“What for?” Steini and Sigrún asked simultaneously.
“Ach. Nothing serious. Just speaking my mind out of turn.”
“Well,” Sigrún said. “That’s something you’ve always had a talent for.”
Wednesday 24th
GUNNA DIDN’T HAVE to find Ívar Laxdal. He was sitting at her desk when she arrived at seven.
“Good morning, Gunnhildur,” he said seriously.
“Good morning. Steini sends his regards, by the way.”
“Thank you. Now …”
“You need to give me a ticking-off.”
“That’s right. Just consider yourself reprimanded. This goes on your record and there’s nothing I can do about that, but I don’t think you’ll need to worry too much about it.”
“That’s fair enough. I should have known better than to yell at Sævaldur in front of the others.”
Ívar Laxdal nodded wisely.
“That’s quite right. If you want to yell, do it in private,” he said. “What’s next on your agenda?”
“Depends. What did Sævaldur’s team get out of whatsisname— Jón Jóhannsson—yesterday?”
“Very straightforward,” Ívar Laxdal said with a shrug. “The man admitted everything, from shooting Bjartmar to threatening the bank teller. The technical team have been through his workshop like a dose of salts. They found the barrels of his shotgun that he’d sawn off, and even splinters that match the floor in Bjartmar’s house.”
“How so?” Gunna asked, intrigued.
“His first shot was at Bjartmar’s feet and it also did a lot of damage to the floor, so there were fragments everywhere. It seems that Jón burned his shoes and overalls in a stove in his workshop, and there were splinters in them that were left in the ashes. Simple enough,” Ívar Laxdal said with satisfaction.
“Motive?”
“Ah, this is where you come in, and where you and Sævaldur will have to be careful not to tread on each other’s toes too much. Jón Jóhannsson will undoubtedly be undergoing a whole barrage of psychological tests and it’s anybody’s guess what they’ll come up with. Certainly the man was under enormous pressure. He was up to his eyes in debt, had lost his house, and his wife had left, taking the child with her. In fact, she’s upstairs now as well. But what’s clear is that he was fixated on two people as the reason for all his misfortunes. One was the personal financial adviser who had become the face of the bank. The second was Bjartmar Arnarson.”
“And why was that?”
“Because Jón Jóhannsson did a great deal of work as a subcontractor for a subsidiary company of Rigel Investment called Arcturus Development.”
“The property development company.”
“That’s it. Arcturus built many of Rigel’s properties and went bankrupt leaving virtually all of its contractors high and dry, and some of those went under as well. Jón Jóhannsson came out of it very badly. That was six months’ work, and he reckons if it hadn’t gone sour on him, he’d probably still be in the black.”
“So he blames the late and unlamented Bjartmar personally for all his problems.”
“Pretty much,” Ívar Laxdal said. “And quite possibly with very good reason. What concerns me more than anything about this case is that it may well be impossible to find a jury that would convict him. My feeling is that the best we can hope for is a plea of insanity and a verdict that reflects that.”
“This is already a high-profile case. It was all over the news yesterday and again this morning,” Gunna observed. “It’s going to dominate everything for a few weeks, I’d expect.”
“Quite possibly, and it’s certainly going to divert attention away from Svana Geirs for a day or two.”
“More than likely,” Gunna agreed.
“Gives you some peace and quiet, in that case,” Ívar Laxdal said with a shadow of a smile. “But you might be interested to know that one of the Rigel Investment properties that Jón Jóhannsson worked on was the block on Lindargata where Svana Geirs lived. He’s a plumber, and he fitted her bathroom and kitchen, along with a great many others, of course. Thought you might want to know.”
“TELL ME, JÓN,” Helgi said softly. “What was it about Bjartmar?”
“Everything,” the big man replied quietly. A calm had come over him since the policewoman had led him from the bank with one hand on his elbow and the other holding his mutilated shotgun. Now he was relieved that he hadn’t harmed that stupid boy who worked there.
“You had a dispute with him?”
“Did I ever!”
“Did you speak to him?”
“Only on the phone a couple of times. Never face to face. But I saw him about often enough.”
“When was that?”
“At the block on Lindargata when I was fitting all those bathrooms and kitchens for Ingi Lár. We used to see him wandering about in his suit and wearing a helmet, looking like a twat. Then, after that, I used to notice him around his house. It’s only a street or two above my place.” He coughed. “What used to be our place until the bank had it off us,” he corrected himself. “Look, I’ve already been through this with your mate, the fat bloke. Why do I have to tell you as well? Not that I have other plans.”
“That’s because I’m working on another investigation that concerns Bjartmar. So was this the only time that you spoke to him face to face?”
“You mean when I told him just what a bastard he was and then shot him?”
“That’s it.”
“Yup. That was it. Never spoke to the man in person before.”
“So how did you know it was Bjartmar who was responsible for your financial problems?”
“Ingi Lár told me all about it,” Jón said with heat. “I know Ingi and he wouldn’t lie to me. He’s come out of it badly as well, poor old feller. His company went bust because Bjartmar’s company declared bankruptcy. Because Ingi didn’t get his bills paid, he couldn’t pay me, although he helped us out with what he could.”
He smacked the table with a palm. “Ingi’s broke as well now. He’s sixty and doesn’t have two pennies to rub together, so he’s doing odd jobs for people who used to work for him. Good, eh?”
He sat back and scowled.
“Who’s Elín Harpa?” Helgi asked.
Jón shrugged. “Some woman I did a job for. I think I left my phone there, but I figured I wasn’t going to need it in prison, so I didn’t bother going back for it.”
“Where does she live?”
“Off Hringbraut somewhere,” Jón said uncertainly.
“Where off Hringbraut?”
“Can’t remember.”
“How was she involved in your plans?”
“She wasn’t,” Jón said animatedly. “Look. I got a call asking if I could replace a kitchen tap. I did the job, took five thousand for it and that’s all. I might have left my phone there. Or I might have dropped it somewhere.”
“Where does she live, Jón?”
“Like I said, one of those streets off Hringbraut. I can’t remember which.”
“All right. If you won’t tell us, we’ll find her.”
THE RAMBLING HOUSE on Álfhólsvegur was closer to the road than its neighbours were, and Gunna could see people inside as she pulled up and switched off the engine. Not that many years ago, this had been a quiet residential street, but it had since become a thoroughfare from one end of Kópavogur to the other, with cars taking it as fast as the vicious speed bumps allowed.
“I’m looking for Högni Sigurgeirsson,” Gunna said to the wrinkled woman who answered the door. “Is he here?”
The woman didn’t answer, but stepped back and to one side to allow Gunna in, letting out a yell of surprising volume from someone so diminutive.
“Högni! Someone for you, boy!”
Gunna closed the door behind her and followed the woman into the kitchen, where an elderly man sat at a table and leafed through Morgunbladid while drawing on what Gunna could smell was a filterless Camel even before she saw the overflowing ashtray at his elbow.