‘Well, I’ve a feeling I’ve seen you somewhere before. At a big four-O birthday party a couple of years ago?’ Ísrún asked, pausing to provide an opportunity for a reply, and sipping her coffee. ‘That’s a fantastic cappuccino. Are you running this place?’
‘Thanks. I am. Opened here not long ago. I had a café in the Kringlan shopping centre but wanted to move closer to the middle of town,’ Idunn said with a smile.
Ísrún decided to let fly with both barrels.
‘Oh God, aren’t you Elías’s wife? Isn’t he the one who was found dead up north somewhere?’
The smile vanished suddenly from Idunn’s face, replaced by a pained smirk.
‘You can quit the play-acting. I’ve seen you on TV. News, isn’t it? Whatever, you’re no actress.’
Ísrún nodded and flushed with embarrassment, surprised and disappointed to find she wasn’t as shameless as she had thought herself to be.
‘But you’re right,’ Idunn continued. ‘I was married to Elías. That’s a long time ago now. What do you want to know about the miserable bastard?’ she asked in an emotionless voice. ‘Good riddance to him.’
Ísrún was left dumbstruck by this reaction. All her journalist’s skill, built up over the years, left her for a moment and she felt as if the breath had gone from her lungs.
‘The police contacted me this morning to say that Elías was dead,’ Idunn said tersely, breaking the silence. ‘I can’t say I’ll shed any tears over him.’
‘Was he … Did he play away while you were married?’ Ísrún finally asked in a quiet voice.
‘Hell, yes. He was a complete shitbag. I still can’t understand why I ever married him,’ she said, and then seemed to regret her choice of words. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t quote me on the news, will you?’ She paused for a moment, and leant towards Ísrún. ‘All the same, you’d be wise not to make too much of a saint of him.’
‘There’s no chance of that,’ Ísrún said, half to herself. ‘But you must have got something out of the divorce?’
Idunn laughed, a bitter, tired laugh.
‘If only. The bastard never had two pennies to rub together, not that I knew of anyway. I was the one who was the wage earner. He did very nicely out of the divorce and he even got my apartment in Akureyri. It’s nothing special, just a cubbyhole of a place, but it’ll be worth something. I managed to keep hold of the café. He’s … was … such a tightwad that I don’t think he even got round to registering the Akureyri apartment under his own name. On paper my company still owns it. I suppose because he didn’t want to pay the insurance and council tax on it,’ she said and smiled, brightening as this positive aspect of his death dawned on her. ‘Hey, maybe I get to keep my apartment after all! It might be worth selling.’
‘Sometimes there’s good luck to be found in the unlikeliest of places,’ Ísrún said, unconvincingly.
She thanked Idunn for her time, and gathered her courage to set off into the tainted air outside.
The sky was unusually dark, the sun hidden behind the thick mineral haze, even though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Ísrún felt the ash settle on her tongue, as she breathed, as if she had had a mouthful of sand. She shuddered at the thought, hurrying to her car and setting off immediately; she felt like she was in a polluted foreign city in the middle of a heatwave, rather than a summer’s day in Reykjavík.
She could hardly have chosen a better day to be leaving town. This would be the first time she had been back to Akureyri after leaving the place so suddenly a year and a half ago to return to Reykjavík. She gritted her teeth at the thought of the old wounds a return to Akureyri might open up, but told herself that she needed to do it.
Things were beginning to crystallise, and Ísrún felt she was on to something. She could reveal the real Elías Freysson.
‘Kormákur! A word!’
Ívar sat in the desk editor’s chair and yelled across the newsroom, as he usually did, a king overseeing his subjects.
Kormákur hurried over.
‘How’s it going with the murder story?’
‘Nothing new,’ Kormákur said.
‘Nothing new? A man’s been murdered. Don’t tell me you’re just going to sit here and wait for the police to get round to holding a press conference?’
Ívar’s voice was stern, cut with sharp sarcasm.
‘What? No, of course not … but it’s all just kicking off,’ Kormákur stammered.
‘It’s going to be our lead tonight. For crying out loud, try and work a bit of tension into it, will you?’ Ívar muttered something under his breath, and then leant in to whisper into Kormákur’s ear. ‘Listen, someone called Ísrún with a lead; some friend of hers, whose name she wouldn’t give, said Elías had been involved in drugs.’
‘Dope? A user?’ Kormákur asked in surprise.
‘No, smuggling.’
‘Hell! That would be a proper scoop.’
‘Wouldn’t it just? She put her foot down and wanted to have a go at it, so if she sends anything in, I’ll let you have it. But I still want you to look into this. I don’t really trust her with something so big. Can you do that?’
‘Of course I can.’
Kormákur hurried back to his workstation and called the police in Akureyri to see if there had been any connection between the murder victim and a drug-smuggling ring.
But the police were tight-lipped: they weren’t providing any information until the press conference, and Kormákur put down the phone without having learned anything new. He wondered what exactly it was that Ísrún knew. He couldn’t help hoping that she came back south with nothing and this would open the way to getting her sacked from the news team.
