“I’ll come and get you. Don’t overdo it. You know what the doc said.”
Pétur snorted. “The doc. What the hell does he know?” he demanded and was gone, with his step-shuffle-click signaling his progress down the hall and back out to the garage, leaving Hekla to stare aghast at the photograph of a young and dynamic Jóhannes Karlsson staring back at her from the midst of his full-page obituary.
With Helgi dispatched to Kópavogur to speak to the tearful girlfriend who had reported Magnús Jóhann Sigmarsson’s disappearance, Gunna parked outside the Harbourside Hotel for the second time that day. The building was an imposing one, giving the upper floors some fine views over the bay, with Esja beyond it, with the stiff wind whipping up white horses on Faxa Bay in what remained of the daylight. Not that Reykjavík’s favorite mountain could be seen in the gloom, Gunna reflected as she slammed the leased car’s door and made for the entrance. Darkness fell early at this time of year and January was a bleak month, with New Year over and people nervously awaiting the first post-Christmas credit card bill of the year.
“Looking for Símon,” Gunna growled at the receptionist whose company-issue welcoming smile faded away quickly.
“I’m not sure if he’s here right now,” she said. “I can call his office if you like?”
“You do that. Call his office and if he’s not there, call his mobile,” Gunna told the young woman. “And if that doesn’t work you can give me his address and I’ll go and hammer on his front door.”
She walked around the lobby inspecting the vast canvases hung on the high walls of what had once been a hardware store and guessed that to get walls that high, the ceiling must have been raised by a meter or more when the place had been rebuilt.
Símon arrived looking flustered. Bags had appeared under his eyes since they had spoken that morning and he looked a dozen years older without the flirtatious twinkle in his eyes.
“Gunnhildur,” he greeted her with undeniable dismay. “What can I do for you? Any developments?”
“You remember this place when the old hardware store was here, don’t you?”
“I do,” he replied, puzzled.
“When it was turned into a hotel, how did they manage to make the ceiling higher down here? Or is it my imagination?”
“Er … the whole place was gutted, floors and everything came out. The only thing that’s original are the outside walls. They more or less built a new building inside the shell of the old one.”
“Right. I thought so. I was wondering if my memory was playing tricks. Magnús Sigmarsson should have been here for a shift yesterday and didn’t show up. Has he been seen since?”
Taken aback by the suddenness of Gunna’s change of direction, Símon’s face fell.
“I … er … I don’t know. I need to check the rotas.”
“Good. Let’s do that.”
Símon practically elbowed the receptionist from her position behind the desk and tapped at the computer. He sighed. “Twelve to eight. He should have been on a twelve to eight shift yesterday, today and again tomorrow. He’s skating on thin ice now. I could easily have him dismissed for this.”
Gunna looked over the computer screen, which was covered in blocks of color.
“That’s him there, is it?” she asked, pointing to a dark green block that stretched across four days of timetable.
“That’s him. Or should have been. One of the restaurant supervisors covered his shift yesterday, but I don’t know what today’s arrangement is.”
“I have a feeling you might want to get his shift covered tomorrow as well. Something tells me he won’t be in.”
Símon looked shocked. “Has something happened to him?”
“You tell me. Magnús was reported missing by his girlfriend. She hasn’t seen him for twenty-four hours. He hasn’t shown up for work and his car’s missing. Does he have a history of being unreliable?”
“He’s often late, but he’s never not turned up.”
Gunna heard her phone buzz and saw Helgi’s number flashing. “Yes?”
“Hæ, chief. The drippy girlfriend saw him the night before last. He didn’t turn up as expected yesterday. Phone’s dead, and his car’s gone.”
“All right, Helgi, thanks. Can you get onto comms and see if his name’s on any flights?”
“Already done it. He’s not on any passenger lists, and his passport’s expired anyway.”
“You’d best circulate the registration and if it’s on the move traffic will pick it up soon enough.”
“Ahead of you on that one as well,” Helgi said with satisfaction. “Next step, we have a look at his apartment?”
Gunna walked across the lobby of the hotel with her phone to her ear to give Símon and the receptionist less of an opportunity to eavesdrop. “I reckon so. Can you arrange for the door to be opened? I’ll meet you there in an hour.”
“Will do, chief. See you there,” Helgi said cheerfully and rang off.
“That was about Magnús, wasn’t it?” Símon asked immediately. “He’s all right, surely?”
“No idea, but I would hope so. Now, carrying on from our conversation this morning,” Gunna said grimly. “It’s time you were a little more forthcoming, otherwise I’m going to be down here with a team at eight tomorrow morning to interview every single member of staff from the globe-trotting managing director to the unemployed immigrant who washes dishes for cash. Do we understand each other?”
The landlord was an elderly man who wheezed up the stairs and had to stop for a breather on the landing.
“Had to move out, you see, can’t cope with stairs any more,” he explained. “Got a place with a lift now. So much easier,” he prattled as he selected a key from a bunch. “This is on the level, isn’t it?”
“How do you mean?” Helgi asked, smothering a yawn.
“Could get into all sorts of trouble, couldn’t I? I know it’s my flat, but it’s let and I can’t just go waltzing in there when I feel like it. Tenants have rights these days,” he said sadly.
“Open it, will you? If you get a complaint I think we can back you up.”
The landlord turned the key in the lock and Helgi put a hand on his arm as the door swung open.
“I think you’d best stay here. There’s no knowing what we’re going to find,” he said, snapping on a pair of surgical gloves.
The smell of long unwashed laundry was overpowering and Gunna wrinkled her nose as the aroma brought Gísli to mind; suddenly all the thoughts that had been running through her mind in the evenings came flooding back. She briskly banished them, forcing herself to concentrate on the job in hand as they went through the flat but found no clue as to Magnús Sigmarsson’s whereabouts.
“At least the bastard’s not drowned in the bath,” Helgi said with relief.
“No, but someone’s had an energetic time in here,” Gunna said, lifting a sodden towel from the floor to reveal another below it, stained red with blood. “Water’s been everywhere.”
“And somebody cut a finger over there,” Helgi said, squinting at the rim of the bathtub against the wall where a smear of blood could be seen against the pale blue plastic and a handprint in blood could be seen on the wall by the door. “We’d best get that checked, I suppose.”
“Arrange it with forensics, would you?” Gunna said absently, thinking back to the words of Magnús’s disgusted neighbor. “I wonder. Helgi, what does this look like to you? Water and blood everywhere and towels all over the floor?”
“No idea, chief. But it seems weird. The rest of the flat’s much as you’d expect. It’s a bit grubby and he hasn’t done his laundry as often as he might have. I get the feeling something energetic has been going on in here.”
“And I’m wondering just what. Would you like to give Magnús’s drippy girlfriend a call and ask if they made a habit of screwing in the bath? Because if not, then what went on here may not have been that friendly.”