Ívar Laxdal took Eiríkur’s chair, while Gunna sat scanning her own desk and the junk piled on it.

  “Three primary suspects. Jónas Valur Hjaltason, Bjarki Steinsson, Hallur Hallbjörnsson,” she said. “I think one of these three either murdered Svana Geirs or possibly made sure that she was murdered. All three of them had left fingerprints in her flat in the week before she died.”

  A questioning black eyebrow crept up Ívar Laxdal’s forehead.

  “It could be any one of them. Jónas Valur is a vindictive old bastard and he’s supposed to be here at nine to give a statement. You’re not a Mason, are you?” Gunna asked suddenly.

  “Why?”

  “Just because. Jónas Valur is, and it seems he’s a mate of Örlygur Sveinsson’s.”

  Ívar Laxdal grinned and shook his head.

  “Bjarki Steinsson is a bag of nerves and completely distraught,” Gunna continued. “Most likely because Svana had called time on the syndicate, so there’s the theory that he was so upset, he lost it and clobbered her. As for Hallur, who knows

  what his motives could be? Certainly he stood to lose his political career if the story came out.”

  “Sure? Plenty of people have stayed on in politics after being caught with their trousers round their ankles.”

  “Yeah, admittedly. But this wasn’t your run-of-the-mill fuck on the side. He’d been paying her upkeep for the best part of two years. Somehow I don’t think his career could have survived that.”

  “And the brother?”

  “Possible, but I don’t believe so.”

  “Sævaldur thinks Ómar Magnússon is the killer. He’s killed before.”

  “Or not. We certainly have enough to look very hard at Sindri Valsson as the man genuinely responsible for that killing.”

  “And he’s gone to ground somewhere, which a cynical man would see as an admission of a guilty conscience.”

  “Someone cynical like me,” Gunna agreed.

  “What next?”

  “Clear some of the paper.” Gunna looked with distaste at the contents of her desk. “Listen to what Jónas Valur comes up with, pay a visit to Hallur’s poisonous wife and then start putting pressure on Bjarki Steinsson. There’s something about this syndicate that none of them have been telling us, and I reckon he’s the most likely one to crack.”

  “I’ll leave you to it. Let me know how you get on,” he commanded, and made for the door. “Don’t screw up on this, Gunnhildur. We have to get this one right. If we don’t …” He merely shook his head sadly.

  GUNNA WAS DEEP in paperwork when her desk phone rang. She snapped out of updating her case notes and heard Sigvaldi on the front desk announce gloomily that she had a visitor.

  “Eiríkur,” she called out, rapidly signing forms without bothering to read them a second time. “There’s a good friend of the police downstairs. How would you like to go down to reception and bring him up here to an interview room?”

  “All right,” Eiríkur replied, rising from his seat. “Who’s that?”

  “Jónas Valur Hjaltason. Delightful man, a philanthropist and a gentleman,” she said drily. “Tell him I won’t keep him waiting.”

  But Gunna did keep Jónas Valur waiting, delayed by an encounter with Sævaldur on the way, and their disagreement over charging Ómar Magnússon left her devoid of the good humor she had acquired by having signed off long-overdue paperwork.

  “Apologies,” she said irritably, bustling into the interview room where Jónas Valur lounged in one of the chairs while a dark-suited man with a greying combover who nevertheless put Gunna in mind of a wolf sat upright next to him.

  “Good morning, officer. I’ve been waiting for some time now and I’d like to remind you that my time is valuable,” Jónas Valur drawled.

  “And so is mine,” Gunna snapped more sharply than she had intended.

  “My lawyer, Ólafur Ja–”

  “Ólafur Jacobsen. Yes, we’ve crossed swords before.”

  “A regrettable miscarriage of justice,” the lawyer sniffed.

  “A miscarriage of justice in which your client had a bag of coke in his pocket and two more in the car he was driving.”

  “There was nothing whatsoever to link my client to the narcotics. A mistake, easily explained.”

  “The judge didn’t think so.”

  “Evidence can be misleading.”

  “If you’re implying that there was anything irregular with that particular case, which is long closed, then I’m sure you’re aware of the proper channels.”

