“No, far from it,” Gunna said. “Agnar?”

  “That’s me.”

  A beefy hand was extended, with a discreet hint of smile that indicated its wearer knew why she was there.

  “Gunnhildur Gísladóttir, Serious Crime Unit. It’s about Svana Geirs, but I reckon you’d guessed that already.”

  “Thought so. Come with me.”

  Agnar Arnalds stood over two metres tall, waves of brown hair falling to his shoulders, and Gunna looked appreciatively at the expanse of the man’s muscular back as he took the stairs three at a time. Fit Club’s office provided a remarkable contrast to the hardwood floor and floor-to-ceiling mirror walls downstairs. The decor in here was cheap chipboard, and Gunna guessed that it had been years since the place had seen a paintbrush. Agnar waved her to a seat, but sat himself on his own desk, feet on a chair. Gunna decided to stay standing rather than have the man towering over her.

  “I’m here about Svana,” she repeated. Agnar’s face became melancholy as if a switch had been turned inside him. His shoulders dropped and the smile disappeared.

  “Poor Svana,” he sighed. “She was a wonderful person. So full of life.”

  “Right now I’m working on building up a picture of her movements over her last few days—who she spoke to, who she met, places she went to, that sort of thing. When did you last see her?”

  “The day she died. She was here, took an early class in the morning for her foldies—”

  “Foldies?” Gunna asked.

  “Fat oldies. Sorry, I mean older ladies. When was she … killed?” Agnar gulped out the last word.

  “In the afternoon. What time did she leave here?”

  Agnar thought for a moment with his chin in one hand, a pose that Gunna was sure he must have practised frequently.

  “She normally had three classes here between eight and eleven. But that day she had just one and someone else took the other classes. I remember she showered here and left. I think she had a meeting somewhere,” he said carefully. “No, I don’t know who with,” he added as soon as he saw Gunna about to ask.

  “All right. What’s the nature of her involvement with this business?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Svana was one of the three owners, or so I understand?”

  “You’ve been doing your homework, haven’t you?” Agnar asked with a winning smile.

  “That’s the nature of the job,” Gunna replied coldly.

  “There are … were,” he corrected himself, “three partners in the company that owns this place. Me, Svana and an investment company.”

  “Which is?”

  Agnar twisted uncomfortably. “KópInvest has a lot of shareholders. Svana owned thirty per cent, the same as me. KópInvest holds the rest. That’s it.”

  Gunna consulted her folder of notes. “Svana’s mobile phone, number ending 868. It’s registered to Fit Club?”

  Agnar nodded.

  “Any idea where that phone is?”

  Agnar looked blank and Gunna knew immediately that he had been taken by surprise.

  “She always had it. Used it all the time,” he said slowly. “Wasn’t it with her?”

  “No sign of it.”

  “Can’t understand that. She was lost without it. She’d put it on silent when she had a class, but apart from then, it was pretty much stuck to her ear all the time.”

  “Did she have another phone?”

  “Not any more. She changed numbers a few months ago after some deadbeat started making crank calls to her. Svana swore she was being stalked.”

  “Did she go to the police?”

  “God, no,” he said, rummaging in a drawer. “Here’s her old one. It’s a Fit Club phone as well.”

  “I’ll take that if I may,” Gunna said firmly as Agnar unwillingly placed the phone in her palm. “Did she report these crank calls? Any idea what sort of calls they were? Silence? Heavy breathing? That’s the normal sort of thing.”

  “She didn’t say, just that some creep was pestering her.”

  “All right. I could do with a list of friends and acquaintances. I take it she had a busy social life?”

  “Just a bit.”

  “Any particular close friends?”

  “Loads of them. Jenna Hrannars, Ásd’s Ósk Gunnars, Hulda Gróa Waage. You must have read about them?” Agnar looked satisfied, as if there could be no greater accomplishment than having talked-about friends.

  “Can’t say I have,” Gunna replied drily. “Any new acquaintances? Anything unusual?”

