someone decided he didn’t like the colour of my eyes, I guess.’

  ‘But you’re all right, though, aren’t you?’

  Baddó wondered what to say; he was far from Ebba’s conception of all right.

  ‘Listen, Ebba. I really need to get away for a few days.’ He paused, stifling an unexpected pang. ‘I’ll be back in a week or so. OK?’

  He heard Ebba sigh. ‘If you say so, Baddó. It was nice knowing you. But if you’ve better things to do, then just say so straight out.’

  ‘Really. Genuinely, Ebba. I’ve had a problem. Someone wants to cut my throat and last night he almost managed it. I’m not a teenager who has to make up excuses,’ he started harshly and immediately thought better of it. ‘I keep my word. I said I’d be back in a week or two and I will. But first I need to make myself scarce.’

  ‘Fair enough. Give me a call when you’re back in town, won’t you?’ she said, and Baddó tried to figure out if she meant it or if she was telling him to get lost.

  Hinrik rolled himself an early-morning joint from the little bag of grass that he kept in the coffee jar. He puffed and rolled his eyes as a tapping at the unbroken pane of glass in the front door echoed through the apartment. He put the spliff down, tied the towel securely around his waist and went to the door, picking up a baseball bat on the way and holding it behind his back.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he called to the indistinct figure outside.

  ‘It’s me. Jóel Ingi.’

  Relieved, Hinrik propped the bat in the corner behind the door and opened it a crack. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

  ‘I need to talk to you. Let me in.’

  Hinrik scowled. He found it hard to see Jóel Ingi as anything but a tiresome youngster with soft hands. Anyone who parted with money so easily had to be simple, he reckoned.

  ‘Look, I’m not even dressed yet. What’s the hurry?’

  Jóel Ingi’s agitation was infectious and Hinrik found himself suddenly on edge.

  ‘Let me in, will you? This is important.’

  ‘Come on, man. It’s the middle of the night.’

  ‘It’s almost noon, for fuck’s sake! Open the bastard door, will you? I can’t hang around outside here.’

  Unwillingly, and against his better judgement, Hinrik eased the door open and padded down the corridor. He pointed towards the kitchen. ‘Go in there. I’m going to get some clothes.’

  Jóel Ingi sat on a chair and crossed his legs, then uncrossed them and stood up. The flat was quiet apart from a rumbling snore that came from somewhere close by. Unable to stay still, Jóel Ingi sat down again and took a deep breath, trying to recall the relaxation classes Agnes had dragged him to when she’d been into yoga, but which he had spent ogling the teacher’s hourglass figure rather than listening to what she had to say.

  Hinrik appeared, sour-faced, wearing black jeans and buttoning a black shirt. ‘What’s your problem, then?’

  ‘Results? You’ve had plenty of time.’

  ‘This stuff doesn’t happen overnight, y’know.’

  Hinrik lit the joint that had gone out in the ashtray and hauled the fragrant smoke deep into his lungs before letting it go with a series of regretful coughs that set his narrow shoulders shaking.

  ‘I’ve paid you a stack of money and you haven’t come up with anything.’

  ‘So? Sue me,’ Hinrik offered with a lopsided smile. ‘Go to the police and see what they say.’

  ‘You don’t understand—’

  ‘I reckon I do understand. You get rolled by some tart and you want it sorted out discreetly. But you didn’t tell me you liked rough stuff, did you?’

  Hinrik grinned, but his triumph faded at the sight of the fury etched on Jóel Ingi’s face.

  ‘You really don’t understand, do you? You have no idea how deep this goes, you stupid bastard,’ he snarled.

  ‘Hey, look. It’s nothing to do with me, man. You asked me to do a job and I’ve done what I can.’

  Jóel Ingi’s palm smacked the t
able with a crack and his lip trembled. Hinrik stopped with the joint halfway to his mouth in surprise. ‘You idiot,’ he whispered. ‘You don’t understand. If you don’t come up with the name and address you were paid to find, then I’m going to be in the shit up to my neck, and anyone who had anything to do with that computer is going to be right there with me.’

  ‘Ah,’ Hinrik said with a slow smile. ‘So what’s this computer you’re talking about now?’