13
Kristín hurried along the corridor of the Akureyri Hospital. The years had left the yellow lino on the floor scratched and stained and the white tiles on the walls had long ago lost their sheen. It was a cold and unwelcoming environment.
The wards were already a hive of activity as her shift started. Kristín liked that; she was quickly bored when things were quiet, giving her too much time to think about the future. Like every doctor qualifying in Iceland, she would soon have to think about going abroad to specialise, but she pushed that thought to the recesses of her mind. She was in no frame of mind to make decisions that would dictate the course of her career. With years at the University of Iceland behind her, she was still facing another long period of study overseas. Sometimes she regretted choosing medicine, uncomfortable with the idea of spending years studying and then being limited to a particular field. Once the investment in this extensive process was taken into account, along with the pressure that the work brought with it, the money she’d earn was nothing special. She suspected that, with the economy stagnating in the wake of the financial crash a few years earlier and the cuts to the health service, she’d have to work abroad to make all that investment pay for itself. And that would entail even more decisions.
She felt her mobile, set on silent, vibrate in her pocket. She paused, plucked the phone from her pocket and saw that it was her friend from the golf course. They had planned to meet during the week.
She answered.
‘Kristín?’
‘That’s me. Hi.’
His friendly voice gave her warm feeling inside.
‘Am I interrupting anything?’
Kristín had always made work and study her priorities when she and Ari Thór had been together. Maybe that was one of the reasons they had parted?
‘No, it’s all right.’
‘I was wondering if we could meet up tonight? Find a place to have a meal?’
‘I’m sorry, but I’m already promised tonight.’ She was disappointed. She needed to meet him, have a chance to relax and think of something else. ‘Tomorrow evening?’
‘Perfect.’
‘We can meet at my place,’ she said. ‘My shift finishes at seven.’
She gave him the address.
‘That’s great. See you
tomorrow,’ he said.
She thought she heard real pleasure in his voice as he put down the phone. And she couldn’t help feeling a keen anticipation – she was already looking forward to their date. Red wine, a few good cheeses to choose from – maybe he’d help her finally shake off Ari Thór.
14
He hadn’t noticed her go downstairs, but Nóra was standing in the hall when Ari Thór came down, the sports bag in his hands.
‘Are you taking that with you?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he replied.
‘What for?’
Her eyes widened with excitement.
‘I need your key to the upstairs apartment,’ said Ari Thór, artfully avoiding her questioning gaze. ‘Do you have spare keys?’
This took her by surprise.
‘What? Yes. Of course,’ she said, going into her own apartment and returning with the key. ‘I don’t have any other ones,’ she added, her eyes firmly on the sports bag.
‘How did he pay his rent?’
She looked up with a smile. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Did he pay in cash, or did he transfer the money to your account?’ he asked.
‘Always cash. Why?’
‘I’ll be in touch later if there are any questions,’ he said, allowing authority to permeate his voice in the hope that she would back down. ‘I’d appreciate it if you didn’t share anything about this visit with anyone. And please don’t mention the bag to anyone,’ he said, trying to make it plain by his tone that this was more than a polite request.
Ari Thór said his goodbyes to Nóra and got into the police four-by-four.
It was still bright over Siglufjörður. The sun gleamed in a clear blue sky, making the waters of the fjord sparkle. There were still a few patches of snow to be seen high on the slopes above the town, picked out in clear white by the bright sunshine. What he had heard on the news of the ash cloud hanging over Reykjavík could just as well have been news from the other side of the world.
His thoughts turned to more personal concerns. Kristín had long since moved out of his little apartment on Öldugata in Reykjavík, but he had delayed renting it out. Months passed before he finally summoned up the courage to advertise for a tenant. Last Christmas he had been able to take off plenty of time for which he had no need. He had travelled to Reykjavík the day before Christmas Eve, cleared everything personal from the apartment and put it into storage before meeting his prospective tenant. They agreed a one-year rental starting from the first of January, and Ari Thór felt relieved that he had finally dealt with the apartment, even though this brought to an end the time that he and Kristín had spent there together. That Christmas Eve he had spent alone in his car, driving up north, listening to the Christmas mass on the radio, whenever there was a signal to be found.
Ari Thór paused before driving away from Nóra’s home, his memories tugging at his concentration. He shook his head and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. He needed to focus on the case.
Taking a deep breath, he set off towards the police station to collect Tómas. He had arranged to meet Logi Jökulsson, the third member of Elías’s team at the tunnel site. They had set up a meeting in Skútudalur, at the mouth of the tunnel, and Tómas had offered to come along.
‘How much do you reckon is there?’ Tómas asked, once he was in the four-by-four.
‘In the bag? A few million in foreign currency, I’d guess,’ Ari Thór replied, raising his eyebrow at his colleague. ‘And a stack of Icelandic krónur, probably several million. It’s difficult to say. We’ll need to count it.’
Tómas furrowed his brow. ’Do you think she knew about it? Maybe she’d had a look in the bag before you turned up.’
‘Nóra?’ Ari Thór thought. ‘It’s hard to be sure, to be honest.’
‘I wouldn’t put it past her,’ Tómas replied, clearly suspicious. ‘She’s always been a devious one.’
