Cold Steal

by Quentin Bates

  ‘That’s the dentist and his wife and her brother. So three of them.’

  ‘They pour cash into the construction of ten of these very smart houses. No expense spared. Remember this was postcrash and construction contractors were scratching for any work that would keep them ticking over. So, all but four were sold, and those are still owned by Sólfell Property.’

  ‘So where’s the scam? There has to be one, surely?’

  ‘The original vehicle, Sólfell Investment, went bankrupt, leaving zero assets. Sólfell Property spends a stack of cash on land and development. So where did all that money come from? Sólfell Property didn’t have that kind of finance at its disposal, so my guess is that this is cash from overseas.’ Björgvin sat back and put his hands in his pockets. ‘The question is, where did all that money come from to start with? It’s still very unclear, except that it appears to have originated from an account in Luxembourg. My guess is that this is at least partly the Bright Spring II profits.’

  ‘Laundering?’

  ‘We didn’t start looking at these people until you mentioned them the other day.’ Björgvin stretched and crossed his ankles under the table. His lanky frame seemed to go on endlessly and Gunna wondered if his feet stuck out past the desk. ‘But that’s my best guess. Someone wanted to clean some dirty money through a profitable little property business in Iceland. Buy some land, build some expensive properties, sell them. That way the money is the result of property speculation, and not wherever it came from to start with.’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘No doubt,’ he said with a lopsided smile. ‘It could be all kinds of stuff. Drugs, vice, protection rackets, gambling, loan-sharking. These guys are spoilt for choice and all they need is a way to wash the smell of shit off their money.’

  ‘No? Definitely not? All right, thanks,’ Eiríkur said, putting the phone down and pushing it away.

  ‘No luck?’ Gunna asked, looking long and hard at the prints of the man in the green fleece that Eiríkur had produced, including close-ups of his face and of the logo on his jacket.

  ‘I’ve searched for the face and the logo and I can’t find either anywhere. You’d have thought that logo and the stripes would be something special, but I can’t find anything. If there were some letters that would be a help. I’ve called every shop in Reykjavík that sells this kind of thing and all the manufacturers I can get hold of, and nobody’s familiar with it.’

  ‘It may have come from abroad?’

  ‘Then we’re no nearer than we were.’

  ‘You have a face.’

  ‘Put out a media appeal?’ Eiríkur suggested.

  Gunna dropped the prints back on the desk. ‘The trouble is, your suspect will then see it as well and he’ll lose that fleece like a shot.’

  ‘Ach, somebody will know him. Even if it’s just his mother.’

  ‘Yeah, and his mother’s going to shop him to the police.’

  ‘She might if she’s a particularly law-abiding mother.’

  Gunna sat with her chin in her hands, looking at the face of the man in the green fleece. Under the crop of brown hair, he looked ordinary, the sort of face nobody would notice. Taken when he had been walking towards Aunt Bertha, the face had a strained look about. The split-second of footage chosen had caught him chewing his lip, as if he’d been stressed or hadn’t slept properly. He looked tired, Gunna thought, and wondered what kind of guilty conscience he might have.

  ‘No,’ she decided. ‘I don’t want it released, not yet. Circulate his picture internally first. It might take a day or two but we’ll see if anyone comes up with anything. If nobody knows anything we’ll think again, but on Monday you’d best tell Sævaldur that you have a lead on his phantom housebreaker.’

  Eiríkur retreated behind his computer and Gunna could hear him tapping at the keyboard. He hit send with a flourish and sat back.

  ‘Done,’ he said. ‘Time for a coffee, I think. Want one?’

  ‘Not for me, thanks. I have to go up and see if I can find the Laxdal before he disappears home.’

  She heard Eiríkur pottering in the coffee room, the clink of mugs being washed and Gunna reflected that Eiríkur’s wife must have done a good job of training him. She stood up and pulled on her jacket as Eiríkur’s phone rang.

  ‘Eiríkur!’ She called and cursed when there was no reply. ‘Eiríkur Thór Jónsson’s phone,’ she said as she lifted the handset.