  Jóel Ingi’s stomach lurched as he realized he’d said too much in the heat of the moment. ‘You fool. You fucking idiot. Forget that stupid laptop. I’ve been tailed and watched for the last month, and do you imagine for a second that you haven’t been as well? This is poisonous, you stupid thug. Anyone who’s had anything to do with me is going to get hauled in and you can take it from me that none of us will get a slap on the wrist and few months in an open prison.’

  ‘Get away, will you? Don’t try and sell me this kind of crap. This is Iceland, not some fucking stupid mafia country.’

  Jóel Ingi’s hand, still on the table where it had landed, began to tremble. ‘You think so? I’m telling you. This goes way beyond anything you might think, and there are people with reputations and influence to protect who aren’t going to let anything stand in their way, least of all a deadbeat pusher who thinks he’s some kind of big shot.’ He sneered. ‘When you wind up dead in a ditch, d’you really think anyone’s going to shed a tear, or even look too hard for whoever did it?’

  ‘Wha–? What’s going on?’

  A heavy-faced woman appeared at the kitchen door, her eyes puffy and her hair tousled. Jóel Ingi eyed her with alarm as she shuffled into the kitchen and let water gush from the tap into a grubby glass. As she drank he saw with alarm a lurid home-made tattoo across her shoulder, emerging from the gaping arm hole of the vast sleeveless shirt that was obviously the only thing she was wearing.

  ‘Why don’t you go back to bed, Ragga?’ Hinrik suggested.

  She belched and sat down on a stool as she rummaged through a drawer. ‘Pills,’ she said. ‘My head feels like it’s been under a truck.’

  Hinrik put his hand up to a shelf and picked up a packet of painkillers, which he tossed to her, his mind ticking over at the possibilities that Jóel Ingi had unwittingly revealed. He had assumed the man had wanted to find someone so he could administer a beating, but it seemed there was more to it, maybe something that could turn out to be profitable. Ragga caught the packet and snapped four pills from it, throwing them down her throat and gulping the glass of water to wash them down.

  ‘Shit,’ she moaned, holding her head in her hands. ‘Must have been a good time last night. I don’t remember a thing.’

  ‘You had a good time, I assure you,’ Hinrik said. ‘Ragga, we’re talking business here.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  ‘Leave us to it for a while, will you?’

  ‘I know, I know. I’m going to take myself back to bed like a good girl.’

  She hauled herself to her feet and padded out of the room. Jóel Ingi felt a flickering of excitement in spite of himself at the sight of heavy legs and muscular shoulders as Ragga scratched and yawned on her way out. She stopped in the doorway, blew a kiss and belched before vanishing. Jóel Ingi could hear the sofa in the next room creak and a mutter of sound as the TV clicked on.

  Ragga’s arrival had broken Jóel Ingi’s concentration. He could feel anger dissipating and being replaced by a wave of fatigue. He dug his fingernails into the palm of his hands and thought of everything he had worked towards; it was all about to be lost because of a stupid indiscretion.

  ‘I want that woman’s address,’ he snarled, feeling the anger return. ‘Otherwise I’ll have some really unpleasant people coming after me, and I’ll make damn sure they come after you as well.’

  The bakery was full. Baddó stood in the queue with his hood down and a scarf swathed around as much of his lower face as he could manage. The bakery wasn’t big, but the quality of its Danish pastries and the easy parking outside meant the place did a roaring trade in the mornings.

  Not in any hurry, he watched from one of the tall tables at one side, sipping coffee and idly flipping through yesterday’s DV newspaper. He watched people lining up to get to the counter, tracking them as they left their cars outside and made their way in through the doors to buy their lunchtime sandwiches or a mid-morning snack.

  It’s just as well Iceland’s such a safe place, Baddó thought. In mainland Europe, or practically anywhere else, people would be careful about the wallets and phones hanging out of their pockets.

  He moved into the queue at the counter, one eye on the array of pastries on display but another on a young man in a knitted jacket with gaping pockets. He stood there deciding what to buy, a bunch of keys clearly visible in his cavernous pocket.

  An orange-faced girl standing next to him looked blankly at the same display, a handbag slung over her shoulder, popping gum as she waited in the queue. He could sense her impatience growing behind the incongruous midwinter tan as her gum popped rapidly three times.

  ‘In a hurry, are you?’ Baddó asked and was rewarded with a blank stare and a nod. The rattle of something cheerful breezed out of the iPod earpieces in sharp contrast to the bored look on her round face as she shuffled past him. Baddó took a short half-step to one side, letting her brush against his coat as he smartly dipped into the handbag and came out with a set of keys that vanished into his parka’s sleeve.

