But the connection closed and the dialling tone wailed in her ear.

  “Damn and blast …”

  “What’s up, chief?” Helgi asked. “Just been speaking to our man’s wife, a nice enough lady, understandably worried about him. Says it takes a while to wind him up, but when he’s angry, he has a right temper on him.”

  “Anything that sheds light on all this?”

  “The man’s a plumber, had his own business but they lost a load of money when a big customer went tits up. In a nutshell, they lost the house, the jeep, all the rest of it, and the bank’s still pursuing them for this and that, all bought on foreign currency loans, even though they don’t have anything left.”

  “That bloke at the bank I spoke to didn’t tell me any of this,” Gunna said angrily.

  “Well I don’t suppose they want to tell the whole world what a bunch of grasping bastards they are,” Helgi observed. “Anyway, Jón and Linda went their separate ways around the time the house was repossessed. She took the kid and went back to her mother’s, who lives in Hella, and she hasn’t heard a lot from him since then. She reckons he’s been staying with his half-brother, doesn’t know where the man lives, but he’s a schoolteacher called Samúel Ólafsson.”

  “Eiríkur!” Gunna called.

  “Yes, chief?”

  “One for you. Can you track down a schoolteacher called Samúel Ólafsson? No idea which school, but do your best. Looks like he’s our boy’s brother and that’s where he’s been living.” Gunna turned back to Helgi. “But I’d like to know who this Elín Harpa is and why she answered his phone.”

  Helgi raised an eyebrow. “No idea …”

  “Can you alert the Laxdal and Steingrímur and warn them that we may be looking at an encounter with our man in Kópavogur, either in or close to the bank on the corner of Hamraborg?”

  She pulled the phone back across, punched in the number for Hrannar Antonsson and listened to it ring.

  “Hello, Hrannar’s phone,” a cheerful female voice greeted her.

  “Good morning, this is Gunnhildur Gísladóttir at the CID Serious Crime Unit,” Gunna said for the tenth time that morning. “I’m trying to get in touch with Hrannar Antonsson and it’s urgent.”

  HIS STOMACH RUMBLED as he sat with his coat wrapped around him and his hands deep in the pockets, pushed through the lining to give him a grip on the shotgun. He looked around repeatedly, watching the time tick past ten o’clock, wondering where the bloody boy had got to.

  The tension that had been building up in him all morning had disappeared as if it had evaporated suddenly the moment he had pushed the door of the bank aside. He felt slightly lightheaded, but fully in control, as if he were watching the scene from above. He imagined looking straight down on himself, sprawled in what passed for an easy chair while the bank’s activity went on around him in a blur of people moving between offices and desks. He felt his feet begin to numb and wondered just how long the bloody man was going to take.

  At last the familiar pink shirt appeared and came across to him, a hand extended.

  “Good morning. I’m so sorry I’m late. There was an accident on Vesterlandsvegur and the traffic backed right up. Shall we?” Hrannar asked with a smile, gesturing towards an interview room.

  Jón grasped the proffered hand, gripping it for slightly longer than was comfortable or necessary, and noticing a flash of discomfort in the boy’s smile. He kept the coat closed around him as he followed Hrannar to the glass-sided interview room and took a seat opposite him.

  “I can see you’ve had a really rough time of it these last few weeks,” Hrannar said, tapping at the computer on the desk. “I’m just calling up all your details so we can review your status.”

  Jón grunted in response. There was nothing to say. He didn’t need a youngster with a ridiculous haircut to tell him that he was broke and bankrupt. He looked at Hrannar, thinking to himself how stupid it would be to have that patch of hair in the middle of your head slicked up like that.

  He looks like Tintin, he thought.

  The numbness in his feet had spread to his fingers and he could barely feel them. He flexed his toes and fingers as much as he could, but still felt ill at ease, not uncomfortable, but not quite right. Suddenly he realized that he had not listened to a word of what Hrannar had been saying and the boy was staring at him with a concerned expression.

  “Jón, are you all right?” he asked. “Would you like a glass of water?”

  “Yeah,” Jón grunted, tightening his grip on the shotgun and slipping off the safety catch. As Hrannar made to stand up, a young woman with a name badge on a chain around her neck knocked on the glass door and put her head around it.

