Cold Steal

by Quentin Bates

  ‘I, that is to say we, own a share in a company that owns Kópavogsbakki fifty.’

  ‘And three other properties, including the house that you live in at Kópavogsbakki forty-two?’

  ‘That is correct. I’m sure you know all this already, officer.’

  He looked up as there was a knock on the door and Bára stood up, stepping into the lobby and closing the door of the suite behind her.

  ‘I like her. Quiet and confident,’ he said as soon as Bára had shut the door behind her. ‘A friend of yours?’

  ‘A former colleague,’ Gunna said. ‘Sólfell Property ehf. That’s you and who else?’

  ‘It’s me, Sunna María and Jón Vilberg Voss.’

  ‘This isn’t something that Elvar Pálsson and Vilhelm Thorleifsson have been involved with?’

  He looked up as Bára escorted a young man in an illfitting waistcoat into the room, pushing a small trolley in front of him. He waited for the waiter to leave before answering.

  ‘They were initially, but then we went our separate ways. The land was an investment some years ago and we have been building ever since. Vilhelm and Elvar never saw their futures in Iceland and they aren’t involved in our property venture. They started out in the shipping business and became typical export raiders, if you want to use that hackneyed phrase, except that they were good at it, weren’t over-greedy and kept themselves out of the limelight. Sunna María and I both live in Iceland and as far as I know we expect to stay here, so investing in property here was logical. So we bought four houses and live in one of them ourselves. One is rented and two are plots that are under construction.’

  ‘And Jón Vilberg Voss? Your brother-in-law?’

  ‘Exactly. He’s in the diplomatic service and has been based in Paris for some years. But like us, he’ll want to retire to Iceland one day, not to some semi-tropical shambles.’ Jóhann sat back, his glasses in his hands as he fiddled with them, bending the frames in his fingers. ‘Why the interest in the houses? I assure you everything is above board and legal with the tax authorities.’

  ‘I don’t work for the taxman,’ Gunna assured him. ‘Is there any connection between Jón Vilberg and Vilhelm Thorleifsson?’

  Jóhann shook his head. ‘Hardly. They move in very different circles.’

  ‘An incident took place a few nights ago at Kópavogsbakki fifty. That’s why I’m interested to find out if there might be a connection.’

  Jóhann’s expression hardened and a new glint appeared in his eyes. ‘Incident? What kind of incident?’

  ‘An assault. It’s still under investigation. Have you been aware of any unusual traffic in the street? Anyone calling? Any signs of attempted entry at your home?’

  The set of his jaw softened, although the intense gleam stayed in his eyes. ‘I haven’t been at home very much recently. Conferences in Germany and Hungary, and a trade fair in Munich have kept me away for a while. You had better ask my wife.’

  ‘She’s here?’

  ‘In the other room.’

  ‘You spend much time abroad?’

  ‘More than I’m comfortable with at my age. Coffee?’

  He poured a cup for Gunna from the pot on the trolley while Bára looked on impassively. He poured one for himself and sat back, brooding; Gunna looked closely at him as he stared into space. The lines of tiredness around his eyes were deeply etched.

  ‘Officer, I have to admit I’m more puzzled than worried. Can you tell me what the hell is going on? An acquaintance is gunned down. You have been hinting that I need to be careful, so we move to this fiendishly expensive hotel for a few days. Am I to understand that I’m also on some kind of maniac’s hit list?’

  ‘If I knew, I’d tell you, and I’d be a lot happier if I knew where Elvar Pálsson is. But I have to be cautious. Is there anyone else who might be at risk? Any other business activities or partners?’

  Jóhann drained his cup and placed it carefully on the saucer, rotating it so that the handle lay parallel to the table’s sides. ‘No. Sólfell Investment and the associated companies have all been, or are being, wound up. Sólfell Property will soon be the only one left apart from my dental practice, and Vison, which isn’t much more than a registration number.’

  ‘Were you and Sunna María aware that Vilhelm was in Iceland?’

  ‘No. It was a surprise that he was murdered here,’ Jóhann said with a wintry smile.

  ‘Not a surprise that he was murdered, just that it happened in Iceland?’

