Gunna flipped open her ID wallet in front of him. ‘Gunnhildur Gísladóttir, CID serious crime unit. Who are you and what brings you here?’
‘Like I said, I’m Óli and I sort of look after this place for my uncle while he’s. .’ he began, and his voice faltered.
‘While he’s inside?’
‘Yeah. Exactly. I had a call from a mate who said there was something going on here so I came to have a look.’
‘How are you related to Borgar Jónsson?’
‘He’s my dad’s brother. But he and Dad don’t talk any more, so I check on this place for Borgar sometimes. It’s about the only thing the poor old guy has left.’
Óli made to cross the floor towards the canteen area.
‘Stay there, please,’ Gunna instructed. ‘This is a crime scene and I can do without your fingerprints all over the place.’
‘Crime scene?’
‘You’re not aware that your uncle was released from prison eight weeks ago?’
‘What? No.’
‘He’s been out for almost two months and he’s been at a transition hostel. But what’s maybe more relevant is that his body was found downstairs earlier today. You didn’t know?’
Óli’s face had gone chalk white and he put out a hand to steady himself against the handrail at the top of the stairs. ‘What? I had no idea. . How? What happened?’
‘He was assaulted.’
Óli took some deep breaths and let out a long sigh. ‘Shit. . I saw on the news at work that there had been a murder out this way, but I never imagined it could have been Borgar. We didn’t even know he was out of Litla-Hraun.’
‘Someone knew. Considering what a mess this place is in downstairs, I’m wondering why it’s so tidy up here?’
Óli looked around in surprise. ‘Yeah. Who did this?’
‘I take it you didn’t? When you say you look after this place, what does that mean?’
‘I drop in here once a month or so to make sure nobody’s broken in or that there aren’t any burst pipes. Apart from that, nobody comes near the place.’
‘This was your uncle’s workshop, was it?’
‘Yeah. It’s all that’s left of the businesses he had before his. .’ He gulped. ‘His accident,’ he finished.
‘So your uncle built boats?’
‘Sort of. He owned the place and he had other businesses and properties as well. This place was run by a guy called Henning, and Borgar just left him to it, as far as I know. But when he went to prison, it was all sold off and I guess Hafdís dealt with all that stuff. Then there was the crash and nobody wanted to buy any more. So this place has been pretty much forgotten. It’ll get auctioned off, I suppose, sooner or later. The council tax bills are piling up and they won’t wait forever for their money.’
‘Hafdís?’
‘Borgar’s wife. She divorced him once he was inside and moved away. Took the kids with her as well.’
‘Full name? And where did she move to?’
‘Hafdís Hafthórsdóttir. As far as I know she moved to somewhere in Norway. Our side of the family doesn’t have a lot of contact with Hafdís, but I’m in touch with one of the children on Facebook.’
Gunna’s phone ringing in her pocket startled them both as it echoed against the bare walls.
‘Hæ, Helgi,’ Gunna greeted him. ‘What news?’
‘All sorts, Chief. All sorts. Just wondering when you’re likely to be back. I’ve made a list of people who didn’t have a very high opinion of our Borgar and I’m wondering where we make a start.’
‘Spoilt for choice, are we? I’ll be back in twenty minutes or so. In the meantime, can you organize a locksmith to get over to Borgar’s unit and change the lock, and a patrol to be here while the job’s being done? It needs closing up securely before we go much further.’
‘Will do, Chief,’ Helgi said and rang off.
‘You heard that?’ Gunna asked Óli, who had listened to the brief conversation with a dazed look on his face.
‘Yeah. I’ll stay here until the locksmith has been if you like.’
‘Good. I need your contact details and I’ll certainly have to ask you a few more questions, probably tomorrow,’ Gunna said, writing quickly in her notepad.
‘Hafdís Hafthórsdóttir, you said?’
‘Hafdís Helga Hafthórsdóttir, her name is. The children are Sævar and Sara Björt.’
‘Address?’
‘I don’t have it on me. Norway somewhere.’
‘Your name?’
‘Óli Már Baldursson.’
Gunna wrote down names and a string of home, work and mobile numbers before closing her notebook and giving Óli a smile as her phone buzzed.
Locksmith in 15 minutes. Patrol on the way. H, she read.
‘We’ll stand outside, if you don’t mind,’ she decided and followed him down the clanging staircase. ‘By the way, Henning — the chap who used to run this place — where’s he now?’
‘No idea. He was an old boy, so he ought to be retired by now,’ Óli said, discomfort evident in his voice. ‘But I don’t suppose he is. He’s not the retiring type, I guess.’
‘Full name?’
‘Henning Simonsen. It’s a Faroese name, I think, although I don’t know if he’s from the Faroes or if his family came from there.’
‘Any idea where he lives?’
‘Sorry. I try and steer clear of my uncle’s affairs as far as possible. I can do without the headaches, if you know what I mean.’
A blast of wind met them as Gunna pulled open the heavy outside door just as a burly uniformed officer was about to push it open.
‘Hæ, Gunna. Job for us, is there?’ he asked, looking Óli up and down suspiciously.
‘Just a quick one, Geiri. There should be a locksmith here in a few minutes to change the lock on this place. I’d like you to be here while it’s done and drop the keys in at Hverfisgata when he’s finished. Oh, and get him to secure the other doors while he’s at it, would you? Just make sure they’re bolted from the inside.’
‘But what about me?’ Óli asked. ‘Don’t I get a key?’
‘When it’s no longer a crime scene you can have all the keys,’ Gunna told him. ‘But until then it stays locked up tight.’
Gunna shook the rain off her coat as she walked in at the main police station on Hverfisgata and found Sævaldur Bogason on the way out. They had regularly clashed as uniformed officers more than a decade ago, before Gunna left Reykjavík for a country beat in her coastal village of Hvalvík, where she still lived, resolutely refusing to move to the city and commuting for almost an hour each way every morning and evening instead. Returning to Reykjavík after almost ten years to join CID, Gunna found that Sævaldur was still there and had been promoted, most recently to chief inspector. Wary of each other and each other’s methods, they generally kept out of the other’s way.
‘How goes it with Borgar?’ Sævaldur asked, and Gunna wondered if he was being friendly, helpful or simply inquisitive.
‘Early days yet. Plenty of people to quiz.’
Sævaldur spun a set of car keys on his little finger, twirling them and catching them in his palm. ‘There’s a guy called Kjartan you ought to talk to,’ he said finally. ‘The father of the boy Borgar drove over and killed.’
‘That’s understandable. You reckon he could have done it?’
Sævaldur shrugged. ‘No idea. But I was there on the last day of Borgar Jónsson’s trial and Kjartan was in the gallery as well. Kjartan went wild when the verdict was given. Snapped, I suppose. He yelled across the court that he’d be waiting at the prison gate for Borgar when he came out.’
Gunna’s eyebrows lifted and she nodded. ‘Like I said, that’s understandable. Eight years for killing the boy and then he’s out in four. Have you heard anything of this Kjartan since?’
‘Not a word. He was a sailor back then and he was at sea when his son was killed, somewhere off West Africa, and it was three days before he could get home.’