‘In the other room,’ Hekla said, regaining her breath, and Baddó saw her eyes widen as she looked past him.
‘What’s going on here?’ A cross, youthful voice demanded, and Baddó spun round to see a gawky teenage girl standing in the doorway.
‘Sif, don’t ask any questions and do as the man says,’ Hekla instructed, her voice husky and faltering. ‘Go to the desk in the living room and get the small camera from the bottom drawer, right at the back. Now.’
The girl disappeared and Baddó stared into Hekla’s eyes, seeing nothing but terror as they listened to Sif rummage in the other room. It seemed like an age before she returned, her hand held out. He took the camera from her and pressed the recall button, scrolling through the pictures with a grin on his face.
‘You have been a busy girl, haven’t you,’ he said and Hekla flushed.
‘What’s this about?’ Sif asked, peering through the untidy hair that framed her face.
‘Never you mind. Now where’s the computer?’
‘What computer?’ Hekla asked and Baddó grasped a fistful of her white shirt, dragging her face to within a few inches of the ugly cut that ran down his cheek.
‘I said, don’t mess me about. The one you took off one of your punters a few weeks ago.’
‘I don’t know where it went,’ Hekla said, desperately trying to avoid telling him that Sif had taken it.
‘Stop, will you?’ Sif squeaked, stepping forward and stopping as Baddó raised a hand. ‘It’s in Dad’s workshop. I put it back yesterday.’
‘Show me.’
Baddó spun Hekla around, twisted one hand hard up behind her back until she gasped in pain, and marched her out of the kitchen and along the passage, bumping against the walls as she stumbled in front of him. In the dimly lit workshop, Sif fumbled among piles of boxes for the laptop case she knew should be there.
‘Come on, will you? I don’t have all day,’ Baddó growled, wiping his running nose on the sleeve of his free arm as the other hand held Hekla over a workbench, her face in the sawdust and shavings. ‘For fuck’s sake, there it is,’ he said in disgust as Sif held out the laptop case, and at the same moment a fat black and white cat emerged from under the bench, purring and calling as it saw people in its domain.
Slackening his grip on Hekla’s arm, he reached for the laptop case and aimed a vicious kick at the cat as it stalked amiably towards him, its tail in the air.
‘Æi, no, Perla!’ Sif screeched, dropping the case and sweeping up the nearest thing she could grab on the bench. Hekla stumbled, steadied herself, and heaved with all her strength just as Baddó let fly with his boot, missing the cat and losing his balance so that he stumbled against the bench.
‘You stupid cow,’ Baddó snarled, snorting through his half-blocked nose, the laptop case clutched in one fist while he raised the other and moved towards the girl. Sif squealed in fright, flung one arm up to cover her face and lashed out wildly with the other hand as Baddó swung, just as he was shaken by another thunderous sneeze.
In his own rarely used office, Ívar Laxdal hunched over a sleek laptop, reading from the screen.
‘“According to information that has reached Reykjavík Voice, four asylum seekers who arrived in Iceland in May 2009 promptly disappeared and their whereabouts remained unknown until a Dutch human rights group uncovered evidence that all four were executed in Libya later that same year. Following the Libyan revolution, a great deal of documentation from the former regime has come to light, including evidence that the three men and one woman were rendered to Libya in contravention of the United Nations Convention Relating to the Status of Refugees”,’ he read out.
‘What’s that about?’ Gunna asked, peering at the laptop screen and continuing to read over Ívar Laxdal’s shoulder. ‘“Reykjavík Voice has copies of emails purported to have been sent by senior Icelandic officials sanctioning the immediate transfer, without passing through formal immigration channels, of four Libyan nationals who arrived on a scheduled flight from Amsterdam to a military aircraft that departed from Keflavík airport later that night to an unknown destination.” Ívar, is there any truth in this?’ Gunna asked. ‘Is this anything to do with Jóel Ingi and why he’s skipped the country?’
‘I don’t know, Gunnhildur,’ he said, his face grey and set like rock. ‘If it’s true, there’ll be hell to pay in all kinds of ways.’