  The lawyer frowned and pouted, and Gunna wanted to laugh but restrained herself.

  “Just so my client is aware of circumstances.”

  “I’m sure you’ve told him everything he needs to know on the way here,” Gunna said smoothly, turning to Jónas Valur. “You’re prepared to give a statement?”

  “My client has prepared a statement,” the lawyer said, interrupting Jónas Valur before he could speak and sliding a single sheet of heavy paper across the desk between them. Gunna picked it up and sat back, taking her time to read it, while Jónas Valur gradually began to twitch and the lawyer fidgeted.

  “So according to this, you were at your office from nine in the morning until after three on the day that Svana Geirs was murdered? You are aware that this contradicts your answer when I asked about your whereabouts before?”

  “A mistake with his diary, my client assures me. He was in his office the whole day.”

  “And who will corroborate this?”

  “Anna Fjóla Sigurbjörnsdóttir.”

  “The secretary?”

  “Yes.”

  Gunna looked long and hard at Jónas Valur, who gazed clear-eyed back at her.

  “When I spoke to you a few days ago, you recalled clearly that you had been working at home that morning and had lunch at the City Café before going to your office, where your secretary confirmed that you arrived at twelve thirty. Now you’re claiming that you didn’t leave your office all day long? Isn’t that unusual?”

  Jónas Valur opened his mouth to speak, but the lawyer beat him to it once again.

  “My client has told you that he made a mistake when checking his diary. It’s a simple enough error, and he has apologized for the oversight.”

  “He hasn’t told me anything—only you have. It strikes me as highly unusual for your client not to leave his office at all for a whole day. Odd for a man who likes to take a walk around lunchtime?”

  “Possibly,” the lawyer rasped, tight-lipped.

  “I think we’ve established beyond any reasonable doubt that you had a phone conversation with Svana Geirs shortly before she died. What was that about?” Gunna asked, looking directly at Jónas Valur, who glared stonily back at her.

  “My client has no comment to make.”

  “This is the number of your personal mobile phone?”

  Gunna showed him the seven digits she had noted down. Jónas Valur nodded imperceptibly, while the lawyer shook his head.

  “No comment.”

  “You don’t deny that you and a group of men had a simultaneous relationship with Svana Geirs, and that between you you all contributed to her livelihood?”

  “My client prefers not to comment.”

  “In that case we appear to be at a deadlock,” Gunna said, her patience wearing thin. “So that’s it for now,” she added. Jónas Valur immediately shoved his chair back and rose to his feet.

  “Can I have an assurance that my client will not be harassed?” the lawyer asked in a flat voice but with a sneer on his face.

  “As long as I can have an assurance that your client won’t obstruct a murder investigation,” Gunna snapped back. “I’m sure we’ll have reason to talk again soon,” she said as Jónas Valur and the lawyer left the room without another word or a backward glance.

  In silence, Gunna escorted the two men down to the front desk and watched them leave the building, Jónas Valur holding his tie in one hand to prevent a vicious wind from whipping it up, while Ólafur Jacobsen placed a hand on the top of his head to prevent his carefully arranged coiffure from collapsing.

  Eiríkur appeared silently at her side as she glumly watched the two men get into a smart Mercedes that stopped for them outside.

  “Right, my lad. I’d like you on your bike this minute. Get down to City Café to start with and see if Jónas Valur was in there the day Svana died. If not, try the other eateries and whatnot round there. Go out there and ask. See if we can demolish the stupid statement that evil-minded oaf wrote for him. All right?”

  PICTURES IN ORNATE frames decorated every wall of the living room that stretched away into the distance. Some were garish abstracts; others were sepia-toned portraits of groups of children at various stages of adolescence, unconvincingly contrived to look as if they had been taken a century ago.

  Gunna looked with unconcealed dislike at the display of bad taste on the walls while she and Helgi waited, standing uncomfortably next to a dining table that shone like a mirror, as Bjarki Steinsson carried on a muted argument with his wife just out of their earshot.

