LAUFEY WASHED THE pots while Steini loaded the dishwasher. Gunna sat herself back on the sofa and lifted her feet gratefully from the floor.
“What shall I do with the leftovers, Mum?” Laufey yelled from the kitchen.
“Put it all in the fridge, will you?”
The clattering from the kitchen came to a sudden end as the dishwasher hummed into life and Gunna heard the percolator start to hiss and spit to itself. She had never fully got to grips with the TV remote and its rows of buttons, sticking to the half-dozen that she needed, but finally she managed to find the evening news.
The chief constable looked tired as the picture cut to him from a view of the street where Bjartmar Arnarson had been shot the night before. The statement was short and sweet, naming Bjartmar as the victim of the shooting and stating very little other than that the police were following a number of positive leads towards apprehending the killer. Gunna knew vaguely that the chief constable normally enjoyed these encounters with banks of microphones, but this time he seemed less at ease. As he spoke in short, sharp sentences, she could make out the stocky figure of Ívar Laxdal behind him.
“Is that the case you’re on, Mum?” Laufey asked, appearing from the kitchen with a cloth still in her hand.
“It’s just one of many, sweetheart. But right now that one’s at the top of the list.”
“Are you going to catch him?”
“I expect so. When we find out who he is.”
“What makes people kill other people?”
Gunna looked up at Laufey, who still had her attention on the screen. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m just interested. Psychology. There must be reasons for it.”
“The theory is that there are a very small minority of people who are capable of committing violent acts just like that,” Gunna said, snapping her fingers. “Nobody really knows how many of these people there are, maybe only one per cent of the population, maybe less. The rest of us are fairly law-abiding. But when these supposedly normal people commit a serious crime, there are all sorts of reasons for it.”
“Are they sick?”
“Sometimes they are. Often they are desperate, and normally there are narcotics or addiction problems somewhere behind it all.”
“So these people are mentally ill?”
“As long as you see addiction as an illness, then yes.”
Laufey looked round at her mother. “Do you think addiction and stuff are an illness, or what?”
“It’s very hard to say. In general terms, yes, it’s a sickness. I’ve learned in the years on this job that there are no easy answers. Drugs are frequently a refuge from another problem that can be so deeply hidden that even the sufferer isn’t fully aware of it, problems of self-esteem, confidence, inadequacy, all sorts. But I’ve also learned that no two people are the same and every case has to be looked at on its own terms, especially something complex like this one.” Gunna gestured at the screen.
“You should have gone in for psychology, Mum,” Laufey said, heading back to the kitchen as Gunna’s phone began to ring.
“Maybe I will, sweetheart. Maybe I will,” she said to herself as she stabbed at the green button with a forefinger. “Gunnhildur.”
“Hæ. See Papa Smurf on TV, did you?” Helgi asked and Gunna had to stifle a laugh.
“Any progress after I left?”
“We have a few vans we’re checking out, all seen within half an hour of the incident and not too far away. Two look good, clear number plates, so shouldn’t be any problems. One didn’t have a number plate at all, and on two only half the registration could be made out.”
“So there’s a good bit of cross-checking to do there?”
“Yeah. Eiríkur’s deep in the vehicle registry right now and Sævaldur has a patrol car quietly checking out the addresses where the identified vans are registered. What time are you in tomorrow?”
“Early, I expect, hopefully before seven.”
“This is a weird one, chief.”
“You’re telling me. Normally a murder in this country is a straightforward affair, but this is baffling. Has this profiler turned up yet?”
Helgi chuckled. “Not yet. Seems the man’s flight was delayed and he won’t be here until tomorrow afternoon.”
“Ach. Won’t make a difference, I don’t think.”
“Didn’t get a chance to ask you earlier, how did you get on at Litla-Hraun this afternoon?”
“Ah, Ommi and I had a very useful chat,” Gunna said with some satisfaction. “I think we’ll be talking again in the next day or two. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“G’night, chief.”
The phone had hardly been replaced when it rang a second time, and Gunna swore as she picked it up.
“Hæ, Skúli. How goes it?”
“Getting a bit desperate right now, Gunna. Can you tell me what’s happening about Bjartmar Arnarson? I’ve been to the chief constable’s press briefing and he more or less said nothing at all, except that the man’s dead.”
“In that case he was very honest with you,” Gunna replied, flexing her toes as her feet rested on the edge of the coffee table. “Where are you, outside the station?”
“Yeah, and it’s just about to start chucking it down again,” he grumbled.
“I’m knocked off for the day now, back bright and early in the morning.”
“Any chance you could throw a dog a bone here?”
“If I had a bone to throw you, I would.”
“You mean you don’t know anything?” he asked disbelievingly.
“That’s about the shape of it. It’s Sævaldur Bogason who’s in charge, not me. I’m just a foot soldier on this one.”
“But you must have something, surely? Is it linked to Svana Geirs, d’you know?”
This time Gunna felt uncomfortable with Skúli being so close to the mark. “Who knows? All I can say, and completely off the record, is that’s one possibility we’re exploring.”
“No suspects? No leads?” Skúli asked plaintively.
“So far, nothing. No witnesses, no dabs, no ballistic evidence, nothing. So no bones to throw.”
“Hell. This has to be the front page tomorrow, and we haven’t anything to put on there. The whole story is two paragraphs and some waffle. Was it a professional killing, d’you think?”
“I’m sorry, Skúli, I can’t speculate. But if you were to dig into Bjartmar’s business affairs, you wouldn’t go far wrong.”
She heard the grin in his voice. “Thanks, Gunna.”
“The companies are Rigel Investment, Arcturus Construction, Arcturus Management, Landex and Sandex Property. It’s all public record stuff. All you have to do is join the dots and you should find something spooky.”
“Thanks, Gunna. You’re a star,” Skúli said with evident delight, and rang off.
Tuesday 23rd
THE VAN WHINED and complained, but eventually started. Jón waited for it to settle down and stop belching smoke before he chivvied it into the morning traffic heading out of town. It rattled through Gardabær as he thought about Elín Harpa and the unreal day he had spent in her tiny flat, numbed and isolated from the world outside.
It was yet another relief to think that he wouldn’t have to worry about the van’s exhaust, ready to drop off into the road at the slightest bump. After today, he’d have other concerns.
He took a detour past his old house, and then wished he hadn’t. A car was parked in the driveway and there was a light in the kitchen. Somebody was having breakfast in the kitchen he had built, probably the same somebody who had started making an effort to tidy up the garden that had been at the bottom of Jón’s list of priorities.
He felt physically sick as he gunned the van down the street and back to the main road that took him towards Hafnarfjördur and the half-finished industrial area where the workshop stood. According to the plans, it should have been demolished already to make way for a new development, but construction had come to a halt a year before and the workshop had been given a reprieve.