“We were going to leave. Take the cash and go to Spain or somewhere. That was the plan, just disappear somewhere hot and not come back.”

  Tears had begun to roll down Selma’s cheeks, taking with them smears of make-up that Gunna guessed had been there for days. She began to cry quietly, her words coming out in fits and starts between sobs.

  “Ommi was really angry. He could be just totally crazy when he was angry. Said I should come up there and get him when he next had a day pass ’cos he had business to do in town. He said that he’d been double-crossed and the man he was doing time for didn’t have the money to pay him for being there any more so he was going to sort things out himself,” Selma said quickly, the words tumbling out. She took a deep breath that ended on a sob. “I was frightened. Really frightened. Ommi can be so scary when he’s in a rage.”

  “I see,” Gunna said as Selma’s sobs receded and developed into hiccoughs. “And you don’t know who this person is?”

  “It’s somebody rich. That’s all I know.”

  “No ideas, no suspicions?”

  Selma shook her head. “No. If I knew, I’d tell you. I never wanted to ask who Shorty was.”

  “Shorty?”

  “Ommi always called him Shorty. He said Shorty would see us all right. And now Shorty won’t.”

  “YES? CAN I help you?” asked a young woman who appeared around the side of the house with a disarming smile. “I was in the garden, didn’t hear the bell the first time,” she explained as a small boy hid behind her legs.

  “You must be Hulda Björk?”

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “My name’s Gunnhildur Gísladóttir, I’m from the police, the Serious Crime Unit. I’d like to ask you a few questions about Steindór Hjálmarsson,” she said, and the smile disappeared from the woman’s face as if it had been turned off with a switch.

  In the long garden Hulda Björk collected herself and they sat in the lee of the house’s back wall in a patch of sunshine that had fought its way through a break in the thick cloud.

  “That’s a name I didn’t expect to hear,” she told Gunna.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve reopened old wounds, but it’s a serious case and I’m afraid I might have some uncomfortable questions.”

  Hulda Björk breathed deep and set her face firmly. “I’m OK now. Just ask.”

  “As you can imagine, it’s Steindór’s death that I’m interested in, and particularly the events leading up to it, but especially his, your, circumstances. How were you living at the time? Were you both working?”

  “We rented a flat out in Mosfellsbær. We were both from Dalvík and felt more comfortable up there out of town than down in the city. I was finishing my teaching degree and Steindór was an accountant with a job at an import-export company. It was fun, we were enjoying living in Reykjavík, but we both agreed that when we had children, we’d want to move back up north somewhere. Not Dalvík, but maybe Akureyri. Now I can’t even visit Dalvík any more without it all coming back. Every house and every street remind me of him.”

  “But you’re settled here now?”

  “Yes. I met someone. Never expected to. He’s been great and now we have Gunnar as well,” she said, her proud gaze following the small boy as he rode unsteadily around the garden on a bicycle with stabilizers. “I never thought I’d get over it when Steindór … died so suddenly.”

  “I’m interested especially in the days and weeks leading up to his death. How was he? Was there anything odd you noticed about his behaviour?”

  Hulda Björk spread her hands, palms upwards. “It’s hard to say. We were both so busy then and not seeing as much of each other as we would have liked. Steindór was a workaholic. He’d work hours of overtime and he’d always been like that—a little obsessive. If there was something that interested him, he’d absorb himself in it. It was a bit annoying sometimes and I dreaded the thought of him discovering golf.”

  “But no unusual behaviour?”

  “It’s so hard to think back. He was a bit preoccupied. I don’t think he enjoyed the job he was doing, but it was quite well paid and we needed the money after all those years of being poor students.”

  “The night he was attacked. Were you there?”

  “No,” Hulda Björk said abruptly. “It was some kind of outing with his uni friends. I wouldn’t have gone anyway. It was a boy thing.”

  “Had either of you ever had any kind of acquaintance with Ómar Magnússon?”