  ‘Is Eiríkur there?’

  ‘He’s about somewhere. Who’s this?’

  ‘Lárus Erlendsson from station at Selfoss. It’s about the pictures Eiríkur emailed to everyone.’

  ‘Ah, in that case, you can tell me. Eiríkur’s one of my team.’

  ‘Oh, right? And who are you, my love?’

  ‘I’m Gunnhildur Gísladóttir, and I’m not your love,’ Gunna glowered. ‘You recognize the man in the picture?’

  Lárus Erlendsson laughed. ‘No, not a clue who he is.’

  ‘In that case, what can I do for you? I don’t suppose you wanted to chat about the weather?’

  ‘No, don’t be stupid. It’s that logo he sent as well. The one on the guy’s fleece.’

  ‘You recognize it?’

  ‘Of course I do. I’m a member myself; I’m on the committee. It’s the Kjölur Equestrian Club.’

  ‘That’s a great help, thanks. I’ll pass on the message,’ Gunna said, put the phone down and yelled, ‘Eiríkur! A trip to the country?’

  Gunna met Bára outside the hotel, where she parked the unmarked Golf in the manager’s parking space.

  ‘What’s happened? All right?’

  ‘No. Jóhann’s disappeared.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘And I’m supposed to be looking after them.’

  Gunna thought quickly. ‘Disappeared as in wandered off or disappeared as in snatched?’

  ‘No idea. He said he was going down to the lobby for a newspaper and hasn’t come back.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘An hour,’ Bára said.

  ‘And her ladyship?’

  ‘Sitting upstairs calling all his mobile numbers one after the other. It’s taken the best part of half an hour to get her to agree to call you.’

  Gunna thought quickly and looked around the hotel’s lobby. ‘OK, get me Jóhann’s phone numbers, would you? I’ll see if we can put a trace on them. Where’s the duty manager in this place?’

  A minute later Gunna was in a room behind the reception desk watching jerky black-and-white footage of guests coming and going, amazed at the sheer number of people passing through the doors. Finally Jóhann appeared. He emerged from the lift with a group of people, walked across the lobby, spoke briefly to someone standing by the restaurant door and picked up a newspaper from a pile. Gunna watched him leaf through Morgunbladid for a few moments before looking around him and walking quickly out of the main doors.

  Gunna switched to the camera outside and saw him open the door of a taxi and get in, taking a seat in the back and shutting the door with the car already moving. Gunna wrote down the number, thanked the mystified girl at reception and headed for the lift.

  Sunna María sat in her suite, her face thunderous.

  ‘Well? Do you know where he went?’

  ‘It looks like he just went out,’ Gunna said. ‘Had he had any calls or messages before he went downstairs?’

  ‘Probably. His computer and his phone ping out messages all day long.’ She glared at Bára. ‘You’re supposed to be looking after security, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s right. But I’m not here to stop either of you going somewhere of your own free will.’

  Gunna shook her head. ‘There’s nothing for me to do here. If Jóhann wasn’t abducted, then there’s nothing for me to investigate,’ she said, her hand on the door handle. Sunna María stood with her back to them, staring out over the slipways below them.

  ‘He could be in danger, couldn’t he?’ she asked, turning to face them.

  ‘
Could be,’ Gunna admitted. ‘There’s nothing suspicious on the CCTV and it looks like he just got in a taxi and drove away. If Jóhann went somewhere, he clearly went of his own free will. Has he done this before?’

  ‘Disappeared without a word? No. But he hasn’t been well recently,’ Sunna María said, turning round with a look of concern etched onto her face. ‘He forgets things and he’s been depressed. I can’t help being worried about him.’

  Alex felt good about himself and the world around him. It was dark and cold and he’d been working all day, but a hot shower had eased the aches and pains. He poured a slug of vodka into a glass and looked forward to the evening, especially the night, which promised to be a busy one.

