“What makes people kill other people?”

  Gunna looked up at Laufey, who still had her attention on the screen. “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m just interested. Psychology. There must be reasons for it.”

  “The theory is that there are a very small minority of people who are capable of committing violent acts just like that,” Gunna said, snapping her fingers. “Nobody really knows how many of these people there are, maybe only one per cent of the population, maybe less. The rest of us are fairly law-abiding. But when these supposedly normal people commit a serious crime, there are all sorts of reasons for it.”

  “Are they sick?”

  “Sometimes they are. Often they are desperate, and normally there are narcotics or addiction problems somewhere behind it all.”

  “So these people are mentally ill?”

  “As long as you see addiction as an illness, then yes.”

  Laufey looked round at her mother. “Do you think addiction and stuff are an illness, or what?”

  “It’s very hard to say. In general terms, yes, it’s a sickness. I’ve learned in the years on this job that there are no easy answers. Drugs are frequently a refuge from another problem that can be so deeply hidden that even the sufferer isn’t fully aware of it, problems of self-esteem, confidence, inadequacy, all sorts. But I’ve also learned that no two people are the same and every case has to be looked at on its own terms, especially something complex like this one.” Gunna gestured at the screen.

  “You should have gone in for psychology, Mum,” Laufey said, heading back to the kitchen as Gunna’s phone began to ring.

  “Maybe I will, sweetheart. Maybe I will,” she said to herself as she stabbed at the green button with a forefinger. “Gunnhildur.”

  “Hæ. See Papa Smurf on TV, did you?” Helgi asked and Gunna had to stifle a laugh.

  “Any progress after I left?”

  “We have a few vans we’re checking out, all seen within half an hour of the incident and not too far away. Two look good, clear number plates, so shouldn’t be any problems. One didn’t have a number plate at all, and on two only half the registration could be made out.”

  “So there’s a good bit of cross-checking to do there?”

  “Yeah. Eiríkur’s deep in the vehicle registry right now and Sævaldur has a patrol car quietly checking out the addresses where the identified vans are registered. What time are you in tomorrow?”

  “Early, I expect, hopefully before seven.”

  “This is a weird one, chief.”

  “You’re telling me. Normally a murder in this country is a straightforward affair, but this is baffling. Has this profiler turned up yet?”

  Helgi chuckled. “Not yet. Seems the man’s flight was delayed and he won’t be here until tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Ach. Won’t make a difference, I don’t think.”

  “Didn’t get a chance to ask you earlier, how did you get on at Litla-Hraun this afternoon?”

  “Ah, Ommi and I had a very useful chat,” Gunna said with some satisfaction. “I think we’ll be talking again in the next day or two. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “G’night, chief.”

  The phone had hardly been replaced when it rang a second time, and Gunna swore as she picked it up.

  “Hæ, Skúli. How goes it?”

  “Getting a bit desperate right now, Gunna. Can you tell me what’s happening about Bjartmar Arnarson? I’ve been to the chief constable’s press briefing and he more or less said nothing at all, except that the man’s dead.”

  “In that case he was very honest with you,” Gunna replied, flexing her toes as her feet rested on the edge of the coffee table. “Where are you, outside the station?”

  “Yeah, and it’s just about to start chucking it down again,” he grumbled.

  “I’m knocked off for the day now, back bright and early in the morning.”

  “Any chance you could throw a dog a bone here?”

  “If I had a bone to throw you, I would.”

  “You mean you don’t know anything?” he asked disbelievingly.

  “That’s about the shape of it. It’s Sævaldur Bogason who’s in charge, not me. I’m just a foot soldier on this one.”

  “But you must have something, surely? Is it linked to Svana Geirs, d’you know?”

  This time Gunna felt uncomfortable with Skúli being so close to the mark. “Who knows? All I can say, and completely off the record, is that’s one possibility we’re exploring.”

  “No suspects? No leads?” Skúli asked plaintively.

  “So far, nothing. No witnesses, no dabs, no ballistic evidence, nothing. So no bones to throw.”