  “You mean the bastard who …?” Hulda Björk’s eyes flashed with a sudden fury. “Of course not,” she spat. “Neither of us had ever laid eyes on that scumbag. I saw him in court, sitting there with a smirk on his face. If I could meet him now, I’d …”

  Her face was set in a hard mask.

  “So there was no reason that you could think of for the assault on Steindór, other than, as Ómar alleged, that they had been arguing?”

  “Nothing. I’m certain their paths never crossed. I suppose it’s possible they could have had an argument. Steindór didn’t drink often, but he enjoyed it when he did and could be quite boisterous. Whatever, that’s no reason for beating him so badly that he died, surely?”

  “No. But these people live by different rules,” Gunna said sadly. “Can you tell me more about Steindór’s colleagues and his work?”

  Hulda Björk shook her head. “Not really. He hadn’t worked there for more than a couple of months and didn’t like it much, but the money was good. I don’t think he got on well with the office manager. I met her once, a very cold woman, I thought.”

  “So what was he doing there?”

  “Bookkeeping and invoicing, as far as I remember. He used to tell me and it went right over my head. Sometimes he had to talk to people in Taiwan or Nigeria, places they exported to.”

  “Exports?”

  “Fish, mostly. Stockfish to west Africa, herring to the Ukraine, all sorts. That’s what he was working with for the most part. But there was some property as well, buying and selling commercial buildings, I think. Workshops and shops, that sort of thing.”

  “Do you remember what the company was called, or if it still exists?”

  “Kleifaberg Trading, at least the part that Steindór worked for. They used to have offices in the city centre, off Tryggvagata, I think.”

  “And there’s nothing else that springs to mind? Nothing about Steindór’s behaviour that you recall as being anything different?”

  Hulda Björk shrugged. “I’ve tried to remember everything, but there’s so much that’s too hazy. You try and recall these things but it’s like they’re just that little way out of reach. Know what I mean? Of course you don’t,” she added.

  “Actually I do,” Gunna said quietly. “I know precisely what you mean and I know how hard it is when someone is taken away in a flash.”

  Hulda Björk looked at her with a new recognition, half screwing up her eyes against the unaccustomed spring sunshine that shone in her face and highlighted the band of freckles across her nose. She stood up and cast about the garden for the small boy, who had gone quiet.

  “He must be up to something if he’s not making a noise,” she said, forcing a smile. “I don’t think there’s anything more I can tell you.”

  Gunna laid a card on the slats of the garden table. “My number’s there. I’d appreciate a call if there’s anything you remember.”

  “Ah, there he is,” Hulda Björk said. She pointed to her son at the far end of the garden, using a bamboo cane to push an offcut of wood across a puddle. “I’d better stop him before he gets too filthy.”

  She turned to Gunna awkwardly.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t think I’ve been a lot of help to you somehow,” she apologized. “But there’s a friend of Steindór’s you might want to talk to. He was at college with us. I haven’t seen him for a long time, but he works for a magazine now. Gunnlaugur Ólafsson, his name is.”

  THE BASTARD HAD a big enough house, Jón thought, staring at the sprawling building on the far side of the quiet street. He’d taken a detour to see the place yet again. He had done this more than once, stopping by the curb on the other side of the road to glare at the house with its double garage, set between lines of young birch trees that already were bushy enough to shield the place from prying eyes either side.

  Jón’s own house had been away down the hill in a decent, yet less exclusive neighbourhood. If things hadn’t gone so terribly wrong, Ragna Gústa could have found herself mixing with children at school from this very street.

  Jón knew that Bjartmar and his snobby wife had no children. The gossip around town was that they weren’t getting on well lately, and that the man had set up some woman he’d brought to Iceland with a business in the city centre. Jón didn’t make a habit of listening to gossip, but any mention of the bastard who had tipped his business over the edge was always going to make him prick up his ears.

  He sighed, gritted his teeth and started the van’s engine. A woman in the western end of town with two small children was waiting for him to again patch up the worn-out washing machine that she couldn’t afford to replace.

