“Actually, we have a problem there,” she said.
“The Svana Geirs case? What’s that?”
“Our star suspect has an alibi.”
“Solid?”
“He was beating somebody up a hundred kilometres away. It’s possible at a stretch, but I don’t think it was him.”
“Long Ommi, you mean?”
“That’s him. Even he can’t be in two places at once. If he was handing out a beating that means he couldn’t have been anywhere near Svana Geirs’ flat when she was killed.”
Ívar Laxdal nodded as he walked. “Bjartmar is the priority now. Was this a vendetta of some kind? A professional killing?”
“God, I hope not,” Gunna said with feeling. “There are enough firearms floating around the country but they’ve never been used. But I suppose it was always going to be a matter of time before we were to see gun crime. If this was a contract killing, it could open the floodgates for all the scumbags who have weapons to start using them.”
“My feeling precisely. This has to be sorted out quickly, very quickly. Svana Geirs being bumped off is one thing; that could be what the French call a crime passionnel. Temporary insanity, the Americans call the same thing. But this is something we can’t afford to get wrong.”
“Are we getting the killer profiled?”
Ívar Laxdal snorted. “We are. But that’s just to keep them happy upstairs. It’ll be legwork that sorts this one out, just you see.”
“And Sævaldur’s going to do that?”
Another snort. “Sævaldur’s going through the motions. I want you on the Svana case, ostensibly. I want every possible angle examined that could have any bearing on Bjartmar. Everything, understand? You can have all the overtime you want, but I don’t have any bodies for you. There’s no spare manpower for an emergency these days, I’m afraid.”
“WHY DID YOU cut all your hair off?” Jón asked.
“Felt like it. This is easier. Not so much to wash.”
“It makes you look younger. It looks good.”
“How young do you think it makes me look?” Elín Harpa asked with secretive smile.
“I don’t know,” Jón said, taken by surprise. “Twenty-six, twenty-seven?”
“Close. Twenty-four. And you? You’re quite old, aren’t you?” she said blandly.
“Thirty-eight,” Jón answered, subtracting three years from his age and wondering why.
Jón had bought pizzas. He and Elín Harpa perched on the edge of the bed, while two of the children sat on plastic chairs and the smallest lay happily in the crook of his mother’s arm, sucking on a bottle.
The little boy and his younger sister chewed the spicy slices and guzzled cola greedily, apparently unconcerned by Jón’s presence. They watched the television constantly, engrossed in cartoons in English, until only one slice of pizza remained and both decided that they wanted it.
“Stop it!” Elín Harpa commanded as the two of them began to squabble noisily. “Stop! Now! Or I’ll change the channel,” she threatened as they ignored her.
She stabbed at the taped-up remote control until the channel changed and the two children howled at the injustice.
“Turn it up, will you?” Jón said suddenly, and the children fell silent, turning to the television, where a row of police cars was parked in a suburban street that Jón recognized instantly.
“Mummy, what’s—?” the little boy began.
“Shhhh!” Jón admonished. “Turn the sound up, will you?” The television image cut away to a grim newsreader.
“A man was found dead at his home in Hafnarfjördur late last night. A police statement is expected later today but the man’s identity is not being released until relatives have been informed,” he announced in sonorous tones. “In Akureyri yesterday …”
“You can change it again now. That’s all I wanted to see.”
“Someone you know?” Elín Harpa asked.
“Sort of,” Jón said. “Someone I used to work for.”
• • •
THIS TIME GUNNA tracked Hallur Hallbjörnsson down to his home, a smart house on the periphery of the Vogar district in a shady, tree-lined street only a few hundred metres from the busy traffic of Sudurlandsbraut but shielded from the constant whine of traffic by a thick hedge.
Hallur, Helena Rós, Margrét Anna and Krist’n Dröfn live here, a carved sign on the front door proclaimed, and music coming out of an open upstairs window indicated that someone had to be home. Gunna rang the bell, and then knocked as well for good measure. A dog yapped inside, and through a small window set in the door Gunna could see someone approaching.
“Yes?” The copper-haired woman at the door looked doubtfully at Gunna.
“Good morning,” Gunna greeted her. “My name’s Gunnhildur Gísladóttir and I’m from the CID Serious Crime Unit. I take it you’re Helena Rós? I’d like to speak to your husband.”
“We’re about to have lunch. We have guests,” she replied with a blend of frustration and irritation in her piping voice.
“Who is it, Helena?” a familiar voice asked as its owner approached. When Hallur appeared behind his wife, his face fell. He recovered quickly.
“Ah, good morning, officer. I have to say, this isn’t a convenient time,” he said, doing his best to mask his discomfort.
“I realize that fully, but I assure you this isn’t trivial,” Gunna said.
“In that case you had better come in,” he said resignedly. “Helena, would you look after our guests?” He looked helplessly at Gunna and pursed his lips into a thin line in irritation. “Come with me, please. We’ll go to my study.”
The book-lined den in the basement was reminiscent of his parliamentary office, but considerably larger. Hallur sat at a small desk and gestured for Gunna to take a seat on the other side.
“Last night a man was shot at his home in the Setberg. You’ve heard about this?” Gunna said without preamble.
“I heard something on the radio this morning, but I had a late night last night and haven’t listened too carefully to the news yet.”
“The victim’s identity hasn’t been released yet. But I can tell you that it was Bjartmar Arnarson.”
“What?” The colour vanished from Hallur’s face. “Do you know who … I mean, who did this? Who’d want to kill Bjartmar?” he asked helplessly as Gunna scrutinized him for reactions.
“Someone who knew just what he was doing, apparently.”
“How? I mean, how did it happen?”
“He was shot by the front door of his house, twice, at close range with a shotgun,” Gunna said grimly. “This wasn’t an accident. Half the force is working on this one case now. What I’m after is a motive that could lead me to the killer. But what interests me right now is that Bjartmar not only had no shortage of people with not much love for him; he also had a good few partners in his various businesses. I’m concerned that there might be a list here, and someone out to settle grudges.”
If Hallur’s face had not already been white, it would undoubtedly have gone paler.
“How far back does your acquaintance with Bjartmar go?” she continued.
“A few years.”
“All right. Let”s not play games. Your acquaintance with Bjartmar goes back to the years when you were a city councillor closely involved with the departments and committees overseeing land procurement and sales.”
“I don’t know how you—”
“It’s all in the records. All you have to do is dig deep enough,” Gunna said quietly, opening her briefcase and taking out some photocopied sheets. “It’s all here, minutes of the procurement committees, reports, financial forecasts, et cetera. The city quietly sold off land in Grafarvogur and plots in and around the city centre without any kind of consultation or bidding process on a number of occasions. Every time, these plots were sold to companies that were run by Bjartmar Arnarson and Sindri Valsson. There’s a word for this, you know.”