‘If it’s true, then we should be able to find out, surely. Immigration is part of the force, so can’t you demand the truth about it from the airport police?’
‘I could. But I’m not sure that I should.’
‘Come on, surely . . .’
Ívar Laxdal’s deep-set dark eyes looked back at her with no visible expression, but his face, sagging and exhausted, told her everything.
‘I daren’t,’ he admitted. ‘This needs to go upstairs. But in the meantime, I have to deal with the ministry, and there’s going to be some serious trouble later today if, or rather when, there are questions in Parliament. I have a feeling that this is what that damned lost laptop is all about.’
‘If this is all public, is there any reason to worry about it? It’s not as if we’ve been looking all that hard for it anyway.’
‘There hasn’t been much to look for,’ Ívar Laxdal snorted. ‘If that pompous fool Ægir Lárusson had the sense to tell us the truth at the start, we might have got somewhere. It was always going to be a hopeless task and that’s not something I’m going to worry about. The ministry can sort out its own dirty laundry. I’m more interested in you catching up with this hoodlum who’s responsible for two murders in our back yard.’
Gunna sat on the bone-hard chair that Ívar Laxdal kept in his office, designed to encourage visiting dignitaries not to linger.
‘If this is what the droids at the ministry are shitting themselves over, then it’s out in the open now. Reykjavík Voice is a bit off-centre, and not that many people read it, but all the same, this can’t be hushed up now, surely? They even published this on their website in English, so it isn’t just a local thing that can be contained.’
‘If this is the same thing, then you’re quite right,’ Ivar Laxdal agreed. ‘On the other hand, the ways of civil servants are not to be understood by mere low-grade jobsworths such as ourselves.’
‘We’re civil servants as well,’ Gunna pointed out, amused by his description of himself as ‘low grade’.
‘We are,’ he agreed. ‘But we’re the kind of civil servants who actually achieve something, as opposed to the type who build themselves little empires and attend conferences while they wait for their pensions to kick in.’
His thumbnail scratched at the stubble under the point of his chin as he thought.
‘Leave it with me, will you?’ he said finally. ‘I need to talk to upstairs. You have a pet journalist at Reykjavík Voice, don’t you?’
‘I wouldn’t call him that, exactly.’
‘Maybe not, but if you could sound him out discreetly, it wouldn’t go amiss.’
‘It’ll have to wait. I can’t put off a visit to Sonja any longer.’
The place seemed deserted. She watched and waited. The mud-brown Hyundai, its sides caked with snow that the driver had barely bothered to brush from the windows, squatted unhappily a hundred metres from the solitary house.
She patted her pockets for her phone and took a can of pepper spray from the glove compartment before walking cautiously down towards the house. She listened for the slightest sound that would tell her that the man with the scarred face was on the move. She gently eased open the back door, the spray can held out in front of her, then slowly dropped it down as she took in Pétur’s wrecked workshop.
Sif and Hekla were collapsed against the bench by the wall, while the big man was sitting with his back to the other workbench that filled the middle of the workshop, legs splayed out in front of him and his eyes staring, focused on nothing as a rivulet of saliva leaked down his chin. He was still hugging the laptop case, and it
was only when she stepped closer and squatted down in front of him to tug it out of his grasp that she took in the rusty end of the narrow file protruding from the man’s temple an inch behind his left eye. A ring of red surrounded it, gradually seeping along the tiny grooves in its surface and staining the metal dull red.
She instinctively put out a hand to touch it, then drew back before looking first from one shocked face to the other, and then to the bench where an assortment of files and chisels with and without their wooden handles had been scattered as Sif had snatched one up in panic.
‘Are either of you hurt?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Hekla said, shakily getting to her feet. ‘Sif, are you all right, sweetheart?’ she asked, stroking the girl’s face.
‘Is the man dead?’
‘I don’t know. Come on, let’s get out of here.’
Hekla put out her hands and pulled Sif to her feet, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as she supported her out of the workshop and back into the house. Back in the workshop the woman knelt in front of the man with the cut face and felt for a pulse in his neck. Satisfied, she pulled out her phone and dialled 112.