  “Hell. This has to be the front page tomorrow, and we haven’t anything to put on there. The whole story is two paragraphs and some waffle. Was it a professional killing, d’you think?”

  “I’m sorry, Skúli, I can’t speculate. But if you were to dig into Bjartmar’s business affairs, you wouldn’t go far wrong.”

  She heard the grin in his voice. “Thanks, Gunna.”

  “The companies are Rigel Investment, Arcturus Construction, Arcturus Management, Landex and Sandex Property. It’s all public record stuff. All you have to do is join the dots and you should find something spooky.”

  “Thanks, Gunna. You’re a star,” Skúli said with evident delight, and rang off.

  Tuesday 23rd

  THE VAN WHINED and complained, but eventually started. Jón waited for it to settle down and stop belching smoke before he chivvied it into the morning traffic heading out of town. It rattled through Gardabær as he thought about Elín Harpa and the unreal day he had spent in her tiny flat, numbed and isolated from the world outside.

  It was yet another relief to think that he wouldn’t have to worry about the van’s exhaust, ready to drop off into the road at the slightest bump. After today, he’d have other concerns.

  He took a detour past his old house, and then wished he hadn’t. A car was parked in the driveway and there was a light in the kitchen. Somebody was having breakfast in the kitchen he had built, probably the same somebody who had started making an effort to tidy up the garden that had been at the bottom of Jón’s list of priorities.

  He felt physically sick as he gunned the van down the street and back to the main road that took him towards Hafnarfjördur and the half-finished industrial area where the workshop stood. According to the plans, it should have been demolished already to make way for a new development, but construction had come to a halt a year before and the workshop had been given a reprieve.

  Jón fired up the stove and the heat spread quickly, the bare walls drinking in the warmth and the metal of the stove dticking happily. From force of habit he cleared up, sweeping dust and debris from the floor straight out of the door to be caught by the breeze and whipped away.

  At the workbench, he took his bag from an overhead locker and carefully unwrapped his shotgun. The barrels were blackened and he was shocked to see that there were blood spots on them as well. He carefully wiped the weapon down with a cloth and ejected the used cartridges. These he dropped into the stove that had already eaten up the trainers and overalls he had taken off after the shooting at Bjartmar’s house.

  Wondering why he was being so careful, he clicked on the kettle. He hadn’t been able to face breakfast as Elín Harpa’s children had wolfed down cereal, but there was time for a mug of coffee before he needed to get to his appointment.

  “HIS NAME’S JÓN Jóhannsson,” Eiríkur said, eyes on the screen as he clicked and scrolled.

  The man’s image appeared before him, a cheerful character who looked unused to having his photograph taken and had a serious expression on his face that didn’t suit him.

  “You’re sure?” Gunna asked, leaning forward to see Eiríkur’s screen better.

  “Yup. We have CCTV footage of a white van registered to this guy taken within ten minutes of the shooting at the intersection below the Setberg district. We could only make out three numbers on the registration plate, but that combination only fits one pale-coloured van on the vehicle registry—Jón Jóhannsson’s.”

  “So this certainly points to our man. If not, he’s still going to have a lot of questions to answer,” Gunna said grimly.

  “He’s a plumber, apparently.”

  “How do you know that?” Gunna asked.

  “His ID number. Then looked him up in the phone book.”

  “Address?”

  “Here,” Eiríkur said, holding out a slip of paper. “He lives in Hafnarfjördur.”

  “Then we’d better get the Laxdal to call the Special Unit out to pay him a visit, hadn’t we? I hope he hasn’t gone to work.”

  STEINGRÍMUR AND HIS two black-clad colleagues emerged from the van and got into position. Helgi took a deep breath and marched up the garden path beside Gunna, gulping as she hammered on the door.

  “Coming,” sang a cheerful voice an instant before the door opened and a smiling young woman appeared, hair in a turban made from a towel. “Yes?”

  Gunna flashed her ID.

