“You mean Sigmundur Björnsson?”
“Yeah. What happened to him? He just vanished the second Svana crossed her legs.” Ommi looked up truculently into Helgi’s eyes, as if challenging him. “Why all this stuff about Svana?”
“You were involved with Svana, and so was Óskar Óskarsson,” Helgi guessed. “You guys were the best of friends, so what was going on there?”
“Æi. Me and Skari. We were best mates and we were always trying out each other’s cast-offs. I had Svana first. Then Skari had a go at her for a while. We were mates. We shared these things like mates do.”
“And Skari and you aren’t the best of friends these days,” Helgi said. “Why’s that? Where were you on Thursday last week?”
“Can’t remember.”
“Try. We have CCTV evidence that puts you at the N1 petrol station in Keflavík shortly before Óskar Óskarsson was admitted to hospital.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, Ommi. Now, what happened between you and Skari? You’d been best mates since you were in kindergarten. Grew up on the same street. Went to Reykjavík together when Hvalvík wasn’t big enough any more. You were both involved in all kinds of stuff, pinching cars, flogging dope, collecting debts for Benni Sól—”
“I never worked for Benni,” Ommi interrupted.
“Ah, but you did. The man told us himself that you’d run errands for him.”
The lawyer coughed discreetly at Ommi’s side and Helgi’s voice hardened. “You. Skari. What went wrong?”
“Shit, man. We just fell out. It happens.”
“Over what? Svana?”
“Well, yeah. I suppose,” Ommi admitted. “She was part of it, I reckon. Skari didn’t have it in him any more, went soft.”
“When did you last see her?” Helgi asked.
“Svana? Hell, I don’t know. Didn’t see a lot of her after she got famous on TV and married that weightlifting guy, got too smart to talk to her old friends any more.”
“So when did you see her last?”
“Dunno. Before you lot banged me up.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah. Course I’m sure,” Ommi snarled.
“My client has been asked the same question a number of times now, officer,” the lawyer pointed out, trying to stifle a yawn.
“In that case it would be useful for you to explain how come we were able to retrieve your fingerprints from Svanhildur Mjöll’s flat. These prints weren’t more than a week old when we lifted them.”
Ommi’s face set hard and the lawyer’s eyebrows shot upwards.
“Ommi, we have Óskar Óskarsson in hospital in Keflavík to start with. Kristbjörn Hrafnsson, better known to you as Daft Diddi, was admitted to Casualty and when asked what happened told the officers who took him there that “it wasn’t Long Ommi.” So why did Diddi say that? And now Svana. Did you decide to settle a few scores, just for old times’ sake, Ommi?”
“What’s this with Svana?”
“If you’ve been holed up for a few days, maybe you’re a bit behind with the news. Svana Geirs was found murdered in her flat. It’s common enough knowledge, but maybe you haven’t been watching the news in your little hideaway?”
“Svana’s dead?” Ommi asked, eyes wide.
“Yup, and your prints are in her flat.”
“I think I need to talk to this guy without you listening,” Ommi said, ashen-faced, turning to the now wide-awake lawyer at his side.
IN THE CANTEEN, Gunna found Eiríkur talking to one of the police legal team, a sharp-faced woman who was respected but not generally liked. As Gunna made for their table, the other woman stood up, nodded and left with a stack of papers in one hand.
“What did our legal eagle have to say?” Gunna asked.
“Questions over why Addi the Pill has a broken wrist. I told her that he resisted arrest and assaulted an officer in the process.”
“And was she satisfied with that?”
“Oh, yes, especially when I told her to ask Helgi for details, as he was the officer in charge of the operation. I gather she rather likes Helgi.”
“Poor Helgi. Right, what did you get out of Addi the Pill?”
Eiríkur grimaced. “Shit, what a thug. Have you seen his record? There’s a bit of practically everything there.” He sighed to himself. “A real head case, this guy is. I’ve no doubt he’s the one who drove Diddi to the bank and drove him away afterwards. He fits Diddi’s description perfectly, doesn’t have an alibi. There’s a red Ford that also fits the description parked a few streets away from the house in Gardabær, registered to a sixty-three-year old woman who reported it stolen from outside her house in Reykjanesbær ten days ago, and the keys were in Addi’s jacket pocket. Technical are going over it for prints and whatever else can be found.”
“Good going, young man,” Gunna said approvingly.
“He’s having his wrist checked by the doctor again, says it hurts. When that’s done, I’ll have another session with him. How goes it with Ommi?”
“He’s tying himself in knots, but won’t admit a thing. I’m leaving Helgi to look after him while I go for a chat with Selma.”
“She’s in floods of tears, or so I’m told,” Eiríkur said with satisfaction. “I take it that’s not going to make you go soft on her, is it?”
Gunna stood up and cracked her knuckles. “You know, Eiríkur? You lot all see me as this evil old witch who’s had every shred of sympathy surgically removed. Well let me tell you, under this rough exterior there’s a heart of pure stone. Don’t you worry about Selma. She’ll be singing like a bird before you know it.”
“You know her mother’s downstairs?”
“What? Evil Eygló? Well, she’ll have a long wait.”
SELMA WAS NO more collected or calm than she had been when she and Ommi had been delivered to the police station at Hverfisgata to be searched and checked in, while Addi the Pill was having treatment for his injuries and roaring about police brutality to anyone who would listen.
She sat tearfully opposite Gunna, who spread her elbows on the table in front of her to provide even more of an imposing figure than normal. A middle-aged man in an ill-fitting grey suit had been appointed as Selma’s lawyer and sat next to her, flipping unconcernedly through sheets of notes that Gunna guessed had little to do with Selma’s case.
“Is my mum here?” Selma asked querulously.
“Yup,” Gunna said.
“Can I see her?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You are aware that everything that happens in here is recorded?” Gunna asked, ignoring the question.
“Yeah.”
“Right, then. I’ve read your statements from yesterday when you spoke to my colleague. You helped Ómar to abscond from prison? Why did you do it, Selma?”
“I didn’t know he was running away,” Selma wailed. “Not until he said for me to drive out of that place, y’know, whatsitcalled? You have to do what Ommi says. He’s a sweet guy, but he can be really angry sometimes.”
“Like when?”
“If someone doesn’t agree with him, or doesn’t respect him properly.”
“Like this person?” Gunna held out a photograph of Diddi, and Selma studied it carefully.
“I don’t know,” she replied innocently. “Who’s that?”
“Kristbjörn Hrafnsson, otherwise known as Daft Diddi. He’s a nice enough lad, but has some mental problems and has lived in a hostel for years. Right, then. The truth, please, Selma. Have you seen this guy before?” Gunna demanded.
“Yeah.”
“When? Where?”
“In town. Last week. With Ommi and Addi. The guy was downtown so Ommi offered him a lift and we went for a drive around.”