Dísa shook her head. “No, doesn’t look like any of the regulars we get to see.”
“Any progress, Gunnhildur?” Ivar Laxdal’s voice startled them from behind and Gunna turned to see that his attention was focused on the screen as well.
“Nothing so far, I’m afraid,” Gunna said, feeling foolish at being taken by surprise and wondering if Ívar Laxdal made a point of moving as silently as a cat so as to keep his staff on their toes. “There’s this as well,” Gunna said, starting the grainy sequence from the hotel’s CCTV cameras in the corridor. They watched as the woman with the mass of black curls made her way quickly along the passage, avoiding the lift and making for the stairs, providing a close view of her angular face with its strong nose and deep-set eyes under the fake fringe, before the cameras watched her walking away and disappearing around a corner.
“Nope. Sorry. That’s not one of our regulars,” Dísa said. “I don’t think this is drugs-related, do you? There are some about who will screw for dope, a couple of regulars, but most of them just now and then as far as we know. Not that they work anywhere as classy as the Gullfoss.”
“That woman has kids,” Ívar Laxdal rumbled behind them.
“What?”
“Scroll that sequence back to where she walks under the camera.”
They watched the woman walk away from them again, and then a third time.
“Look at her hips and the way she walks,” Ívar Laxdal said. “I’d wager a month’s salary that woman has a couple of children.”
Gunna wanted to ask if he meant his salary or hers, but thought better of it as she switched back to the first sequence in the bar, this time paying attention to the woman’s gait.
“It’s not so obvious there, I suppose because she’s dressed up and isn’t wearing completely flat shoes,” she mused, then went back to the corridor sequence. “What do you think, Dísa?”
“I agree with Ívar. There she’s wearing trainers and she’s in a hurry, you can see she walks like a horse pulling a cart. I’d reckon she’s either had a car accident or something at some point that’s damaged her hips, or else she’s popped out a few kids. You can tell from her butt as well,” she added. “Tracksuit bottoms aren’t very forgiving, are they?”
“You’re right,” Ivar Laxdal agreed. “They don’t do you ladies any favors, and they don’t turn heads like that dress does. So, how does it look?”
“Not great. We’ve no idea yet who the woman is, or even if she had anything to do with Jóhannes Karlsson turning up dead.”
“And the body out by the quarter-mile track? Is it anything to do with this?”
“There isn’t a shred of evidence to link the two, but to my mind it’s too close to be a coincidence.”
“Definitely murder, not an accident?”
“I’d say so. We’ll know when the post-mortem has been done. But I’d say he didn’t wind up in that hole in the ground willingly.”
“Good,” Ívar Laxdal said. “You should be off soon, Gunna, considering you were at the airport at seven this morning and it’s getting on for six now. But come and find me before you leave, would you?”
Baddó drained his glass with a flourish as theatrical as the barman’s had been when he filled it.
“Another?” Gústav reached for the glass.
“Why not? One for the road,” Baddó decided, scenting what he was looking for. “And how much do I owe you?”
A tall glass appeared at his elbow and Gústav tapped at the till behind the bar. “That’ll be two thousand two hundred,” he said, almost apologetically.
Baddó carefully placed a pair of 5,000 krónur notes on the bar with one finger resting lightly on them, increasing the pressure to hold the cash in place as a hand was extended to take it. “I’m still wondering where a man can find a little enjoyment around here.”
Gústav looked nonplussed behind his oversized glasses. “Doesn’t it depend on who wants to know?” he said quietly.
Baddó made a tiny downward movement of his chin toward the 10,000 krónur still held firm under his finger. “Does it matter?”
“Well, if you put it like that, I suppose it doesn’t.” He smiled and Baddó released the notes, which vanished with practiced speed.
“Had a bit of trouble here recently, haven’t you? Word gets around.”
“Æi, don’t ask. It’s been a nightmare these last few days. Police everywhere and management running around with their heads up their fundaments,” Gústav said with gusto. Baddó nodded with satisfaction that the cash had done the trick.
“From what’s whispered in my ear, this has been going on a while, hasn’t it?”
Gústav cocked his head to one side, as if wondering what to make of Baddó’s question. “That depends.”
“Depends on what?”
Gústav shrugged. “On your point of view as much as anything. Sometimes it’s not healthy to notice too much.”
“Maybe,” Baddó agreed, sipping his beer to make it last. “But sometimes keeping your eyes skinned can be profitable. There’s a scam doing the rounds and I understand that it came unstuck the other day when the old guy on the receiving end of it conked out. Am I right?”
“That’s about right,” Gústav admitted, uncomfortable by now, glancing around the bar, and giving up any pretense. “Look, pal. What is it you’re after?”
“A name,” Baddó said quietly. “The price is right.” He quickly scribbled on a beer mat and slid it across the bar. Gústav glanced at it and slipped it into a pocket. “Give me a call on that number when your shift’s over.”
He drained his glass and left it standing in front of Gústav, who was wondering just what he’d meant by “the price is right.”
Sif could hear them talking in the other room with the burbling of the TV in the background. Dad wasn’t a problem, his injured hip made him pretty slow on his feet and she could hear him coming, but Hekla was another matter. A good bit younger than Dad and faster on her feet, Hekla could appear without warning with that bony nose of hers wrinkled in disapproval.
The laptop bag that had been stashed carelessly under the workbench had intrigued her and she wanted to know why it was there. Her own laptop was struggling and there were no more tweaks or upgrades that would improve it. It was all right for schoolwork, but there were games that she found herself excluded from. Here was a computer hidden away under the bench that might be better than hers and she wondered why it was there.
Opening it in her room, Sif found herself facing a blank screen with a single blinking cursor and a row of blank spaces. The damned thing was password protected. She wondered where her stepmother had got it from, and assumed that it probably hadn’t been acquired honestly.
She tried “password” and nothing happened. The computer’s screen gazed patiently back at her, waiting for the magic word. A string of zeroes also failed to work, and she wondered how many attempts she could make before the computer failed to cooperate.
Sif rooted through the bag the laptop had come in. It was a good one, she noticed, not new by any means, but classy leather rather than some cheap crap. She was wondering who Jóel Ingi Bragason might be when she found a little wallet of business cards. Peering closely at the tiny image on the cards of a man in glasses and a grey suit, and noticing the crest of some government department next to it, she immediately dismissed Jóel Ingi Bragason as being of no interest whatsoever. However, something about the man might yield a clue to his password, so Sif dug deeper into the laptop’s case.
“I’m off home as well,” Ívar Laxdal said, “so we can talk and walk.”
He shoved open the door of his rarely used office and was on his way down the corridor, buttoning his coat as he went, before Gunna had taken his words in. She hurried after him.