Jón fired up the stove and the heat spread quickly, the bare walls drinking in the warmth and the metal of the stove dticking happily. From force of habit he cleared up, sweeping dust and debris from the floor straight out of the door to be caught by the breeze and whipped away.
At the workbench, he took his bag from an overhead locker and carefully unwrapped his shotgun. The barrels were blackened and he was shocked to see that there were blood spots on them as well. He carefully wiped the weapon down with a cloth and ejected the used cartridges. These he dropped into the stove that had already eaten up the trainers and overalls he had taken off after the shooting at Bjartmar’s house.
Wondering why he was being so careful, he clicked on the kettle. He hadn’t been able to face breakfast as Elín Harpa’s children had wolfed down cereal, but there was time for a mug of coffee before he needed to get to his appointment.
“HIS NAME’S JÓN Jóhannsson,” Eiríkur said, eyes on the screen as he clicked and scrolled.
The man’s image appeared before him, a cheerful character who looked unused to having his photograph taken and had a serious expression on his face that didn’t suit him.
“You’re sure?” Gunna asked, leaning forward to see Eiríkur’s screen better.
“Yup. We have CCTV footage of a white van registered to this guy taken within ten minutes of the shooting at the intersection below the Setberg district. We could only make out three numbers on the registration plate, but that combination only fits one pale-coloured van on the vehicle registry—Jón Jóhannsson’s.”
“So this certainly points to our man. If not, he’s still going to have a lot of questions to answer,” Gunna said grimly.
“He’s a plumber, apparently.”
“How do you know that?” Gunna asked.
“His ID number. Then looked him up in the phone book.”
“Address?”
“Here,” Eiríkur said, holding out a slip of paper. “He lives in Hafnarfjördur.”
“Then we’d better get the Laxdal to call the Special Unit out to pay him a visit, hadn’t we? I hope he hasn’t gone to work.”
STEINGRÍMUR AND HIS two black-clad colleagues emerged from the van and got into position. Helgi took a deep breath and marched up the garden path beside Gunna, gulping as she hammered on the door.
“Coming,” sang a cheerful voice an instant before the door opened and a smiling young woman appeared, hair in a turban made from a towel. “Yes?”
Gunna flashed her ID.
“I’m Gunnhildur Gísladóttir from the CID Serious Crime Unit. This is my colleague Helgi Svavarsson,” she said grimly. “We’re looking for Jón Jóhannsson.”
Her heart was pounding and she hoped her nerves didn’t show.
“Jón? There’s no Jón here,” the woman said with a laugh that died on her lips as she looked past Gunna and Helgi to see three black-clad men with their weapons trained on the house. “What’s going on?” she quavered.
“Jón Jóhannsson has this place registered as his legal residence,” Gunna said with relief as the tension subsided. “As you can see, we need to speak to him rather urgently.”
“But there’s nobody here with that name,” the woman said plaintively. “There’s just me and Smári, and he’s gone to work.”
“I think we’d best come in and look around,” Gunna said firmly, stepping into the hallway.
Inside, she took in the stack of cardboard boxes in the living room and the piles of belongings that had obviously been moved recently. Helgi, Steingrímur and the other two officers moved swiftly through the house and checked every room before returning to the hall where Gunna stood with the woman, whose makeshift turban was gradually coming adrift to unleash locks of damp hair.
“It might be the guy who lived here before us,” she ventured. “There’s some post over there.”
Helgi picked up the pile of envelopes and flipped through it. “Letters for Linda Örvarsdóttir and Jón Jóhannsson,” he said. “We’ve not been here long,” the woman said plaintively. “In that case, I owe you an apology,” Gunna told her.
“Need us, do you?” Steingrímur asked, his semi-automatic weapon slung on his shoulder behind him.
“All done, thanks, guys,” Gunna said. “Sorry about the false alarm, but hopefully we’ll need you sooner rather than later.”
“No problem. There’s two teams ready to go when you find him,” Steingrímur rumbled as he and his colleagues disappeared with an unnerving swiftness on silent feet.
Gunna turned back to the woman, who had given up on the towel and let her wet hair fall down her back.
“When did you move in here?”
“Only a few days ago. We’re still unpacking.”
“I can see that. Didn’t you meet the previous owner when you bought the house, or is it rented or something?”
“It was a repossession. We bought it from the bank and were really lucky to get a good price on it. I think the previous owner left a couple of weeks ago.”
Gunna nodded as she took this in.
“Fine. Sorry to have troubled you, in that case. We’ll leave you in peace now, but you’d better let me have a contact at the bank that handled the sale.”
WITH A HEAVY heart, Jón parked the van near the middle of Kópavogur. He set off towards the centre, taking a detour, partly to kill time and partly because it was something he didn’t expect to be able to do again.
He walked right round the squat modern church, leaned on the parapet of the bridge over the main road and watched the traffic hurtle past, strolled past the shops on Hamraborg, looked in the windows of the bakery and toyed with the idea of a quiet coffee somewhere. He decided against it as he felt the bulk of the shotgun under his coat. Instead he crossed the street and pushed open the glass door of the bank seconds after it had been unlocked at nine thirty.
“I have an appointment with Hrannar Antonsson,” he gruffly told a cashier, who choked back a yawn and tried to smile.
“I’m not sure he’s in yet. If you take a seat, I’ll ask where he is.”
Jón grunted and lowered himself into a chair from which he could see the doors as well as the desk where the personal financial adviser normally sat in that stupid pink shirt.
It was warm in the bank and the sun beating down on the front window promised to superheat the lobby later in the day.
“He’ll be here in ten minutes,” a voice said, taking him by surprise. Jón looked round to see the yawning cashier standing next to his chair.
“Oh. That’s OK. I’m probably a bit early anyway,” he said apologetically.
“No problem. He’ll be right with you,” the youth said, disappearing into the distance.
A GENERAL ALERT for Jón Jóhannsson’s white van was circulated immediately. Helgi set to work as soon as they returned from their anticlimax of a visit to the house in Hafnarfjördur to try and trace the man’s whereabouts, starting with the National Registry, while Gunna tackled the bank.
“That’s right, Jón Jóhannsson,” she repeated, and reeled off his ID number for the second time without having to look at the slip of paper it was written on.
“One moment, please. I’ll put you through to Data,” a disembodied voice said, and Gunna fumed while muzak echoed tinnily in her ear.
“Data. Hello?” a second voice asked.
Gunna introduced herself for the third time and continued before the man on the end of the line could put her on hold or send the call on to someone else. “I’m trying to trace one of your clients and need to get as much information as possible about this person. It’s extremely urgent.”