“I’ll have to call you back. Security,” the voice said dubiously.
Gunna snapped out her direct number, put the phone down and cursed, certain that it would take at least half an hour for the bank to return the call. To her surprise, it rang almost instantly.
“Gunnhildur?” the voice asked. “All right. This is Árni at the bank again, sorry about that. Procedures, I’m sure you understand. Now, who are you looking for information on? There’s only so much I can tell you, I’m afraid.”
“The man’s name is Jón Jóhannsson,” she repeated and again reeled off his ID number, listening to the rattling of a keyboard at the other end as she spoke.
“All right then. This isn’t being recorded or anything, is it?” asked Árni with a nervous laugh.
“No, of course not. But it’s urgent, so do you have an address, contact number or anything for him?”
“The only address we have is the one we know he doesn’t live at any more, as that house was repossessed and has been sold, but he hasn’t changed his legal residence, so that’s where any post for him is still going.”
Gunna wanted to grit her teeth. “Phone number, maybe?”
“Er, yes. There’s a mobile number.”
“Which is?”
“Look, I’m not sure I can release that sort of information. Data protection and all that, you know.”
Gunna breathed deep. “Where’s your office?”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, where’s your office?”
“Well, I’m in Borgartún, but I don’t see what—”
“You will if I show up in front of your desk in ten minutes’ time. Look, this is not a trivial case in any way. What’s the guy’s phone number?”
Árni reeled off seven digits that Gunna scribbled down.
“Thank you. How long is it since there was any contact with him? I mean direct contact, not just you sending out a letter.” The man’s keyboard rattled again.
“Last week. His personal financial adviser spoke to him last week and I can see from the notes that they have a meeting scheduled for today.”
“When and where?”
“I presume it’ll be Kópavogur, as that’s the branch he uses, but I couldn’t tell you when for sure. You’d have to speak to the personal financial adviser yourself.”
Gunna drummed the desk with her fingers. “And do you have a name and a number for this person?”
“It’s Hrannar Antonsson, and his direct line is the bank’s usual number, but the last three digits are 967.”
“Thanks very much, you’ve been a great help,” Gunna said, putting the phone down. “Eventually.”
She wondered whether to call Hrannar Antonsson’s number or the mobile number for Jón Jóhannsson. A call to him could alert him to the hunt, but surely the man would know already that he was being searched for—assuming he had been responsible for Bjartmar’s death. She quickly punched the seven digits of the mobile number and listened to it ring for a long time before a small voice spoke at the far end.
“Hello …?”
“Hello. Who am I speaking to, please?” Gunna enquired politely. “Elín Harpa.
Who’s this?”
“This is Gunnhildur Gísladóttir at the CID Serious Crime Unit. I’m looking for Jón Jóhannsson.”
“Police?”
“That’s right.”
“He’s gone out and he forgot to take his phone,” Elín Harpa said defensively. “Why? What’s he done?”
“This number came up in connection with an investigation and I just need to make some checks,” Gunna said carefully, wondering who this woman was. “Are you his wife?” she asked, hoping that this would elicit an explanation.
“No. He just stayed here a few nights.”
“Elín, look, I don’t want to alarm you, but this could be in connection with a serious incident and there’s a possibility that you could be at risk. I’d very much like to talk to you, but face to face would be better. Can you tell me where you live? I can be there right away,” Gunna said, trying to keep her voice calm.
But the connection closed and the dialling tone wailed in her ear.
“Damn and blast …”
“What’s up, chief?” Helgi asked. “Just been speaking to our man’s wife, a nice enough lady, understandably worried about him. Says it takes a while to wind him up, but when he’s angry, he has a right temper on him.”
“Anything that sheds light on all this?”
“The man’s a plumber, had his own business but they lost a load of money when a big customer went tits up. In a nutshell, they lost the house, the jeep, all the rest of it, and the bank’s still pursuing them for this and that, all bought on foreign currency loans, even though they don’t have anything left.”
“That bloke at the bank I spoke to didn’t tell me any of this,” Gunna said angrily.
“Well I don’t suppose they want to tell the whole world what a bunch of grasping bastards they are,” Helgi observed. “Anyway, Jón and Linda went their separate ways around the time the house was repossessed. She took the kid and went back to her mother’s, who lives in Hella, and she hasn’t heard a lot from him since then. She reckons he’s been staying with his half-brother, doesn’t know where the man lives, but he’s a schoolteacher called Samúel Ólafsson.”
“Eiríkur!” Gunna called.
“Yes, chief?”
“One for you. Can you track down a schoolteacher called Samúel Ólafsson? No idea which school, but do your best. Looks like he’s our boy’s brother and that’s where he’s been living.” Gunna turned back to Helgi. “But I’d like to know who this Elín Harpa is and why she answered his phone.”
Helgi raised an eyebrow. “No idea …”
“Can you alert the Laxdal and Steingrímur and warn them that we may be looking at an encounter with our man in Kópavogur, either in or close to the bank on the corner of Hamraborg?”
She pulled the phone back across, punched in the number for Hrannar Antonsson and listened to it ring.
“Hello, Hrannar’s phone,” a cheerful female voice greeted her.
“Good morning, this is Gunnhildur Gísladóttir at the CID Serious Crime Unit,” Gunna said for the tenth time that morning. “I’m trying to get in touch with Hrannar Antonsson and it’s urgent.”
HIS STOMACH RUMBLED as he sat with his coat wrapped around him and his hands deep in the pockets, pushed through the lining to give him a grip on the shotgun. He looked around repeatedly, watching the time tick past ten o’clock, wondering where the bloody boy had got to.
The tension that had been building up in him all morning had disappeared as if it had evaporated suddenly the moment he had pushed the door of the bank aside. He felt slightly lightheaded, but fully in control, as if he were watching the scene from above. He imagined looking straight down on himself, sprawled in what passed for an easy chair while the bank’s activity went on around him in a blur of people moving between offices and desks. He felt his feet begin to numb and wondered just how long the bloody man was going to take.
At last the familiar pink shirt appeared and came across to him, a hand extended.
“Good morning. I’m so sorry I’m late. There was an accident on Vesterlandsvegur and the traffic backed right up. Shall we?” Hrannar asked with a smile, gesturing towards an interview room.
Jón grasped the proffered hand, gripping it for slightly longer than was comfortable or necessary, and noticing a flash of discomfort in the boy’s smile. He kept the coat closed around him as he followed Hrannar to the glass-sided interview room and took a seat opposite him.
“I can see you’ve had a really rough time of it these last few weeks,” Hrannar said, tapping at the computer on the desk. “I’m just calling up all your details so we can review your status.”
Jón grunted in response. There was nothing to say. He didn’t need a youngster with a ridiculous haircut to tell him that he was broke and bankrupt. He looked at Hrannar, thinking to himself how stupid it would be to have that patch of hair in the middle of your head slicked up like that.