  ‘Let’s just say that these boys haven’t made too many friends over the years. We knew that Villi was due to come to Iceland sometime soon as part of the winding-up process of various companies that he and Elvar own here, but it was a surprise that he had arrived without letting us know first. Not that he was ever too free with information.’

  ‘You have any children?’

  ‘Sunna María and I are childless. I have two boys from a previous marriage who are now grown up and have families of their own.’

  ‘You had better give me names and addresses, just in case.’

  ‘Hjálmar lives in Akureyri. Smári lives at Furuás eighty-five. He works with me, so he’s at the practice most days.’

  ‘You don’t have much to do with letting your houses?’

  ‘Nothing at all. We leave all that to Óttar Sveinsson. He gets a respectable percentage, but we make him work for it. The construction work on the other two houses is looked after by Sunna María after we decided that she could do a better job than the project manager we used before.’

  ‘So you have no idea who might be there at any particular time?’

  ‘None at all. At one time I used to watch to have an idea of what the people who had rented the houses looked like, but now I never bother. As long as the rent comes through, I don’t pay any attention. I normally know if one of them is empty as there’s always some minor maintenance or decoration to be done, and Óttar checks before he spends my money,’ Jóhann said slowly. ‘Although it’s normally Sunna María he speaks to. I guess she’s less tight-fisted than I am.’

  ‘So you weren’t aware of who was at number fifty?’

  ‘Officer, I’ve been out of the country for the last two weeks. Sunna María said something about the place needing to be cleaned and that’s all I can tell you.’

  Óttar Sveinsson didn’t look pleased to see her and jumped up from behind his desk to head her off into a quiet corner. By the time his hurried steps coincided with Gunna’s he had managed to summon a smile.

  ‘What can I do for you this time, officer? Looking for a house, maybe?’

  ‘The same one, actually,’ Gunna said and watched the smile fade. ‘I’m here to take all the paperwork related to Kópavogsbakki fifty for the last twelve months.’

  ‘All of it?’

  ‘Every tiny snippet of information down to the last detail. I’m assuming you keep records going back a few years?’

  ‘We keep everything. But we don’t keep it all here.’

  ‘Where’s the rest of it?’

  ‘At our storage facility.’

  ‘You don’t mean your garage, do you?’

  Óttar Sveinsson looked hurt. ‘Of course not. If it’s not here it’ll be stored at our other office in Kópavogur. Excuse me,’ he said, and went over to whisper in the ear of a young man sitting behind a desk.

  ‘No, right now,’ Gunna heard him say in an urgent tone. ‘It’s important.’

  ‘One moment, please,’ he said, returning to the corner where Gunna had decided against sinking into the all-enveloping sofa. ‘My colleague is fetching everything.’

  ‘Who makes the decisions on repairs to the houses you rent out?’

  ‘One of us will do that, normally. We inspect properties that we manage regularly, as long as the rental period is longer than six months, otherwise we only inspect at the end when the tenants leave.’

  ‘So is that your job?’

  ‘Most of the time.’

  ‘And if it’s
something major that needs doing?’

  ‘Then we consult the owners. We don’t have the authority to embark on significant costs without their consent. Minor expenses aren’t a problem and that comes out of the payment to the owner.’

  ‘Let’s just say,’ Gunna said. ‘Let’s imagine a tenant carries out some work. Is that acceptable?’

  ‘If it’s authorized, yes. Otherwise tenants aren’t allowed to carry out modifications.’

  ‘So when the basement of Kópavogsbakki fifty was painted throughout, was that your doing?’

  Óttar Sveinsson stopped short. ‘I really don’t know,’ he said after a moment’s thought and looked across to where the office boy was not exactly hurrying to bring them a bulky file. ‘Thank you,’ he said tartly as it was handed over.

  He opened the folder and started to flip through it, going through checklists and receipts.

  ‘No,’ he decided. ‘If the basement was painted, then it wasn’t done by us or on our instructions.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Gunna took the folder and opened it.

  ‘We will get that back, won’t we?’

  ‘Eventually. Are the details of the tenants here as well?’