  Maris was sitting with his feet on the table and the television in front of him rattled as the crowd at Old Trafford roared their appreciation. His feet were surrounded by cans and Maris leaned forward, lifting and shaking them one by one to find a full can. Both Maris and the can sighed as he popped its ring pull and took a long swallow.

  The apartment was nothing special. The bedroom belonged to Alex as he had been there longer and Maris, as the newcomer, slept on the lumpy couch. While the place wasn’t exactly dirty, it was far from clean, with bags of cans and garbage by the door, which nobody bothered to take out until they started to smell. When he’d moved in all those months ago, Alex had found bags of garbage stacked on the balcony and the living-room windows tightly closed to keep out the smell.

  ‘Score?’ Alex asked, drying his hair vigorously with a towel and leaving it standing up in all directions.

  ‘Two–one to our boys,’ Maris said, excitement in his voice, one foot pumping up and down in agitation as an evening of the score was narrowly avoided.

  ‘And only five minutes to full time?’

  ‘Where are you off to?’ Maris asked. ‘Emilija again?’

  ‘Yep,’ Alex said, spraying his armpits, wrinkling his nose and waving a hand to disperse the astringent cloud.

  ‘Again? You’ll be married before you know it.’ Maris laughed.

  ‘Not me,’ Alex said, slapping his bare chest with one hand and lifting his glass. ‘You don’t marry women like Emilija. Chicks with kids are all right for keeping you warm, but when it comes to the long-term stuff, a man wants a model with not so many miles on the clock.’

  ‘Solid bodywork? Better upholstery?’

  ‘Precisely. No dents. Maybe one careful owner.’ Alex grinned and looked up with his glass in front of his face as there was a sharp rap on the door. ‘You expecting someone?’

  Maris shrugged. ‘Don’t know. It might be the boys. They were talking about going into town,’ he said, his attention on the screen as the crowd roared again.

  Alex opened the door and immediately tried to push it shut. ‘Maris!’ he yelled, as the door ground gradually open in spite of his best efforts to stop it, until it swung back and he was sent flying back into the room with it. He jumped right over the couch and Maris, who looked up bemused as a big man loped into the room and a smaller man with a narrow, lumpy face sauntered after him.

  Alex found himself on the balcony, shoeless, shirtless and cold, looking at a long drop into the darkness below as a patter of chilled rain whispered on the concrete.

  ‘Evening, boys,’ the narrow-faced man said as his burly companion turned the key, locking Alex out on the balcony to shiver and look in through the window, wondering what they were saying. ‘Your pal’s not very friendly tonight, is he?’

  Maris looked up in confusion. ‘What’s up? Who are you guys?’

  The big man picked Maris up by the front of his shirt, which ripped as he was hauled forward and deposited face down over the table that his feet had been resting on a moment earlier.

  ‘You’ve not been doing as you’ve been told, have you, Alex?’ the little man asked as the big man planted a foot on his shoulder with all his weight behind it and Maris thrashed in panic. ‘Hush, Alex,’ he said softly. ‘Don’t make a noise. We don’t want to disturb your neighbours, do we?’

  ‘I’m not Alex,’ Maris pleaded. ‘That’s Alex out there on the balcony. I’m Maris. Maris Leinesars. Alex is out there,’ he gabbled, trying to point towards the balcony. ‘I haven’t done anything, honest.’

  The big man grunted and spat on the carpet. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Not really,’ the little man sniffed, taking a hammer from his pocket.

  With his face pressed hard to the top of the table, Maris could see nothing of what was going on behind him, while Alex watched in growing horror as everything was played out in eerie silence. It wasn’t a big hammer, a delicate tool of the kind used for fine joinery work and tiny nails, and Alex wanted to be sick as he saw the big man lean down and spread Maris’s hand out over the table top

  Maris squirmed and jerked his hand away. The hammer hit the table, leaving a half moon of a dent in the surface.

  ‘Keep him still, will you?’

  This time the hand was splayed on the table, with the big man’s fist planted over the wrist to keep it firmly placed.