‘Police and ambulance. I’m at Strandargrund 30 in Kjalarnes,’ she said in a measured voice. ‘It’s an old house on its own at the far end of the street. There’s one casualty with a serious head injury and two people in shock,’ she said, answering the police operator’s questions.
‘And your name?’
‘Bára Kristinsdóttir,’ she answered and listened to the moment’s pause.
‘Bára who used to be in the force at Keflavík?’
She smiled grimly. ‘Yes, Siggi. That’s me.’
‘All right. In that case you know what to do, don’t you? There’s an ambulance on its way, but it’ll be a while before it gets there.’
‘I reckon you might need to get the air ambulance out for this one. It’s not pretty.’
‘Fair enough. I’ll alert them, but it’s the ambulance crew’s decision when they get there.’
‘OK, thanks. I’d best get back to the casualties. You can reach me on this number if you need to between now and the cavalry getting here.’
‘Fine. Thanks, Bára. It’s an F2, so fifteen minutes.’
Helgi’s communicator buzzed and he looked over at Gunna, his finger on the earpiece.
‘You’d better step on it, chief,’ he said. ‘F2, and guess where?’
‘Kjalarnes? Hell and damnation. I knew I should have got out there last night.’
‘And there’s no siren on this thing, is there?’
‘Nope,’ Gunna said. ‘You’d better tell them we’ll be there in ten.’
‘Control, zero-two-sixty. Heading for Kjalarnes, estimated ten minutes.’
‘Thank you, zero-two-sixty. There’s a patrol car from the Krókháls station five minutes behind you and the ambulance is right behind that.’
Gunna pushed the pedal to the floor, flashed the headlights on and off high beam and left drivers tapping their heads in disgust as they trailed in her wake. She could sense the tension in Helgi’s voice: ‘Any idea what the problem is, control?’
‘One serious head injury, two in shock. The helicopter’s alerted and the local rescue squad should be there ahead of you.’
‘Thanks, control. We’ll keep you informed,’ Helgi said, pretending not to be scared as Gunna slowed hard for the turnoff to Kjalarnes, the car’s brakes complaining and its rear wheels struggling to grip the icy road.
They bumped down the road to the solitary house, where they found a diminutive blonde woman speaking to an animated figure next to a blue Land Rover. Gunna walked smartly across just as the wail of sirens on the main road was heard in the distance. A heavy 4 × 4 was already parked by the door.
‘Afternoon, Pétur,’ Gunna said smartly. ‘Looks like the rescue squad’s here. Helgi, check inside, would you? Bára, good to see you. You can tell me later just why you’re here. What’s happened?’
‘One man in the workshop with a stab wound to the left side of the head; two women in shock. They’re both in the main bedroom. Looks like one of them grabbed a file and lashed out with it.’
‘A file?’
‘You know. A metalwork file.’
‘And nobody else has been in or out?’
‘No, chief,’ Bára said, instinctively falling back on habit.
‘Will somebody tell me what the hell’s been happening?’ Pétur said, his frustration boiling over. ‘I’ve just come home and been told by this person that I can’t go into my own house.’
‘Well, you heard what the lady said, didn’t you?’
Pétur leaned on his crutch and limped towards the door. ‘I won’t be kept out of my own home, damn it,’ he roared.
‘Gunna, the action’s at the back of the place. Just get him to go in through the front door and he’ll be clear of the crime scene,’ Bára said quickly as Gunna trotted to catch up with Pétur, taking his arm to steer him towards the front door.
‘We’ll go in this way, if you don’t mind,’ she said.
Pétur grunted an answer that was neither one thing nor another and pushed his way through the front door, his crutch clattering to the floor.
‘Sif! Hekla! Where are you?’ he yelled and there was a call in reply from the bedroom. Gunna followed him and watched as he enveloped the girl in his arms, while the woman who was with her clung to him. The puffy, tear-streaked face was unmistakably that of the woman on the Gullfoss Hotel’s CCTV, and Gunna felt a surge of relief at having finally found her.