  “Last week she had a screaming argument right outside here. That was a surprise,” Agnar said, rubbing his square chin. “She told me afterwards that the bloke she was yelling at was her brother and that they’d sorted it all out afterwards. Svana wanted him to become a personal trainer.”

  “And what did you think of that idea?”

  “Not a lot,” he said flatly. “I spoke to him and I thought he was an idiot. Well overweight, so he’d need to lose a lot.”

  “How about Svana’s lovers?” Gunna asked.

  The look of satisfaction vanished from Agnar’s handsome features and was replaced with a scowl. “A few. They came and went.”

  “Frequently? Occasionally? Who’s in the picture? You?”

  “That’s ancient history,” Agnar said with a sour look that appeared incongruous on his open features. “We were good friends and business partners. We worked well together, but we didn’t share every personal detail.”

  “That’s as far as it went?” Gunna asked, inwardly pleased to have found a chink in the man’s self-satisfied armour.

  “We were an item for a while about five years ago, after she divorced Bjarni Örn. That’s all in the past. Nothing since.”

  “Fair enough. Do you know who was she seeing recently?”

  “No. She didn’t say and I didn’t ask. But there was one she kept quiet, like she wanted to stay discreet about him. Maybe he’s married, I don’t know.”

  “Did she make a habit of that?”

  “What? Screwing married men? It happens,” he replied with a shrug. “Is it important?”

  “Murders are generally about either money or jealousy. If anything comes to mind, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know. How’s business?” she asked abruptly.

  Agnar scowled again. “It’s OK. Could be worse. At least we’re still in business, which is more than can be said for a lot of places. But I don’t know how we’re going to manage now. Svana was this place’s main attraction, you know.”

  GUNNA SAW THE moment the door opened that Hallur Hallbjörnsson was sweating. His face was flushed, in sharp contrast to the urbane persona she had seen him present so skilfully on television.

  His office was in the eaves of one of the old corrugated-iron houses a stone’s throw from Parliament and the incongruously modern city hall bordering Reykjavík’s shallow, duck-filled lake. Gunna knew that the city hall behind its modern columns was where Hallur had been a rising star in municipal politics before standing for Parliament. She was surprised to see just how small a junior MP’s office was, a book-lined cubbyhole crammed into the roof space that had probably been a servant’s bedroom a century before, and guessed that this represented a temporary drop in status compared to the echoing spaces of his previous workplace.

  Hallur waved Gunna to a seat in the only spare chair in the room, and placed himself behind the desk in the corner, as if he knew the angled light coming in through the skylight would accentuate his chiselled features.

  “Thanks for finding time—” Gunna began, but Hallur waved her words away.

  “I’m often here on a Sunday morning when it’s quiet. How can I help you?” he asked with a show of suavity.

  “I expect you probably have an idea already. I’m working on the investigation into the death of Svanhildur Mjöll Sigurgeirsdóttir. You were acquainted with her?” Gunna said, going straight to the point.

  “I, er, yes. I had an acquaintance with her,” Hallur mumbled, and Gunna looked at him enquiringly. He raised his chin to speak clearly and met her gaze. “I did know her and I am deeply saddened by her unfortunate death.”

  Soundbite talk, Gunna thought, wondering if or when the mask would be allowed to slip.

  “I’m trying to track her movements leading up to her death. When did you see her last?”

  “On the fourth. Ten days ago,” he replied promptly.

  “You’re sure?”

  Hallur nodded. “I checked my diary when I knew you were on the way. I had an idea what you’d want to ask me about.”

  “And how did she strike you then?”

  “As usual,” Hallur said with a shrug. “Lively, happy, excited at the possibility of being back on TV.”

  “I take it she wasn’t going to be hosting any heavyweight political debates?”

  “That’s an unkind comment, officer. She had an offer from a production company to front a fashion show of some kind.”

  “D’you know the name of the company?” Gunna asked, jotting down notes.

  “I’m sorry. We didn’t tend to discuss business.”

  “What did you discuss, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  A rivulet of perspiration made its way from the parting in Hallur’s groomed dark hair and came to rest in the stubble on his jaw. “All sorts. But I wouldn’t say we were close friends.”