  “I’m sorry. We can talk in my office,” he said apologetically, leaving his wife mouthing impotently in the middle of a bitter whispered tirade. Gunna was struck by how drawn the man appeared, with black bags under his eyes and a look of not having slept for many nights.

  He ushered them into a small room and stood behind the door as Helgi sat on the small sofa against one wall and Gunna took the deep leather chair by the desk.

  “I’m sorry,” Bjarki apologized, gesturing at the door. “Kristrún will listen …”

  “We can take this to the station if that’s a problem.”

  “No, no,” Bjarki protested with fright in his eyes.

  “On the eleventh, the day that Svana Geirs was murdered, you stated that you were with her all morning.”

  “Until soon after eleven. I don’t remember exactly when I left,” he said guardedly, then jumped as Helgi’s phone rang.

  “Yup?” Helgi answered and listened. “OK, mate. That’s great. Yeah, you’d best tell her yourself.”

  He handed the phone to Gunna. “Eiríkur for you, chief.”

  “Any luck?” Gunna asked sharply.

  “Oh yeah, chief. Jónas Valur had lunch at City Café. I got the manager to go through a stack of receipts and there it was. He has a tab there, pays once a month, lunch for two on the eleventh, clear as day. He definitely left the office that morning and the manager confirmed having seen him there.”

  “Good. Doesn’t tell us much other than that he’s lying,” Gunna said. “Yeah, but that’s not all, chief,” Eiríkur went on.

  Gunna listened, before handing the phone back to Helgi. She looked up at Bjarki as he hovered by the door.

  “So what did the Svana Syndicate have to discuss on the evening before Svana died?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You all had dinner together at City Café, you, Jónas Valur and Hallur, the night before her death. The only one missing, it seems, was Bjartmar Arnarson, leaving the three of you to talk something over, as you were there until close to midnight.”

  “He was in America,” Bjarki said, a look of misery on his pale face as he leaned back on the door.

  Suddenly he lurched forward as the door opened and his wife appeared.

  “D’you want coffee?” she demanded.

  “No, Kristrún, of course not. We won’t be long, dear,” he added, flustered.

  “Actually, I’d like a cup if you’re making some,” Gunna said with a sly smile. “You too, eh, Helgi?”

  “Yeah, definitely, chief.”

  With a look of fury, the woman departed to make the coffee that she had been certain nobody would want.

  “Right. You have two minutes while your wife’s not listening at the door. Talk,” Gunna instructed.

  “Svana had called us all. She said that she didn’t want to continue with the syndicate any longer as she was going to be back on TV. I was … upset, to say the least. The others didn’t seem too concerned, except Hallur. He was furious.”

  “Why?”

  “Svana told me that someone had been pestering her, someone who clearly knew about the … the arrangement.” He gulped. “I told Hallur and he went wild.”

  Gunna looked at Bjarki expectantly.

  “We were all terrified of publicity. Well, Hallur and I, at any rate. I can’t deny that … my wife …” He left the sentence unfinished. “Jónas Valur was almost amused, I think. He seemed to think that Svana was spinning us a yarn.”

  “In what way?”

  “He’s very shrewd and can be extremely suspicious. He seemed to think that Svana was looking for a payout.”

  “Blackmailing you all?”

  Bjarki blanched. “That’s an ugly word.”

  “So is murder,” Gunna reminded him. “And Bjartmar?”

  “I didn’t speak to him myself, but Jónas Valur had called him earlier in the day. He said that Bjartmar’s marriage was a wreck anyway, so he wasn’t concerned on that score, but if we wanted to split the price of her silence four ways, such as the flat she was living in, that was fine with him. That was the message, anyway.”

  “So the ones with something to lose were you and Hallur?” Bjarki nodded miserably.

  “Coffee!” called an angry voice beyond the door.

  “Yes, dear,” Bjarki replied.

  “Make it quick, before she comes to get you,” Gunna growled.

  “If the story came out, it would wreck my marriage,” Bjarki said with wide eyes. “My wife … her social position, you understand …”

  “Yes. Go on. And Hallur?”

  “God, it would destroy his career. He’s always had ambitions, but he was fishing for something higher up the ladder and would probably have got it fairly soon.”