A patrol car bumped down the road and two officers stepped out. Behind them the blue lights of an ambulance flashed and were reflected from the windows of houses further up as doors began to open and people stared at the sudden flurry of activity in the normally quiet village.
‘Chopper job, this is,’ the paramedic said, shaking his head as his colleague monitored Baddó’s pulse and breathing. ‘We need a doctor here before we even try to move this character. What the hell happened, anyway? I’ve never seen an injury like this,’ he muttered to Gunna out of the casualty’s earshot. ‘I’m amazed the bastard’s even alive.’
‘That’s what I’m hoping to find out,’ Gunna told him. ‘It’s a first for me as well.’
The paramedic muttered into his communicator, looking anxiously at Baddó, whose expression had remained unchanged, his unfocused eyes staring into the distance. Gunna took in the livid cut down his cheek, some of the sutures having come adrift, leaving bloodless gaps in the line of ragged skin.
Gunna cornered Bára outside. ‘I’m not saying it isn’t good to see you, but what the hell’s happened? You’ve got quite a bit of explaining to do. Start by telling me how come you’re here, will you?’
‘I’ve been working as an investigator since I left the force. Not long before Christmas I had a request to shadow someone and report back. That person had a meeting last night with the man who’s in there with a lump of metal in his head. I’m not sure how it works, or who was blackmailing who, but one thing led to another and, as far as I can make out, I turned up here just as this had happened.’
‘All right, so who’s this mysterious person you’ve been tailing?’
‘I’m not sure I can tell you.’
‘Come on. You were in the force for long enough to know that doesn’t wash.’
Bára frowned. ‘A guy called Jóel Ingi Bragason.’
‘Who skipped the country last night.’
‘That’s right. I saw him go through departures at Keflavík last night.’
‘Did you? So who are you working for?’
‘That’s what I don’t think I should tell you.’
‘Really?’
‘Actually I’m not sure who the client is,’ Bára said. ‘You may not believe it, but we’ve only spoken on the phone a couple of times. To start with I thought Jóel Ingi’s wife was behind it and that this was a straightforward divorce thing. The client wanted to know where he went and who he
met, times and places. Everything was done by email and text, with a report every few days. It was only this last week that I had a couple of calls from the client and found out it was a man; he wanted a closer tail and reports by text four or five times a day.’
Gunna nodded slowly. ‘And where’s this famous laptop?’
‘Laptop?’
‘That’s your car there, is it?’ Gunna asked, jerking her head towards the Renault. ‘You want me to look in the boot?’
‘You can’t do that.’
‘I can, and we’d better be quick about it,’ Gunna said, shading her eyes as a black 4 × 4 with tinted windows sped down the street towards them, sliding to a halt in the snow next to the Land Rover. Two figures in suits tumbled out of it and hurried in through the front door.
Bára clicked the fob of her car key and the lights flashed for a moment. ‘Go on, then.’
Gunna had the case tucked under her arm when the two suits reappeared, chased away from the house and the crime scene by a furious Pétur shaking his fist. They were ushered discreetly past a line of fluttering tape by one of two uniformed officers, who pointed them towards Gunna and Bára.
‘Officer, will you hand over that laptop?’ Ægir Lárusson demanded, puffing with effort and excitement. ‘It’s government property,’ he added for good measure, and Bára blanched at the expression on Gunna’s face.
‘I don’t think that’s going to be possible, Ægir,’ she said, keeping her voice calm.
‘That laptop is government property,’ Ægir repeated, this time spluttering with fury.
‘As far as I’m aware, this laptop is the personal property of Jóel Ingi Bragason, and right now it’s also evidence, so the answer’s no. I’m not prepared to hand it over. If you feel it’s your department’s affair, then you’d best go through the proper channels.’
Ægir’s fury boiled over. ‘Hand that fucking thing over, you stupid woman.’
That was rich coming from a man half a head shorter than her, Gunna thought, looking down on Ægir Lárusson and wondering if his wife cut his hair especially to emphasize the shining bald spot on top of his head.
Chilled to the Bone Page 30