  “What sort of friends were you? Lovers?” Gunna asked. A jolt of discomfort passed through Hallur’s shoulders.

  “We were… good friends,” he admitted finally.

  “It seems an unusual friendship,” Gunna said drily. “A wellknown politician with a high-profile wife and some strong opinions, and a rather shallow woman. From what I’ve been able to make out, you couldn’t have had a great deal in common.”

  “Sport, mostly. I trained at Fit Club once or twice a week when I was a city councillor. It was as good a reason as any for getting out of the building for an hour when the office politics were making me lose the will to live.”

  Getting somewhere at last, Gunna thought.

  “So you met Svana at Fit Club?”

  “That’s right. We’d bump into each other once or twice a week and chat over a coffee.”

  “And you continued to ‘bump into each other’ and ‘chat’ even when you’d stopped training at her club?”

  Hallur nodded. “Svana had a very wide circle of acquaintances. A very disparate group of people.”

  “All men?” Gunna observed.

  He nodded again. “I don’t believe she had many close female friends. You understand?”

  It was Gunna’s turn to nod. “You still haven’t told me the nature of your relationship, other than that you chatted occasionally over a latte. I have to tell you that you have been identified as a regular visitor to Svana’s apartment.”

  Gunna could see that Hallur’s composure was gradually failing.

  “This isn’t on record,” she continued, “and you’re not sworn to tell the truth, although I wouldn’t expect anything else of someone in your position.”

  “This goes no further?”

  “Unless it leads to material evidence that requires further investigation.”

  Hallur’s shoulders dropped. “We were occasional lovers. I knew there were others and it didn’t bother her that I’m married. It was just physical … We’d meet up every couple of weeks and … y’know …” His voice tailed off as if he were a schoolboy caught with a pocketful of contraband.

  “Always at her apartment?”

  “Pretty much. We had a weekend once, in Copenhagen. But it wasn’t comfortable. There are so many Icelanders there that I was terrified of being spotted. This is confidential, isn’t it? It would destroy my marriage if this got out.”

  Gunna bit back a caustic reply. “It’s between ourselves, as I said, unless this leads to material evidence that we need to pursue further. However, you mentioned that there were others?”

  “Yes. Of course. I couldn’t expect her not to see other men. Svana was … how shall I put it? She liked to experiment.”

  “We have people already identified as being Svana’s acquaintances in the same way that you were. But if you could provide names, it would help. As I said, we are making every effort to track down a killer, but it doesn’t help when much of the victim’s life was either right in the public gaze or else hidden completely.”

  Hallur’s head bobbed in agreement and his trademark boyish smile began to reappear. “I know that Svana had several friendships. But I don’t have any names and I never asked.”

  “In that case, I’ll leave you alone. For the moment, at least,” Gunna said, rising from the chair. Hallur was on his feet instantly and stepped around the desk with his hand held out. “I’d like to thank you for being discreet,” he breathed with a flash of the television smile.

  “Anyway, thank you for your time. I’ll be in touch if we need to speak to you again.”

  “Of course, please call if you need anything.”

  He stood holding Gunna’s hand in his for longer than a usual handshake would warrant. “You know, officer. Would you be free for lunch sometime? I’d like to know more about the way the police work, from the inside, so to speak. Law and order is an issue that I have a deep interest in.”

  Gunna extricated her fingers from Hallur’s soft but insistent grip. “Thank you. But that would hardly be appropriate as long as you’re a potential material witness, I’m afraid.”

  “Maybe when the case is closed, then?”

  “Possibly. Thanks for your time.”

  Gunna clattered down the narrow wooden staircase from Hallur’s office. Outside, she breathed a sigh of relief.

  “The cheeky randy bastard,” she muttered to herself, striding past Hotel Borg and toying with the thought of going inside to use the bathroom and wash the hand that Hallur had shaken.

