In a music shop directly opposite, she flipped listlessly through the racks of CDs, wincing at the price of some of them, but always keeping an eye open through the floor-to-ceiling window for Jóel Ingi to leave the Emperor and hurry back along Laugarvegur toward home.
She had looked slowly through every rack of CDs, declined an offer of assistance from a startlingly pink-haired woman who proceeded to stare into space from behind the counter of the otherwise deserted shop, and finally gave up waiting.
The Emperor was gloomy inside and some muted heavy metal grumbled in the background. The dim walls and the dark brown wood of the tables conspired to make the place look stuffier and smaller than it really was. A few of the customers glanced up as she walked in, and she went straight to the bar instead of looking around for Jóel Ingi. The shaven-headed barman looked at her enquiringly.
“A beer.”
“Small? Large?”
“A small one.”
She looked around her as the barman poured and then sipped her beer appreciatively. It wasn’t often that a drink on the job was acceptable, and she enjoyed the feeling, unzipping her quilted coat.
“Haven’t seen you in here before, have I?” The barman asked, the light above the beer pump shining on the angled facets of his bristled head, giving him a sinister look.
“Don’t expect so. I’m from out of town.”
“Where from? I’m a country boy myself.”
“Bíldudalur,” she said, praying that the man was from some other part of the country and wouldn’t want to embark on a conversation about small-town affairs that would immediately catch her out.
He shook his head. “I’m from Thórshöfn, me. Mind you, it’s a dump and it’s twenty years since I went there last. So what brings you to the bright lights?” he asked, a glint in his eye as he deliberately ignored a young man standing at the other end of the bar waiting to be served.
“Looking for a friend. Jóel Ingi,” she said, deciding on the spur of the moment to take a wild chance. “Actually he’s a cousin and I’m told he drinks in here sometimes.”
The friendly smile vanished from the barman’s face and he muttered something she didn’t catch as he moved off to serve the man at the other end of the bar. She sipped her beer and wondered if mentioning Jóel Ingi had been a mistake. She waited for the barman to return and toyed with the thought of another beer before deciding against it.
The barman returned and nodded at her glass. “Another?”
“Not this time,” she said, pretending to think about it for a moment. “Where are the toilets?”
The barman took the glass and jerked his head toward the bar’s dark interior without a word.
She zipped her jeans and pulled on the anorak again before opening the cubicle door, then immediately froze.
“Curious about something, are we?”
One light was flickering as its fluorescent tube died a slow death and the intermittent glow flashed on the single metal tooth that showed as the thin man smiled.
She pushed the cubicle door back, knowing that it was a hopeless thing to do as the man put his shoulder to it and forced it inwards.
Helgi was back at his desk at Hverfisgata as Gunna arrived, the phone to his ear and a bemused frown on his face as he shook his head at her.
“No, that’s fine. Not a problem. I’ll drop by in the next few days and take a statement. Thanks,” he said and left the phone propped under his chin as he used the butt end of a pencil to press the button on his desk phone to end the call.
“And?”
“He’s not a happy man, Óskar Hjálmarsson.”
“How come? Locked him up, did you?”
“He’s in an interview room, and man has he been sweating. But he checks out. He had nothing to do with Magnús Sigmarsson’s death, as far as I can see.”
“Good. Then we can rule him out, can we?”
“Yup. He left the house at seven-thirty and was at his karate class until after ten. Half a dozen people have confirmed he was there, including Steingrímur from the special unit.”
“And after ten?”
“He bought a takeaway at Ning’s and the lad who was serving remembers him buying chop suey sometime after ten.”
“Fair enough,” Gunna decided. “Let the man go, but give him a stern warning, will you? He’s not completely in the clear until we’ve a confirmed time of death for Magnús. All right?”
Helgi pushed his chair back and stood up, dropping the phone back into its cradle. “Suits me. He’s not someone you’d want to spend a week in Spain with, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t break Magnús’s neck.” He yawned and stretched. “Oh, and there was some guy who tried to call you a couple of times. Your mobile’s switched on, isn’t it?”
Gunna cursed and remembered that her mobile had been set to silent for the meeting at the ministry and she had forgotten to reset it. She hastily looked at the screen and saw three missed calls, all from withheld numbers.
“Well, if it’s important, they’ll call back, I suppose,” she grumbled to herself as Helgi left the room to set an angry Óskar Hjálmarsson free, before calling him back. “Helgi! That car? Anything new?”
“Not from forensics. Eiríkur’s down at Grandi now asking questions,” Helgi replied, his head around the door. “It’s cold out, so he’ll be back soon, I expect.”
In his haste, Jóel Ingi almost missed his footing on the stairs. At the top he paused outside his front door and took a couple of deep breaths before opening it and giving the door a kick for good measure.
“Agnes!”
There was no need to shout. The air was thick with the overpowering smell of grass, which told him she was home.
“Hæ,” she said absently without looking around from the easel in front of her and the blocks of color she was applying to the canvas with a flat brush. Jóel Ingi could see the joint smoldering in the ashtray and there was a faint tremor at the back of her alabaster neck below the wisps of fine hair as golden as summer straw that escaped a bun coming adrift at the back of her head.
He stood and fumed, waiting for her to turn around, still captivated by the porcelain beauty of one shoulder half exposed from her loose T-shirt. He took a deep breath and lunged closer.
“What the fuck have you been playing at?” he hissed into her ear, stepping forward, digging his fingers deep into the bun of cream hair and hauling Agnes’s head sharply back so that her blue eyes stared into his.
“Let go of me,” she ordered in a steady voice.
“No. You tell me what the fucking game is. Why have you been having me followed? What the hell’s going on?”
“Get your fucking hands off me or you’ll regret it, you animal,” Agnes spat and tried to twist out of his grip.
Jóel Ingi’s fury boiled over. The slap echoed against the bare walls. Agnes’s eyes widened and she glared as Jóel Ingi released her hair and stepped back. He watched as she sat up, a red patch widening across one cheek.
“You bastard,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact. “You’ll pay for that.”
“You tell me what the fuck’s been going on. Why am I being tailed day and night?”
“You’re insane. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah. That’s not what your detective said.”
Agnes picked up the joint and re-lit it from a candle without taking her eyes off him. She took a long pull at it and moved across the room, keeping the white sofa between them.
“What detective? Jóel Ingi, I really don’t know what the hell’s got into you,” she said in an ice-cold tone. “But I think I’m the one who’s owed an explanation.”