‘This kind of money doesn’t just appear out of nowhere,’ Ari Thór said. ‘Elías may have been doing some cash jobs on the side, but that would never account for this much money.’
‘I agree,’ Tómas said. ‘I think we need to reconsider what line of business Elías was actually in.’
Tómas and Ari Thór waited for Logi at the entrance to the new tunnel. A man who looked to be in his thirties emerged from the dark mouth of the tunnel. It was clear that he hadn’t shaved for some time. His helmet was thick with dust and his boiler suit had not seen a washing machine for quite some time.
‘G’day,’ he offered curtly. ‘Don’t have much time, loads to be done.’
‘We’ll take as much time as we need,’ Ari Thór said, unintentionally raising his voice. Then launched straight into his questions. ‘How long had you known Elías?’
Tómas stood to one side and listened intently.
‘Three years,’ Logi said shortly, meeting the eyes of neither man.
‘I understand there were three of you working with him: you, Svavar Sindrason and Páll Reynisson.’
‘That sounds about right.’
‘Was he a good foreman?’
‘Not bad.’
‘He paid on time?’
‘Always,’ Logi replied.
‘Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to do him harm?’
‘Wanted to do him harm? You’re formal, aren’t you?’ he grinned and then was silent for a moment. ‘How would I know if the man had any enemies?’ he continued, as if irritated by Ari Thór’s questions.
‘How did you four get on?’ Ari Thór persisted, keeping his gaze fixed on Logi, determined not to miss the slightest change in his expression.
‘Pretty good. Svavar knew him best. You ought to have a word with him.’ Logi yawned.
‘We found a pile of money at Elías’s place, including some foreign currency,’ Ari Thór said firmly, and saw a look of surprise flash across Logi’s face. ‘You knew about this?’
‘That the guy had some cash? That’s no business of mine,’ Logi said quickly, his composure clearly rattled. He hesitated for a moment, and added, ‘But the answer’s no, I didn’t know about any money.’
Ari Thór paused, waiting until the silence had become unbearable before asking another question.
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Absolutely sure.’ Logi’s response was emphatic.
‘You knew that Elías was working on a house over in Skagafjörður, though?’
Logi took a moment to think. ‘Well, yes. He talked about it a lot. He was getting a cracking good rate for the job, so he said. Some doctor down south building himself a summer house.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘The end of yesterday’s shift,’ Logi said irritably, not bothering to hide the fact that he was becoming annoyed by the questioning. ‘Nine o’clock. He said he was going over to Skagafjörður right away and was going to work on the summer house.’
‘What were your movements yesterday? Last evening and night?’ Ari Thór asked, trying to keep his gaze steely.
‘Eh? What the hell’s that about? You don’t think I bumped him off, do you?’ Logi asked angrily. ‘I went straight home after my shift, went to sleep and was there until this morning.’
‘And can anyone confirm that?’
‘Well … You can ask my brother, Jökull – and his wife, Móna. They live on the floor below me. I can’t leave the house without going through their place,’ he said. ‘We live in our parents’ old house. The old man’s dead and the old lady’s in a home, so we share the house between us. Not separate flats, but a floor each, if you see what I mean?’
‘Fair enough. But I expect you’d have been able to leave the house in the middle of the night without anyone noticing,’ Ari Thór said, trying to provoke Logi, an approach he found often brought results.
‘Yeah, maybe any other time, but not last night. My sister-in-law’s pregnant. She wasn’t well last night and she’s having a tough time of it. She sleeps badly. They kept me awake
, watching some video for half the night. I went down to see what was going on around three when I couldn’t sleep.’
‘What was the film?’ Ari Thór asked.
‘A thriller. Seven. Seen it?’
‘We’ll talk to them,’ he said, leaving Logi’s question unanswered.
‘Please do. Can I get back to work now?’ Logi asked abruptly.
‘Of course. But don’t go far. We might need to talk to you again tonight or tomorrow.’
‘I’m not going anywhere until this fucking tunnel is finished,’ he said, and strode away without a backward glance.
Ari Thór and Tómas returned to the car silently.
‘I’ll talk to his brother later to confirm his movements,’ said Ari Thór, glancing in Tómas’s direction.
‘Perhaps you can be a little more gentle with them?’ Tómas said amiably. ‘Móna, Logi’s sister-in-law, is a relative of mine. Not a close relative, you understand, but we know each other pretty well. They’ve been trying for a baby for a long time, so they’re a little tense and excited now that she’s pregnant, bless her.’ He smiled.
Ari Thór sighed, irritated at being told what to do. Tómas had given him the investigation to run and he was going to do it his own way.
15
Ríkhardur Lindgren’s one mistake had cost him dear.
In front of the mirror in his apartment in Reykjavík’s exclusive harbour district, he saw clear evidence of how the years had treated him, and how they had started to turn him grey. In fact, he now saw that he was grey all over. There were wrinkles on his face and black circles under his eyes. His hands weren’t as steady as they had once been, either. But that could just be the booze.
He couldn’t always recall exactly how old he was, regularly having to subtract numbers to get the answer – not that he was remotely interested in knowing the outcome. To his mind he was a young man who was old before his time.
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