  “I’m Gunnhildur Gísladóttir from the CID Serious Crime Unit. This is my colleague Helgi Svavarsson,” she said grimly. “We’re looking for Jón Jóhannsson.”

  Her heart was pounding and she hoped her nerves didn’t show.

  “Jón? There’s no Jón here,” the woman said with a laugh that died on her lips as she looked past Gunna and Helgi to see three black-clad men with their weapons trained on the house. “What’s going on?” she quavered.

  “Jón Jóhannsson has this place registered as his legal residence,” Gunna said with relief as the tension subsided. “As you can see, we need to speak to him rather urgently.”

  “But there’s nobody here with that name,” the woman said plaintively. “There’s just me and Smári, and he’s gone to work.”

  “I think we’d best come in and look around,” Gunna said firmly, stepping into the hallway.

  Inside, she took in the stack of cardboard boxes in the living room and the piles of belongings that had obviously been moved recently. Helgi, Steingrímur and the other two officers moved swiftly through the house and checked every room before returning to the hall where Gunna stood with the woman, whose makeshift turban was gradually coming adrift to unleash locks of damp hair.

  “It might be the guy who lived here before us,” she ventured. “There’s some post over there.”

  Helgi picked up the pile of envelopes and flipped through it. “Letters for Linda Örvarsdóttir and Jón Jóhannsson,” he said. “We’ve not been here long,” the woman said plaintively. “In that case, I owe you an apology,” Gunna told her.

  “Need us, do you?” Steingrímur asked, his semi-automatic weapon slung on his shoulder behind him.

  “All done, thanks, guys,” Gunna said. “Sorry about the false alarm, but hopefully we’ll need you sooner rather than later.”

  “No problem. There’s two teams ready to go when you find him,” Steingrímur rumbled as he and his colleagues disappeared with an unnerving swiftness on silent feet.

  Gunna turned back to the woman, who had given up on the towel and let her wet hair fall down her back.

  “When did you move in here?”

  “Only a few days ago. We’re still unpacking.”

  “I can see that. Didn’t you meet the previous owner when you bought the house, or is it rented or something?”

  “It was a repossession. We bought it from the bank and were really lucky to get a good price on it. I think the previous owner left a couple of weeks ago.”

  Gunna nodded as she took this in.

  “Fine. Sorry to have troubled you, in that case. We’ll leave you in peace now, but you’d better let me have a contact at the bank that handled the sale.”

  WITH A HEAVY heart, Jón parked the van near the middle of Kópavogur. He set off towards the centre, taking a detour, partly to kill time and partly because it was something he didn’t expect to be able to do again.

  He walked right round the squat modern church, leaned on the parapet of the bridge over the main road and watched the traffic hurtle past, strolled past the shops on Hamraborg, looked in the windows of the bakery and toyed with the idea of a quiet coffee somewhere. He decided against it as he felt the bulk of the shotgun under his coat. Instead he crossed the street and pushed open the glass door of the bank seconds after it had been unlocked at nine thirty.

  “I have an appointment with Hrannar Antonsson,” he gruffly told a cashier, who choked back a yawn and tried to smile.

  “I’m not sure he’s in yet. If you take a seat, I’ll ask where he is.”

  Jón grunted and lowered himself into a chair from which he could see the doors as well as the desk where the personal financial adviser normally sat in that stupid pink shirt.

  It was warm in the bank and the sun beating down on the front window promised to superheat the lobby later in the day.

  “He’ll be here in ten minutes,” a voice said, taking him by surprise. Jón looked round to see the yawning cashier standing next to his chair.

  “Oh. That’s OK. I’m probably a bit early anyway,” he said apologetically.

  “No problem. He’ll be right with you,” the youth said, disappearing into the distance.

  A GENERAL ALERT for Jón Jóhannsson’s white van was circulated immediately. Helgi set to work as soon as they returned from their anticlimax of a visit to the house in Hafnarfjördur to try and trace the man’s whereabouts, starting with the National Registry, while Gunna tackled the bank.