  “YOU KNOW SOMEONE called Gunnlaugur Ólafsson?” Gunna asked, phone to her ear as she marched across the street to her car.

  “Er. Not sure,” Skúli said slowly. “Know anything more about him?”

  “Not a lot,” Gunna replied, switching the phone to the other ear as she unlocked the car and got inside. “He’d be in his early thirties, works for a magazine.”

  “Sales or editorial?”

  “No idea. Editorial, I guess.”

  “I’ll ask around, see what I can find. Is that all right?”

  “Skúli, that would be wonderful,” Gunna said, realizing that she had been unnecessarily sharp with him.

  “Cool. Leave it with me, then,” Skúli said crisply, and closed the connection before Gunna could say anything more.

  She started the car and listened to the engine hum into life. She let it roll gently down the street and stopped at the end, wondering whether to go left or right at the junction. A few years of frantic property speculation had left the sprawling peripheries of the city criss-crossed with streets that she had no recollection of, as well as confusing new junctions that appeared to lead nowhere, left unfinished as the estates they were supposed to reach were boarded up.

  She opted to turn left, immediately regained her bearings and decided to continue through the quiet estate of houses set back from the speed-bump-studded road. This was a smart neighbourhood, not fashionable, but populated by younger, two-and three-car families who clearly took the look of their homes seriously.

  Gunna’s phone rang and she pulled over to the side of the road to answer it. “Skúli, that was quick.”

  “And easy as well. Someone knew the guy straight away. He shortens his name to Gulli Ólafs, that’s what threw me.”

  “Understandable. But do you know where I can find him?”

  “You’re not going to give him a story before me, are you?” Gunna could hear the grin behind his voice.

  “Of course not. Hey, are you back at Dagurinn?”

  “Yeah, just covering a few shifts for someone else.” Skúli’s cheerful tone vanished. “Two days a week at the moment. Gulli Ólafs works for a business magazine called Verslun. It went bust last year and someone came along and bailed them out, so it’s still running and he is one of only about half the staff they kept on. They used to be in smart offices on Borgartún, but now they’re above a garage down at Grandi.”

  “Excellent. Thanks, Skúli.”

  “No problem. Just wondering, do you have anything to tell me?”

  “Not right now. But progress is being made. I’ll let you know when I can say anything. Keep your eyes open, though. This could be bigger than I thought. But not a word out of place. All right?”

  “You know, Gunna? Anyone else saying that and I wouldn’t believe them for a second.”

  “But you know you can trust your Auntie Gunnhildur, don’t you?”

  “If you say so,” he said dubiously.

  “OH YES. ARE we just the finest detectives around or what?” Eiríkur asked, rubbing his hands with pleasure.

  “We are, Gunna and me. Don’t know about you, young feller,” Helgi grunted in reply.

  “Don’t mind him, Eiríkur. He’s had a bad night,” Gunna said. “Teething again, Helgi?”

  “Yup.” Helgi yawned.

  “Put ’em to sleep, boys. Calpol works wonders. I’d have cheerfully strangled both of mine without it,” Gunna said. “What have you found that’s making you so happy, then?”

  Eiríkur put a stack of printouts on his desk and patted them. “Witness statements from the Ómar Magnússon case. Dug them out from the archives, and guess what? There are a couple of very interesting witnesses who say they saw Ómar having an argument with Steindór Hjálmarsson the night he was murdered.”

  He paused for effect.

  “Go on, get it over with,” Helgi grumbled.

  “There’s a statement from the lead singer of the band, Svanhildur Mjöll Sigurgeirsdóttir, and also from one of the doormen, Óskar Óskarsson, currently in hospital in Keflavík.”

  “Weren’t you on that case, Helgi?” Gunna asked.

  “Not really. I was with the team that arrested Ommi, but it wasn’t actually him we were looking for. If I recall correctly, we were searching Evil Eygló’s summer house for stolen goods when Ommi came wandering out of the bedroom rubbing his eyes. I don’t know which of us was more surprised.”

  “So Skari and Svana both gave witness statements saying that Ommi and Steindór had a ruck?” Gunna asked.