  THE AIR TASTED slightly stale and the flat no longer felt as if anyone lived there. The kitchen floor where Svana Geirs had twitched as she died in a widening pool of her own blood was scrubbed clean, as if the flat’s occupant had simply moved out. Gunna went from the kitchen to the living room, frowning as she wondered what she was actually looking for. The place was tidy and Svana Geirs’ belongings were all still where they belonged. Eiríkur and the technical team had taken only a few items that they felt needed to be fingerprinted or checked at the laboratory.

  In the blue and pink bedroom the huge down quilt had been carefully folded into a square and placed on a corner of the mattress, while the sheets and duvet cover had been taken away to be checked. She slid back the door of the wardrobe that filled an entire wall and ran a hand over the expensive fabrics of the dresses and coats on hangers, wondering how many of these had ever actually been worn.

  She went through the hangers one by one, checking the pockets of all the jackets and coats for anything that might have been left, but finding nothing. At the far end, behind a couple of colourful summer dresses that she doubted would see much use in a short Icelandic summer, and some revealing nightdresses, she found herself looking at two hangers that had been carefully pushed out of sight.

  “Good grief,” she muttered, lifting up a hanger that held a skimpy French maid’s outfit consisting of more lace than material. Behind it was a bizarre version of a nurse’s outfit that she realized with distaste was made of some kind of plastic.

  She debated with herself whether these ought to be taken for testing as well, but decided that if anything were to be found, the bedclothes or the contents of the washing basket would probably be likelier sources.

  She hung the items back in their places respectfully, painfully aware that their owner had only been dead a few days. She wondered who had been the beneficiary of Svana Geirs’ magnificent figure in these bizarre, titillating outfits. She looked at the vast array of shoes at the wardrobe’s floor level, shook her head and shut the double doors.

  The place was unnervingly silent. Any traffic noise was shut out entirely by the triple-glazed windows, excluding any sense of the outside world. The flat resembled a cocoon cut off from reality. She sat at the head of the bed and felt herself sink in the dense mattress, resisting the temptation to bounce on it. The two drawers of the bedside table on one side were empty, but the side nearer the window revealed the TV remote, sprays and jars of creams and a party box of condoms in a variety of colours and, as far as Gunna could make out, flavours—she decided that banana probably didn’t refer to size. The lower drawer contained handcuffs, a small vibrator that emitted a rattlesnake buzz at the flick of a switch, and packets of pills from paracetamol to heavyduty prescription painkillers. But no phone or little black book were to be seen. In fact, Gunna reflected, as she paced to the window to look out at the quiet street four floors below, nowhere was there a scrap of paper, a magazine or a book.

  Suddenly all her senses sharpened in a single flash of alarm as a groan, muffled but unmistakable, came from the corridor. She turned slowly and listened for it to be repeated, stepping as gently as she could towards the bedroom door. She was wondering if she had definitely closed the flat’s door when the groan came again, longer this time and ending on a higher note that was almost a squeal.

  In the passage she stood and listened. She could hear someone’s breath coming in short bursts, and this time she swept towards the kitchen, certain that the sound was coming from there. In the kitchen doorway, she scanned the room. The breaths panted and morphed into a low moan that rose and suddenly stopped, cut off as if by the flick of a switch. The flat was silent again.

  Gunna stood in the middle of the kitchen floor and turned in a slow circle, looking in every direction. She smiled to herself, reached into her jacket pocket, took out her phone and thumbed the green button twice.

  “Helgi? In the office, are you? You have Svana’s phone number? I’d like you to call it right now from your desk phone, OK? And stay on the line.”

  The silence in the kitchen was broken only by the faintest hum from the fridge. Gunna was uncomfortably conscious of her own breathing, and even of the rustle of her still unfamiliar non-uniform trousers. When it began, she thought at first that the innocuous buzz was from the fridge itself, a low but insistent pulse. As she squatted down on her haunches, aware that the sound was coming from near the floor, the groan echoed through the kitchen a second time, tinny against the room’s hard surfaces. She listened, eyes half closed, and the second groan began, rising to a squeal of what Gunna could now make out was supposed to be ecstasy.