  He slipped out of the bakery and clicked the fob. Looking around for flashes, he saw the hazard lights of an anonymous mud-brown Hyundai wink as he pressed the button a second time to make sure. As he drove away, Baddó caught a glimpse of the girl emerging from the bakery with a bag of Danish pastries in one hand, rummaging in her capacious handbag for keys that were no longer there.

  The old lady had sat stiffly on one of the plastic chairs in reception for half an hour before a uniformed officer showed her into the interview room.

  ‘Have I done something wrong?’ she asked as Gunna sat down opposite her. ‘I don’t want to waste anyone’s time?’

  ‘Not at all. Quite the opposite,’ Gunna assured her and turned in her chair to call back the uniformed young man who was just about to close the door behind him.

  ‘Hey, before you go,’ she called after him, ‘since we kept this lady waiting for so long, how about you bring her a cup of coffee?’

  ‘We don’t normally . . .’ he began before Gunna cut him off firmly.

  ‘It’s not every day that someone takes the trouble to come down here and give us information. So two coffees, please,’ she instructed. ‘Milk?’ she asked the elderly lady who sat with her handbag clutched in her grasp.

  ‘Yes, please,’ she said and finally let slip a glimmer of a nervous smile.

  The door shut, although the young officer’s disgruntlement could be felt through it.

  ‘My name’s Gunnhildur Gísladóttir and I’m a CID officer. My colleague has given me the gist of what you came in here to tell us, so now I need you to tell me the story again,’ Gunna said. ‘But first, could you tell me your name?’

  ‘I’m Sigurlín Egilsdóttir but everyone calls me Lína. I live at Háaleitisbraut 80. It’s a block of flats and I’m on the ground floor on the right.’

  ‘Thank you, Lína. My colleague who should be bringing us a cup of coffee told me you saw an incident last night. Could you tell me what happened?’

  ‘Well. I came in and there were some men fighting in the entrance. Three of them. Two of them were hurt, I think.’

  ‘And when was this?’

  ‘It was just before seven yesterday evening. I’d been shopping and took a taxi home as it’s too far to walk in this weather.’

  ‘And what happened?’ Gunna coaxed.

  ‘I opened the door to go in the entrance, as usual, and I was surprised that it wasn’t locked. But as soon as I opened the inside door I could see what was happening. There was one man on the floor and
two others trying to beat him up. He had a cut on his face and there was blood.’

  ‘Did you recognize these men?’ Gunna asked, opening a folder and putting a picture of a rather fresher-faced Ásmundur Ásuson in front of her. She stared at it.

  ‘He looks like the young man who ran away,’ she said slowly.

  ‘And this one?’

  A fatter Hólmgeir Sigurjónsson than the one waiting in a cell glared out of his mugshot.

  Lína nodded. ‘Yes, I saw that man as well. Those are the two who ran out of the door past me.’

  The door opened and the uniformed officer appeared with two mugs of coffee and a small carton of milk.

  ‘Thanks,’ Gunna said, giving him an approving smile as he sidled out. ‘Now, Lína. These two, they were attacking a third man?’

  ‘I think so but I’m not really sure,’ the old lady said, and Gunna could see her marshalling her thoughts. ‘The man who was on the floor, the one who’s face had been hurt, was María’s brother. But this young man was injured as well,’ she said, pointing at Ásmundur’s deadpan portrait. ‘There was a puddle of blood all along the floor. I could see him bleeding as they ran past me. He was limping and making a lot of noise.’

  ‘Who is María?’

  ‘She’s the girl on the top floor. When I say girl, she must be your age, but she looks young to me. She said her brother had been overseas for a long time and had come back to Iceland after many years; he’s staying with her while he looks for work.’

  ‘Top floor on the right? Do you know the brother’s name?’

  The old lady shook her head. ‘No. He did tell me, but I’ve forgotten. He was hurt, too. He had his hand over his face. He said he was all right, but I could see it was bleeding.’

  The door creaked open again and Gunna looked round to see Eiríkur’s face peering round.

  ‘Chief. Can I have a word?’

  ‘Excuse me a moment.’ Gunna pushed her chair back and went outside. ‘What is it?’