  In spite of the double glazing, Alex could hear the first half of the screech of pain before the big man grabbed Maris’s face and stopped any more noise. He could see him struggle frantically in the big man’s grip. The little man broke all four fingers of his left hand with the delicate hammer, using deft, sharp taps that shattered bones and joints. Then he looked up and stared into Alex’s eyes for a long moment, winked and nodded to the big man, who slowly released Maris from his grip.

  The big man lifted Maris up again and deposited him on the couch, where he sobbed in shock, cradling one ruined hand in the other as his team scored again moments before the whistle and the crowd howled its joy. The two men slipped away into the night and Alex frantically rattled the handle of the balcony door.

  Orri had already decided he didn’t like it, but his instructions were clear. He had dressed himself in black, as usual, his balaclava rolled into a hat that nestled just above his eyebrows and his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his black jacket. It was a cold night and even with two extra layers he found himself shivering as he walked in a wide circle.

  He didn’t like industrial estates. Far too many businesses were taking security seriously these days, and while alarms were more or less an occupational hazard, it was the unobtrusive cameras that worried him; just like the box of tricks in his backpack.

  The building was dark, and the faint glow of street lamps across the road did little to illuminate the dark front. As he had already been past a few times during the day, Orri knew that the building’s sheet steel cladding was painted matt black from ground to eaves. A few years ago it had been the offices and workshops of a company manufacturing machinery for bakeries and pizza shops. The building had then been sold to a charitable body that everyone knew was actually a motorcycle club whose members referred to themselves as the Undertakers, living in uncomfortable rivalry with at least two other similar charitable organizations in the city.

  Orri knew it wasn’t a sensible place to be breaking into. If he were to be found, the Undertakers were more likely to live up to their name than call the police, and he reasoned that a job like this should mean danger money.

  The back door leading to the old workshop, now converted lovingly into a spick-and-span engineering space, complete with a lathe against one wall, had been left conveniently unlocked. There were no blinking lights anywhere to indicate an intruder alarm and Orri assumed that the Undertakers were simply confident that nobody would dare break into their clubhouse.

  He found the office at the top of the creaking stairs. His torch picked out details as its narrow beam swept around the room. A painted emblem filled one wall with the Undertakers’ black and silver crest, and a large black desk with a computer on it sat in the middle of the room surrounded by chairs. The ashtrays, mugs and glasses showed the place was used. A red light on the far side of the room gave him a moment’s disquiet, until the torch’s beam picked out a coffe
e maker that had been left switched on. He was on the point of switching it off, but thought better of it.

  Orri was relieved to see that plastic trunking studded with power, phone and ethernet sockets ran around the wall at waist height, a relic of the room’s former role as the sales manager’s office. Kneeling, he prised open the cover and set to work. He had to admit to himself that it was a clever piece of equipment. The new double power socket looked the same as the old one once he’d installed it, but behind the white plastic of the trunking there lurked a listening device which he guessed was voice activated, along with a slot for an SD card and a small black box clipped to the back of the socket. Orri hoped this was a device that would allow the sound files to be wirelessly transferred, as he had no desire to come back and retrieve the SD card.

  He stood back, put the socket he had replaced into his bag and admired his handiwork. There was no outward sign that the socket had been tampered with and there were no marks on the floor. The plastic bags he had pulled on over his shoes had left no prints. Unfortunately the Undertakers weren’t big on housekeeping up here, unlike in the spotless workshop downstairs, and he could see that the dust had been disturbed but hoped that nobody would notice.

  As a parting gift, he went to the computer on the desk and took out a flash stick that was in the slot, replacing it with one from his pocket. As instructed, another anonymous flash stick was dropped into a jar of oddments on the desk.

  Orri checked his tools. Nothing had been left behind. He was at the bottom of the stairs when the deep-throated rumble of motorcycles outside made him freeze. The sound dropped to an idle and he could hear that they were parked on the forecourt at the front of the building as he wondered how many there were. Two? More? At least two, he decided, and stole across the workshop, slipping out of the back door and shutting it behind him just as the big double doors at the front swung open and lights flickered on.