  ‘At the back,’ he said, extracting a plastic sleeve and from that a sheaf of papers.

  ‘I suppose you photocopy identification?’

  ‘Naturally,’ Óttar Sveinsson said, taking the sheaf of paper and flicking through it with practised fingers before taking a slower second look. ‘I, er . . . I’m sorry, but it seems those papers are missing. This is the previous tenant, not the one who has just moved out.’

  ‘That’s convenient.’

  Óttar Sveinsson shuffled his feet and mumbled in embarrassment. ‘I can’t understand it. We’re so careful. It must have been misplaced in the wrong folder.’

  ‘So who were the tenants?’

  ‘They were two gentlemen, here on business, I understand, for a few months.’

  ‘Names?’

  ‘I really don’t recall.’

  ‘Local?’

  ‘No, they were Danish, I think. Or German.’

  ‘Surely they had references?’

  ‘Normally, yes, we would expect references. But Sunna María told me that she knew them and she was happy to skip the formalities.’

  ‘Anything?’ Gunna asked. ‘Anything at all?’

  Ívar Laxdal’s face was set in its usual impassive mask. ‘Nothing at all. Sævaldur has nothing, literally nothing. The slugs are nothing that can be identified and match no firearm on any records. The witness saw nothing that was of any use, and as the girl is from Russia, she doesn’t speak English well enough to be able to tell if the killers spoke with an accent or not. There’s no description beyond two men, one about one metre seventy-five and one about one-eighty-five tall, both heavily built, with dark hair judging by their eyebrows. That’s all.’

  ‘No vehicle in the area or anything like that? If it wasn’t a hired car, then where did it come from?’

  ‘Gunnhildur, you think Sævaldur’s incident room hasn’t been through all that?’

  ‘Sorry. It’s frustrating, though.’ She sensed that he was impatient, unusually for someone who exuded calmness and control while others around him struggled to keep abreast of their workloads. ‘You’re getting shit from above about this?’ she ventured to ask, and saw with a flush of satisfaction that the question had taken him by surprise.

  ‘No. Not yet,’ he said with a faint smile. ‘But rest assured that I will.’

  ‘There is something else. The cleaner who found that pool of blood in a cellar yesterday and freaked out?’

  ‘What about it? No victim, so no case, I’d imagine.’

  ‘That would be my feeling as well, except that the house is owned by Sunna María Voss and Jóhann Hjálmarsson.’

  ‘The dentist and his wife? Who have been in business with the victim?’

  ‘That’s them,’ she said. ‘It seems the wife is the one who has been in business with Vilhelm Thorleifsson. The husband’s lukewarm about him, and also about the missing partner, Elvar Pálsson.’

  Ívar Laxdal sat silent for a moment and placed the palms of his hands together in front of him, his fingertips beating a tattoo against each other as he thought.

  ‘It’s a mess, isn’t it? Have you located this other character?’

  ‘No. He’s abroad as far as I can make out, but nobody knows where.’

  ‘Keep an eye on things, would you, Gunnhildur?’ He said slowly. ‘If this man . . .’

  ‘Elvar.’

  ‘If he doesn’t show his face soon, then are we looking at a missing person enquiry? Could he have gone the same way?’

  ‘Who knows? He travels to the Baltic States, and it seems he has business in London as well. So it’s anyone’s guess.’

  ‘Not in Iceland. Someone will know where he is. Family?’

  ‘He has an ex-wife who has been an ex-wife for a very long time, no contact there. He’s dissolved most of his business activities here, and the little he does have left in Iceland includes the bankrupt firm that the dentist and his wife were involved with.’

  ‘And how are they coping with all this?’

  ‘Living in the lap of luxury in the Harbourside Hotel. But they can afford it.’

  ‘They’re still asking for protection?’

  ‘Not at the moment. They have a security consultant looking after them.’

  Ívar Laxdal’s eyes rolled and he groaned. ‘Not some hoodlum, I hope?’

  ‘No, Bára Kristinns who used to be at the Keflavík station.’

  ‘Ah, then that’s all right,’ he said, brightening. ‘A very sharp young woman. A real shame we couldn’t keep her on the force.’