  “That’s right, Jón Jóhannsson,” she repeated, and reeled off his ID number for the second time without having to look at the slip of paper it was written on.

  “One moment, please. I’ll put you through to Data,” a disembodied voice said, and Gunna fumed while muzak echoed tinnily in her ear.

  “Data. Hello?” a second voice asked.

  Gunna introduced herself for the third time and continued before the man on the end of the line could put her on hold or send the call on to someone else. “I’m trying to trace one of your clients and need to get as much information as possible about this person. It’s extremely urgent.”

  “I’ll have to call you back. Security,” the voice said dubiously.

  Gunna snapped out her direct number, put the phone down and cursed, certain that it would take at least half an hour for the bank to return the call. To her surprise, it rang almost instantly.

  “Gunnhildur?” the voice asked. “All right. This is Árni at the bank again, sorry about that. Procedures, I’m sure you understand. Now, who are you looking for information on? There’s only so much I can tell you, I’m afraid.”

  “The man’s name is Jón Jóhannsson,” she repeated and again reeled off his ID number, listening to the rattling of a keyboard at the other end as she spoke.

  “All right then. This isn’t being recorded or anything, is it?” asked Árni with a nervous laugh.

  “No, of course not. But it’s urgent, so do you have an address, contact number or anything for him?”

  “The only address we have is the one we know he doesn’t live at any more, as that house was repossessed and has been sold, but he hasn’t changed his legal residence, so that’s where any post for him is still going.”

  Gunna wanted to grit her teeth. “Phone number, maybe?”

  “Er, yes. There’s a mobile number.”

  “Which is?”

  “Look, I’m not sure I can release that sort of information. Data protection and all that, you know.”

  Gunna breathed deep. “Where’s your office?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said, where’s your office?”

  “Well, I’m in Borgartún, but I don’t see what—”

  “You will if I show up in front of your desk in ten minutes’ time. Look, this is not a trivial case in any way. What’s the guy’s phone number?”

  Árni reeled off seven digits that Gunna scribbled down.

  “Thank you. How long is it since there was any contact with him? I mean direct contact, not just you sending out a letter.” The man’s keyboard rattled again.

  “Last week. His personal financial adviser spoke to him last week and I can see from the notes that they have a meeting scheduled for today.”

  “When and where?”

  “I presume it’ll be Kópavogur, as that’s the branch he uses, but I couldn’t tell you when for sure. You’d have to speak to the personal financial adviser yourself.”

  Gunna drummed the desk with her fingers. “And do you have a name and a number for this person?”

  “It’s Hrannar Antonsson, and his direct line is the bank’s usual number, but the last three digits are 967.”

  “Thanks very much, you’ve been a great help,” Gunna said, putting the phone down. “Eventually.”

  She wondered whether to call Hrannar Antonsson’s number or the mobile number for Jón Jóhannsson. A call to him could alert him to the hunt, but surely the man would know already that he was being searched for—assuming he had been responsible for Bjartmar’s death. She quickly punched the seven digits of the mobile number and listened to it ring for a long time before a small voice spoke at the far end.

  “Hello …?”

  “Hello. Who am I speaking to, please?” Gunna enquired politely. “Elín Harpa.

  Who’s this?”

  “This is Gunnhildur Gísladóttir at the CID Serious Crime Unit. I’m looking for Jón Jóhannsson.”

  “Police?”

  “That’s right.”

  “He’s gone out and he forgot to take his phone,” Elín Harpa said defensively. “Why? What’s he done?”

  “This number came up in connection with an investigation and I just need to make some checks,” Gunna said carefully, wondering who this woman was. “Are you his wife?” she asked, hoping that this would elicit an explanation.

  “No. He just stayed here a few nights.”

  “Elín, look, I don’t want to alarm you, but this could be in connection with a serious incident and there’s a possibility that you could be at risk. I’d very much like to talk to you, but face to face would be better. Can you tell me where you live? I can be there right away,” Gunna said, trying to keep her voice calm.