Eiríkur smoothed out the credit card statement on the counter in the exclusive goldsmith’s shop. There were five transactions on Jóhannes Karlsson’s credit card, one a cash withdrawal for the maximum amount the ATM would dispense, followed by one at a clothes shop, one at a decidedly upmarket shoe shop and two at jewelry shops.
The elderly woman behind the counter eyed Eiríkur suspiciously and her disapproval could be seen behind a thick mask of makeup. She lifted a pair of glasses that hung on a chain around her neck and held them up in front of her eyes to examine the entry on the credit card statement.
“Well, that’s here,” she said dubiously. “But I don’t see what this has to do with the police.”
“We’re investigating a stolen credit card, and this may be one of the transactions on that card.”
“That’s ridiculous,” the woman snapped. “We would never serve anyone using a stolen card.”
“Even if you didn’t know the card had been stolen?” Eiríkur asked gently. “This transaction was only a few days ago. Do you know who served this person?”
“Of course not. This is a busy shop, you know.”
Eiríkur looked out of the window past the display of rings and necklaces, the gold gleaming against black velvet, at the practically deserted street outside as a truck with a snow plough on the front went past, scraping a layer off the road and piling it into a neat strip at one side.
“It doesn’t seem busy at the moment.”
The woman sniffed. “It’s early.”
“Look, were you serving on that day?” he asked, his patience starting to wear thin. “If not, who was?”
“This kind of thing never happened before these damned credit cards were invented. It was cash or check, and we only dealt with respectable people.”
“This may be awkward for you, but these things happen. Is there anyone else here? Can I speak to the manager?”
“I am the proprietor,” the woman said in a voice as icy as the wind blowing along the street outside.
“In that case, you must have issued a receipt with this transaction, and it seems unlikely that you don’t remember it, considering there’s no small amount of money involved-several hundred thousand krónur.”
The door at the back of the shop creaked open and a younger face peered around the door.
“Is everything all right?”
“Actually, no.” Eiríkur said, thankful to see a cheerful face that might be more cooperative, as his patience with the woman behind the counter finally evaporated. The younger face belonged to a middle-aged man in a pullover that looked as if it had been inherited. “This transaction,” Eiríkur explained as the man lifted a pair of glasses to his eyes. “Anything you can tell me about it?”
“And you are?”
“He says he’s from the police,” the elderly woman said in a tone that dripped scorn.
“Eiríkur Thór Jónsson. I’m with the city force,” Eiríkur said, placing his identification on the counter next to Jóhannes Karlsson’s credit card statement.
“Áki Sandvík,” the man in the pullover said, folding his glasses. “Let’s go to the back room, shall we? It wouldn’t do to have the police here if a customer were to come in, would it, mother?”
Jóel Ingi felt slightly sick, but hoped the nausea would pass as the morning progressed. He’d work through lunch and go home early, maybe. For the first time since before Christmas, he felt calm and more in control, as if a switch had been flipped inside his head. The buzzing in his ears had receded to an almost unnoticeable hum and the stinging pain deep in his belly that he treated with handfuls of painkillers and which tended to sneak up on him unawares had so far failed to make an appearance.
He read through a draft report prepared for the department by an outside consultant, adding his own observations in the generous margins, answered dozens of emails, and felt he had earned his salary by clearing his inbox.
His heart lurched as Már appeared, frowning, in the doorway.
“It’s all right, nothing to worry about,” Már assured him as Jóel Ingi felt an immediate tell-tale tightening across his belly.
“Is there anything going on?”
“Our boy’s in a foul temper. He’s chewed out half a dozen people already this morning over that Korean millionaire applying to buy land in the east. He’s dead set against it, but it’s as clear as day the man has some friends somewhere.”
“On a purely legal basis, he’s quite right,” Jóel Ingi said slowly. “There’s no precedent for it and the minister has an obligation to be cautious.”
Már winked. “There’s cautious and there’s deciding who to piss off the most, the voting public or the people who run the show.”
“Who knows where he’ll go next?” Jóel Ingi said with a rare smile. “Do you understand why politicians do the things they do?”
Már spread his arms in a wordless reply. “And until then, we selfless public servants are doomed to be the messengers who get shot for bringing bad news. Speaking of which, Ægir was talking about you earlier.”
“What? Really?”
“Yes. And not in a bad way. So when you get a roasting next time, just batten down the hatches and let it blow over, will you?”
Jóel Ingi sighed. “I’ll try. You’ll be there tonight, won’t you?”
“Tonight?”
“Gallerí Twelve. Agnes is expecting you.”
“How could I forget?” Már slapped his own forehead in slow motion. “Duh. I’ll be there.”
He went through a batch of receipts held together with a clip that had hung on a peg over the desk.
“Here it is,” he said. “This time of year’s pretty quiet and there were only a couple of sales that day. An eighteen-carat white gold chain, sixty-five centimeters, three hundred and twenty thousand krónur. A good day for January.”
Eiríkur nodded and agreed that the figure tallied with the credit card statement. “Who served this person, do you know?”
Áki gestured at the receipt. “My sister Stella, judging by the handwriting. She runs the shop a couple of mornings a week.” He looked up as the door opened. “And right on time,” he said.
A younger, better-made-up version of the elderly woman from the shop looked enquiringly down at Eiríkur.
“This gentleman’s from the police, Stella,” Áki explained. “Wants to know about the white gold necklace you sold the other day.”
Stella settled herself on a stool and Eiríkur sensed that she was wondering what to say.
“Do you remember the person who bought it?” Eiríkur prompted, unfolding Jóhannes Karlsson’s credit card statement again. “It cost three hundred and twenty thousand, according to this.”
“It was a woman, not someone I’ve seen before. Why? Is there a problem?”
“There should be a problem considering there aren’t many women around called Jóhannes Karlsson.”
“Oh,” Stella said, crestfallen. “I, er, I see. I can’t have checked the name. We don’t normally look at it.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Well. These are exclusive items,” she floundered. “You don’t expect dishonest people to come in here.”
Eiríkur sighed. “All right. Tell me what happened. What time was it? Morning?”
“Around eleven, I think.”
Áki hunted through a sheaf of receipts held together by another clip. “Eleven forty-one,” he said, holding up a receipt that the credit card had generated.
“That’s right,” Stella agreed. “She came in, looked for a few minutes and I supposed she must have decided what she wanted before she came in here as she just asked for the chain and bought it. She was only here for a few minutes.”
“No small talk? She didn’t say anything?”
“She said something about being in a hurry. She had a big bag and had to hunt in it for her purse to find the card, so it didn’t occur to me that it wasn’t genuine.”