  ‘Yeah, and for a hundred thousand a day I’m tempted to go into that line of business myself.’

  Gunna scrolled through the report with mounting frustration. The basement of Kópavogsbakki 50 had been examined by the forensic team, who had come up with nothing conclusive. There were no recent fingerprints anywhere in the basement other than those of Valmira and the other cleaners. The dried blood on the floor was real enough and was identifiable as the overwhelmingly common type O, but it was doubtful that a DNA profile could be obtained.

  She chewed her lip, knowing that even an urgent DNA analysis request could take weeks and cost money that would come from the department’s already thin budget. Costs had been cut and cut again, to the point that she had started bringing in a few lightbulbs and toilet rolls that filled a drawer of her desk in case the day came when there was an empty store cupboard.

  The door had not been forced, although scratches indicated that the lock had been picked, and it was clear enough from the bloodstains on the tape and the splintered remnants of the wooden chair that matched three remaining chairs in the kitchen upstairs that someone had been tied to it.

  ‘So who the hell are you and why were you there?’ Gunna muttered to herself, rattling her fingernails on the table.

  The smashed chair indicated that the victim had broken it to escape, in which case, whoever it was had been left alone long enough to break the chair, bite through the tape and escape. Examination of the grey duct tape used to bind the victim to the chair had yielded some threads of a dark green material, and this had also been found on a corner of the shelves, as if the victim had snagged some clothing on it.

  ‘Interesting,’ Gunna decided. ‘But when? ‘When did this happen? How long ago?’ She picked up the phone and started dialling when the door swung open and a paper cup of coffee appeared, followed by Eiríkur, a folder of notes under one arm.

  ‘Hæ,’ Eiríkur said, dropping into his chair. ‘I had no idea that we lead such exciting lives.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Gunna agreed, her eyes skimming the rest of the report. ‘Non-stop thrills and spills at CID. That’s why you wanted to be a policeman, isn’t it?’

  Eiríkur stretched and yawned. ‘Well, I certainly didn’t join up to be lectured on police procedure by an
old boy who seems to have spent his retirement reading thrillers and knows more about police work than I do.’

  ‘No joy here, I’m afraid. Whoever was tied up in that basement appears to have been born without fingers as there isn’t a print to be found anywhere. No luck with your elderly crime fan, then?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Eiríkur grinned. ‘You know the Aunt Bertha guy, described as medium height and otherwise completely unremarkable, but wearing a green fleece with a yellow logo on it?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Old Geir Einarsson has logged the appearance of a man in his late twenties or early thirties on ten occasions walking along Kópavogsbakki wearing a green fleece with a yellow logo on the front and two yellow stripes down one arm.’

  ‘That means there’s a possibility our mysterious victim could be whoever robbed the old lady’s house. Sævaldur’s phantom housebreaker, maybe?’

  ‘How do you figure that out?’

  Gunna tapped the side of her nose and scrolled back through the report. ‘Traces of Polyethylene tera . . .’ She stumbled. ‘Polyethylene teraphthalate found on the gaffer tape in the basement of Kópavogsbakki fifty, and also on a sharp edge of the shelves. That’s the stuff that fleece jackets and whatnot are made from. Colour: dark green.’

  ‘Wonderful. Will you tell Sævaldur or shall I?’

  ‘You know he’ll be furious if he doesn’t figure this one out for himself.’

  ‘I know. I can’t wait.’

  ‘I don’t suppose your elderly armchair sleuth saw what the logo was?’

  ‘Nope, sadly not. Too far away,’ Eiríkur said. ‘But he seems to have walked the same route, mostly in the afternoons, and he was seen at various times from soon after midday to just before dark.’

  ‘There you go, then. You’d better get back to Aunt Bertha and see if you can jog that woman’s memory, or find out what CCTV there is around there that he might have walked past. If you can figure out the logo, you might have him.’

  ‘She did give me the time, so I’ll see what I can find.’

  ‘Good man. Now get on with it before Sævaldur comes back and you have to tell him what you’ve found out,’ she said, reaching for her desk phone as it rang.