  “Hrannar, there’s a personal call for you,” she whispered, her voice rising on the final syllables. “Urgent, she says.”

  Hrannar sat back down and dragged the desk phone towards him with a frown.

  “Thanks, Sigga,” he said as the girl made to shut the door behind her. “Could you bring this gentleman a glass of water, please? He’s not feeling well.”

  She nodded and departed, while Hrannar peered at Jón, who was sitting wrapped in his coat in spite of the office’s stuffy warmth.

  “I hope you don’t mind, I have to take a call quickly,” he said, and saw Jón nod imperceptibly. “Hello, Hrannar Antonsson speaking,” he said smartly into the phone.

  Jón’s eyes began to move, boring into Hrannar as he sat flustered behind the desk. The world began to move in slow motion. The cashiers at their desks smiled and tapped at their keyboards as if their world had been turned down a notch.

  “Of course,” he heard Hrannar say. “It’s very difficult for me to speak right now. It’s really not a good moment.”

  Jón’s eyes lifted to meet Hrannar’s, which filled with fear and he almost dropped the phone.

  “Yes, he’s with me right now. W-w-would you like to speak to him?” he said into the mouthpiece, eyes wide as Jón let his coat fall open and he found himself staring into the two gaping barrels that looked as deep and wide as tunnels. He stared at the two circles, scarred and raw where the hacksaw had cut through the metal, ringing the black openings with silver hoops.

  The girl with the name tag pushed open the door with one hand and stood frozen for a moment as she took in the shotgun trained on Hrannar’s chest. The glass of water dropped from her hand and shattered on the floor as she screeched and took to her heels. A second later the clatter of hurrying feet could be heard, but Jón sat still with Hrannar petrified in front of him.

  “You took everything away from me,” he said steadily. “I had a home, a business and a family. Everything I worked for all those years, taken away. It’s all gone,” he repeated.

  “I-I-I’m so sorry,” Hrannar stammered. “I couldn’t do anything. There are rules—”

  “Rules?” Jón roared. “What sort of rules say you have to snatch everything away from someone? Everything, not just the cash. There’s the dignity, self-respect, all that stuff. There’s nothing left, just more fucking debts. You’re nothing but lying, thieving bloodsuckers, the lot of you.”

  Outside, a siren began to wail.

  “The police will be here soon,” Hrannar ventured.

  “That’s fine. I’ve all the time in the world now,” Jón said with the merest hint of a smile, the first one for weeks.

  GUNNA, EIRÍKUR AND Steingrímur’s Special Unit looked over the bank’s interior. A technician dusted for fingerprints in the glass-walled interview room, wrinkling his nose at the smell.

  “And? What’s happening?” Sævaldur Bogason demanded, bursting in through the front door.

  “All over, mate,” Steingrímur told him. “Nobody’s hurt and our boy’s cuffed and on his way to Hverfisgata right now in the back of a van.”

  “I came as soon as I heard,” Sævaldur said lamely, clearly furious that their man had been located and arrested quickly and with a minimum of fuss. “So what the hell happened?”

  Gunna picked up a chair that had been sent flying when the bank staff had evacuated the building, stood it back on its legs and sat herself down on it.

  “He was right there, pointing a shotgun at the poor bastard who had sold him a bunch of foreign currency loans. It seems that the lad was the focus of all that anger when he lost his house and his business,” Steingrímur explained. “But I’m sure that’ll all come out at the station. I have to say, I feel sorry for the poor bugger.”

  “Sorry for him or not, what’s that fucking awful smell?” Sævaldur demanded.

  ‘Ah, it seems the lad he was threatening crapped himself with fright, right there in his office chair. He was gibbering when they drove him off to hospital. I reckon he might be off work for a while now,” Steingrímur said with satisfaction.

  “And how did you find him so fast?”

  “Gunna found him. You just have to look in the right places, I guess,” Steingrímur said with a smile that was guaranteed to provoke Sævaldur to further impotent rage.

  “Well done, people,” he said through a forced smile. “Is he definitely the one we’ve been searching for over Bjartmar Arnarson?”