  “Until he wound up in intensive care.”

  “What … ?” Bjarki Steinsson’s eyes reminded Gunna of saucers. “On the news they said he’d been in an accident, and I couldn’t get through to Helena Rós last night. You mean … ? Will he be all right?”

  “Who knows? What happened? What did you decide between yourselves?”

  “We tried to talk it through with Jónas Valur, but he’d had a few drinks by then. Hallur was beside himself, asked what the hell they could do to keep Svana quiet, and he pressed Jónas Valur harder than I would have done, asking whether she would keep quiet even if she’d been paid off, whether the whole thing would start up again next time she ran out of money.”

  “And?”

  “Jónas Valur said we could …” He hesitated and looked up. “We could all start screwing her again if she hadn’t got too slack by then,” he quoted in a clear voice. “Hallur was beside himself, said that it was all right for the rest of us, but it was different for him with a career ahead of him to think about.

  So Jónas Valur just said, ‘Well you’d better sort it out then.’ That was it. He left. I saw him sign the chit at the bar and that was it, the last I saw of him.”

  “So who killed Svana Geirs?” Gunna asked, staring straight at him.

  “I don’t know,” he whispered almost soundlessly as a tear threatened to overflow the corner of one eye.

  TO BJARKI STEINSSON’S dismay, the dining table’s deep shine had been covered by a cloth, on which were arranged plates of cakes and biscuits, cups and little jugs of cream and milk.

  “Please, now you’ll have to stay for a while,” he whispered to Gunna, staring at the table. She saw Helgi’s eyes light up and her heart softened.

  “Certainly. Actually, there’s another matter I wanted to speak to you about,” she said, settling herself in one of the matching high-backed chairs as Bjarki Steinsson’s wife poured coffee into dainty cups and Helgi filled a delicate-looking plate with slices of cake.

  “What’s that?” Bjarki asked, still blank-eyed after the conversation in his office.

  “Kleifaberg. You did the accounts for Kleifaberg?”

  “You mean Kleifar, Jónas Valur’s company?”

  “No,” Gunna corrected, sipping the aromatic coffee and nodding her thanks to Bjarki’s wife, off whom anger still coming in waves. “The company that Jónas Valur, Bjartmar Arnarson and Sindri Valsson ran between them until a few years ago.”

  “Oh, Kleifaberg,” Bjarki said, as if a ghost had come back to haunt him. “Yes. We prepared their accounts for several years.”

  “Good. What really went on there? They bought property, developed it and it sold. Nothing unusual about that. But as far as I can make out, the real profits came from buying some plum sites at extremely low prices.”

  “Yes …?” he said uncertainly. “I really think you’d have to speak to them about that.”

  “Bjartmar is dead, Sindri Valsson has disappeared somewhere in southern Europe and Jónas Valur is far from inclined to be co-operative right now. Off the record, I’d like you to tell me what went on. It would be, let’s say, helpful on your part.”

  “Strictly off the record?”

  Gunna nodded and sipped while Helgi popped another delicate biscuit into his mouth and smiled his appreciation.

  “Well,” Bjarki sighed. “It was one of those things that wasn’t strictly speaking illegal, but …” He tailed off sadly.

  “Less than ethical?” Gunna finished for him, and watched him nod in glum agreement.

  “Hallur was on a lot of committees and he made sure some sales of land went through quietly to Kleifaberg without being discussed or advertised. Like I said, it wasn’t illegal, but it wasn’t exactly acceptable either. Kleifaberg developed some sites themselves with housing complexes, and other parcels of land they just sold on after a while.”

  “You did the accounting for this scam?”

  “I don’t know if I’d call it a scam,” Bjarki said with the first sign of any kind of authority that Gunna had seen.

  “What do you call it, then? What would the newspapers have called it if they had found out? What about Steindór Hjálmarsson?” she asked suddenly, and Helgi looked up quickly.

  “Who?”

  “Come on. A young man who was a bookkeeper at Kleifaberg. He died in 2000 after smelling a rat.”

  “Oh, him. Very sad. Didn’t he get beaten up or something? It was a long time ago now.”