“Should be around six, seven-ish. Why, do you need me for something?”
“No, not really,” Laufey said, and there was a pause that set Gunna’s alarms ringing.
“What’s up?”
“It’s not me, Mum. It’s all right. It’s Sigrún. She was asking about you and why she hasn’t seen you for a few days.”
“I know, sweetheart. But you and Steini haven’t seen much of me for a while either, have you? Things are just busy at work as usual, and these days when there’s overtime on offer, I have to take it.”
“I don’t think Sigrún’s well, Mum.”
Gunna looked up to see Eiríkur gazing at her enquiringly.
“OK, sweetheart. I’ll be back as early as I can and I’ll make a point of going to see her this evening. D’you maybe want to ask her and Jens to come and eat with us tonight?”
She could hear Laufey’s breathing.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m walking down the hill to Sigrún’s place now. I’ll tell her, OK?”
“You do that, sweetheart. See you this evening.”
She ended the call and looked at the screen to see a text message in the inbox. She pressed the button to display it.
Come and find me at H-gata before 1700. IL, she read.
That’s going to be my bollocking for losing my temper with Sævaldur, she thought, and scrolled through the numbers of the missed calls again. Ten were from withheld numbers, three from Laufey and two from numbers she didn’t recognize.
“Eiríkur, sorry about that. Time to go.”
“You know Ívar Laxdal called you a couple of times and couldn’t get through. Someone must have told him we were out together and he called me to ask where we were.”
“And you told him that we were enjoying a relaxing mud bath in the Blue Lagoon, I suppose?”
“Well, no. I told him we’re at Litla-Hraun interviewing Ómar Magnússon,” he said innocently, and then broke into a grin.
Gunna started the Range Rover and reversed out of the parking space before swinging round and heading for the main road.
“You know, Eiríkur, Ívar Laxdal is one of nature’s anomalies. There’s a lot to be admired in a man like that, but I don’t believe he’s overendowed in the humor department, at least not where work’s concerned.”
“Maybe, chief,” Eiríkur agreed. “What did you get out of Long Ommi?”
“Everything I expected,” Gunna said grimly. “Everything and more.”
On the way back to Reykjavík they stopped at a petrol station, and Eiríkur went inside while Gunna pumped diesel. He returned with cans of malt, a couple of sandwiches and a grim look on his face just as Gunna swiped her card through the pump’s reader.
“All right?”
Eiríkur simply held out a newspaper so that she could see the front page of that morning’s Dagurinn.
“Shit,” she swore. “Jump in and I’ll move off the pumps.”
She gunned the engine angrily and had the newspaper out of Eiríkur’s hands before the car had come to a halt on the far side of the forecourt. Högni Sigurgeirsson’s mournful face filled the front page in unflattering close-up.
“‘Högni Sigurgeirsson, 26, is devastated by the loss of his elder sister, well-known TV personality and fitness coach Svana Geirs, who was cruelly murdered two weeks ago in her downtown apartment,’” Gunna read out.
“‘Nothing has happened at all. There has been no progress by the police and they’ve hardly talked to us, let alone kept us up to date with what’s been going on,’ says a heartbroken Högni Sigurgeirsson, who has taken extended leave from work to stay at home and comfort his grieving mother,” she continued. “The scheming bastard! It’s not as if he’s been even remotely helpful either. Who wrote this shit?” she demanded, looking at the double-page article for a byline and reaching for her phone.
She scrolled, punched the call button and listened to the phone ring until finally it clicked into life.
“Skúli? This is the law. Just seen your front page.”
“Me too. Nothing to do with me,” he said, and coughed. “So who wrote this crap?”
Skúli coughed again. “A freelance, I’d guess. I’ll ask and give you a buzz back.”
Gunna’s anger receded as she understood that the story wasn’t one of Skúli’s.
“All right, don’t worry too much about it, but I’d like to know where it came from. It looks like Högni is telling the press stuff that he isn’t telling us, but still moaning because we haven’t caught the bastard who bumped Svana off.”
“Fair enough. I’ll email you when I’ve heard anything,” Skúli said, and rang off as he dissolved into yet more spluttering.
“And?” Eiríkur asked.
“Don’t know. At least it wasn’t my tame journalist who wrote that shit. But it’s definitely time I had another talk with Högni.”
EIRÍKUR DISAPPEARED UPSTAIRS, anxious to check his emails, while Gunna wondered where Ívar Laxdal might be found and whether or not he actually had an office of his own. The man appeared to come and go at will, often turning up where his presence was not necessarily unwelcome, but was certainly uncomfortable.
“A result, Gunnhildur,” he rumbled behind her, and she turned to see him striding towards her with his arms full of ring binders.
“On what?” she asked, baffled for the moment.
“The Bjartmar Arnarson killing, of course. The man’s in custody and Sævaldur’s team are interviewing him now. I’m going upstairs. Talk to me on the way,” he suggested in a tone that made it an order. “How did you get on at Litla-Hraun? Helgi told me you were following up on the Ómar Magnússon business. Progress?”
“Absolutely,” Gunna puffed, stretching to keep up with him on the stairs and wondering how he managed to shift himself so quickly without appearing to move any faster than anyone else.
“And?” he demanded, marching along the corridor and swinging into one of the lawyers’ offices.
“Confirmed a lot of what I’d suspected, plus some new leads. Ómar didn’t touch Steindór Hjálmarsson. He was being paid pretty handsomely to do the time for someone else.”
“How much, as a matter of interest?”
“Thirty million.”
“Not a lot, I’d have said.”
“Ah, but ten years ago, thirty million was twice as much as it’s worth now.”
“I’ll grant you that. But it’s still ten years in a concrete box.” Ívar Laxdal put the binders down on a desk in the corner and made for the door. “Coffee?” he asked, striding down the corridor towards the canteen with Gunna again hurrying behind him.
Hell. I’m thirty-seven years old. Why does this blasted man make me feel like I’m ten? she wondered uncomfortably as Ívar Laxdal poured black liquid into two mugs in the deserted canteen.
“A good place at this time of day, Gunnhildur, because there’s nobody about,” he said, sitting at a table in the corner and motioning for her to join him. “Tomorrow, I want to see you at nine for a disciplinary reprimand.”
His black eyes bored into hers from under his heavy brows.
“Is this because I was stupid enough to give Sævaldur a piece of my mind this morning?”
Ívar Laxdal nodded.
“I’m sorry,” Gunna said heavily. “The bloody man winds me up so much, and after what he said about Tinna when she’d taken the gun off the nutcase in the bank, I’m afraid I just saw red for thirty seconds.”
“I know. Sævaldur has some difficulties adjusting to the twenty-first century. I know he makes an effort, but that’s not always enough. But I’d appreciate it if you would cut him a little slack. Completely between ourselves, he’s an excellent officer who should never have left uniform.”
“In that case, completely between ourselves, is he likely to be taking over Örlygur Sveinsson’s duties?”
“In confidence, Gunnhildur, the likelihood is minimal. But what’s your next step on the Svana Geirs case? Where are you now? I take it you’ve seen the papers?”