  “I’d say so,” Gunna said. “Looks like he was going to give the personal financial adviser the same treatment as he gave Bjartmar, but thought better of it at the last moment.”

  “Lucky bastard,” Sævaldur frowned. “Who was the arresting officer?”

  Helgi grinned. “Tinna Sigvalds.”

  “Her?”

  “Yup. Tinna and Big Geiri were the first on the scene when the F1 went up. She walked in, asked him nicely to put the weapon down and come with her, and he did, easy as you like.”

  “Hell and damnation. A little girl like that,” Sævaldur fumed, and Gunna felt her own anger boil up inside her.

  “And what the hell’s that supposed to mean?” she barked.

  “Tinna did a fucking magnificent job that takes a bloody sight more guts than most of us have, and all you can do is whine that it was some slip of a girl who took the gun off him! The man’s locked up and nobody’s hurt. If that’s not a result, then I don’t know what is.”

  Sævaldur quailed at the virulence of Gunna’s outburst.

  “Yes, well …” he blustered.

  “You should be bloody ashamed of yourself,” Gunna continued. “The girl deserves a fucking medal.”

  “Of course she did a fine job, but we all played our part in it.”

  “We didn’t all play our part in it. You spent your bastard time in fucking meetings making sure you got noticed by someone upstairs while the rest of us did the legwork,” Gunna shouted.

  Sævaldur paled. “We’ll continue this conversation at Hverfisgata,” he said finally as Gunna headed for the door with Eiríkur at her heels.

  EIRÍKUR SAT IN silence while Gunna drove out of the city and towards the east. She was collected and hummed to herself, as if a gathering storm was the thing that brought her inner peace. Eiríkur wondered how long it would be before Sævaldur initiated a disciplinary procedure.

  “You’re very quiet, Eiríkur. What’s eating you?”

  “Well …”

  “Well what?”

  “I was just thinking how great it was that you should yell at Sævaldur like that,” Eiríkur blurted out.

  “Ah yes,” Gunna sighed. “I’ll probably get a rap over the knuckles for that.” She smiled wanly. “But I’m a big girl and I can take it. It’s not as if it hasn’t happened before.”

  “Is Sævaldur after Örlygur’s job?”

  “Don’t know, but I’d be amazed if he wasn’t.”

  “Shit.”

  “Don’t you want to work for the big man, then?” Gunna teased. “He gets results, as we’re constantly being told.”

  “I know. But he’s such a bastard.”

  The pass over the heath still looked to Eiríkur like a scene from another planet, with its bizarre rock formations, unexpected pastel colours, and gouts of steam issuing from the ground at the side of the black two-lane highway. The descent down to the inhabited lowlands was almost a relief and the sharp sulphur smell of the steaming highlands receded. Eiríkur saw fields starting to turn to green as the first signs of spring showed themselves, while the layers of snow on the mountain peaks inland displayed a stolid determination to ride out the coming summer. He looked out of the window in the other direction and saw the distant blue shimmer of the sea in the distance.

  “You’re a city lad, aren’t you?” Gunna asked.

  “Yup, Seltjarnarnes.”

  “So this countryside stuff’s a bit alien to you?”

  “I’m afraid so. My parents were both from the country and moved to Reykjavík when they were young, but they never dreamed about going back to a farm or anything like that.”

  “So you weren’t brought up on haggis and boiled sheep heads?”

  “God, no. Mum and Dad used to love that sort of stuff, but they never made us eat it.”

  “I’ll tell you a secret, young man,” Gunna said, taking her eyes off the road to look over at him. “I never liked it much either. But don’t tell Helgi. He’d eat sharkmeat and boiled skate for breakfast if his Halla would let him.”

  “Not a word, chief,” Eiríkur promised. “What’s the score with Ommi now?”

  “Not sure,” Gunna said. “I was going to leave him to stew for a few more days, but I reckon he’ll have had a day and a night to think and maybe make a few calls that won’t be answered. So we’ll give him another go now. It all depends on how unsure of his ground he is, I think. He was nervous yesterday, and by now I’m hoping he’ll be closer to frantic.”