  “Yup. That’s it. There are plenty more and I thought I’d check through the rest of them, just to see if there might be a name that pops up anywhere, and there’s one that made me think. Sindri Valsson, the man’s name is. He was also interviewed at the time and claimed not to have been aware of anything. So I did a bit of a check and it seems he lives overseas now, Portugal.”

  “Any relation to …?”

  “Spot on. Jónas Valur Hjaltason’s son. It threw me to start with because he calls himself Valsson and not Jónasson. But he’s still a director of a few of his dad’s companies, including the one that owns property in Portugal and Spain, and he’s also a director of one of Bjartmar Arnarson’s companies, Rigel Investment.”

  “So how did you stumble on all this?”

  “Well, I’d already been checking out the ownership of Rigel Investment and saw the name there as a director. It wasn’t until I saw the witness statement in his name that it jogged my memory and I put two and two together. But guess what? He was here last week, left on Friday on a flight to London.”

  “How did you find that out so fast?”

  “I had a look through the passenger list archive and it seems he’s a regular traveller, four or five times a year normally.”

  VERSLUN OCCUPIED A cramped space with a row of desks along one wall decorated with posters from the magazine’s more prosperous days. A sharp-faced young man with gelled hair looked up from the front desk.

  “Yes?”

  “Gunnlaugur Olafsson?”

  He looked at her suspiciously.

  “Gulli’s in a meeting. Is it important?” he demanded sharply. “What’s it about?”

  Gunna felt her hackles rise. She dug in her pocket and flashed her police ID card at him.

  “Yes, it is important, and no, I’m not going to discuss it with you. Where is he?”

  The young man deflated and retreated, opening a glass door and holding a conversation in whispers, punctuated with quick looks over one shoulder.

  “Gulli’ll be right with you,” he said, returning and sitting back at his desk, where he proceeded to ignore Gunna and concentrate on the computer in front of him. In the glass door behind him, Gunna noticed a reflection of the young man’s screen and saw he was devoting his attention to his Facebook page. Finally the glass door opened and a tall man with a harassed manner came out, sweeping a lock of untidy hair away from his face and frowning.

  “You’re looking for me?” he asked doubtfully.

  “Yup, Gunnhildur Gísladóttir. Serious Crime Unit. A quiet word would be useful.”

  “I recognize you,” Gulli Olafs said, eyes narrowed. “There was a feature about you in a newspaper last year, wasn’t there?”

  “There was,” Gunna said gravely. “I can see that my notoriety goes before me.”

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Can we go somewhere quiet?”

  Gulli Olafs held his hands up and looked around the cramped office with its desks and a few booths. “There’s nowhere right now. The meeting room’s in use and I don’t know how long they’ll be. Is it something particular you want to ask me about?”

  “Yes. Steindór Hjálmarsson.”

  Startled, Gulli Olafs took a step back and then looked around him. “I think we’d better go outside,” he said heavily, nodding his head almost imperceptibly at the young man at the front desk.

  They walked the few hundred metres to Grandakaffi, one of the workmen’s cafés. It looked to be thirty years behind the times in the increasingly smart dock area, but still saw a thriving trade for its traditionally down-to-earth food.

  “Been here before?” Gulli Olafs asked as they went into the quiet café with the lunchtime rush over.

  “Many times,” Gunna assured him, taking coffee and a roll, and fumbling for coins.

  “No, on me,” Gulli Olafs said, handing over a note and asking for a receipt, which he folded carefully away.

  They sat in the far corner of the glass-fronted extension and Gunna noticed that deep stress lines ran across Gulli Olafs forehead, making him look older than he was.

  “Steindór Hjálmarsson. You knew him well, or so Hulda Björk tells me?”

  “Yes. I was one of his closest friends, one of his few close friends. You’ve spoken to Hulda?”

  “I have. Steindór’s death is linked indirectly to an investigation that we have in progress at the moment, not something I can say too much about. But I’m trying to get a picture of what happened, and why.”