  Gunna showed their ID and drove in through the main gates to park in front of the prison. She stopped the engine and listened to it tick. “If anything sounds odd, just play along with me, all right?”

  “Sure, chief.”

  “Good. Let’s go. By the way, don’t worry about Sævaldur. His past misdeeds are going to come back and haunt him one day, don’t you fret.”

  THE DOOR CLANGED shut and the same warder took his place in front of it, staring over their heads. Eiríkur stood next to the warder and noticed immediately that Ommi looked haggard and irritable.

  “Jæja, Ommi. How are you?” Gunna greeted him jovially. “Sleep all right?”

  “Yeah. Like a baby,” Ommi sneered. “Who’s the kiddie?” He motioned towards Eiríkur with his chin.

  “That’s Detective Constable Eiríkur Thór Jónsson, a rising star of the police force. I thought the lad needed to have a good look at you for future reference.”

  “Yeah. Right. What’re you back for, anyway? You were only here yesterday.”

  “Been thinking, Ommi?”

  “Might have.”

  “Come on. You haven’t slept a wink.”

  Ommi shuffled his feet under the table and rubbed his hands together as if trying to comfort himself. It wasn’t cold in the interview room, but he shivered.

  “I might look at doing a deal,” he muttered, eyes on the table between them.

  Gunna sat and looked at him sideways before leaning forward with a sly smile.

  “Ommi, you don’t have anything to bargain with,” she said slowly and clearly, not loud enough for Eiríkur to hear without listening carefully, although she was certain he was doing just that. “I have everything I need to hang Svana’s murder on you and put you away until you’re an old man. How old are you now? Thirty-three? How does being in here until you’re past fifty sound?”

  Ommi’s jaw stiffened and his eyes blazed, but the colour drained from his face.

  “You’ve spent too many years in here already,” Gunna continued, keeping her gaze on Ommi, waiting for him to lift his eyes. She wondered how far he could be pressured before his temper would burst its banks and have him back in solitary confinement. “If you don’t want to still be here when your hair’s falling out, you need to start telling me some secrets, Ommi. It’s not as if the people you’re protecting give a shit about you.”

  Ommi sat up straight-backed, and Gunna did the same, maintaining eye contact and waiting for him to blink.

  “I know already how the story fits together. All I need you for is to fill in the gaps,” she said.

  “It’s between you and me,” he grated with an effort, blinking at last, and his chin jutted again towards Eiríkur and the warder. “Send them out.”

  “You know I can’t do that,” Gunna said gently.

  “You and me,” he snarled with lips drawn back to reveal discoloured teeth.

  Gunna looked enquiringly at the warder, who shook his head. She sighed.

  “Maybe we can go for a walk around the yard,” she said finally, and turned to the warder. “Can we do that?”

  A QUARTER OF an hour later, Gunna and Ommi walked their first circuit of the yard. Eiríkur and the warder followed at a cautious distance as a biting wind from the north made Gunna shiver in spite of the heavy coat she had borrowed. Ommi appeared not to feel the chill through his hooded fleece.

  “Tell me what happened that night at Blacklights. What really happened,” Gunna began.

  “I don’t know it all. There was this bloke Sindri had some problem with. Sindri has a temper, just like his old man, and when he saw this bloke there, he blew. They had an argument and some people calmed them down, and that was that. Sindri was fucking furious; he’d been snorting and drinking all day and was really on a roll.”

  “So it wasn’t you?”

  “No. Didn’t even see it.”

  “What do you think happened, then?”

  “I reckon Sindri hauled this Steindór bloke out into the car park, gave him a good kicking and didn’t know when to stop.”

  “So where were you when all this was going on?”

  “With Svana and the rest of the band. They’d just come off stage.”

  “And Óskar?”

  “I reckon he was out the back with Sindri. Why? What did Skari say?”

  “So what happened next?” Gunna asked, ignoring the question.

  “Shit, all hell let loose. Bjartmar wound the sound up to the max and turned down the lights so the place was jumping. People everywhere, loads of noise. Bjartmar and Sindri came and found me, told Svana to get herself on stage and crank it up. Then, fuck me, but old Jónas turns up, Sindri’s dad, face like doom, and the three of them put the screws on.”