‘Must have been three nightmare days,’ Gunna declared.
‘I’d imagine he’s probably still at sea, and if it’s an Icelandic ship he’s on, he’ll be registered on board.’
‘Which means a chat with Customs. Thanks, Sæsi.’
‘I don’t know what’s the matter with Sævaldur,’ Gunna grumbled when she reached her desk.
‘What’s the awkward old fool done now?’
‘Nothing. That’s what’s so confusing. He’s actually been helpful.’
Helgi lifted his glasses from his face and let them drop to the table in front of him as he rubbed his eyes. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I suppose there has to be a first time for everything. Midlife crisis, maybe?’
‘Hell, I don’t know. I’ve never understood much about how men think.’
‘Speaking of which, how is your Gísli?’
Gunna sat down and nudged her computer into life. ‘You know, Helgi, I don’t see a lot of the lad at the moment. Hardly surprising considering he’s at sea for weeks at a stretch.’
‘He still lives with you, does he?’
‘You have all this to come. He lives with me in the sense that there’s a stack of post for him, I keep tripping over his boots in the hall and there’s a room in my house that’s full of his stuff. But that’s as far as it goes. He’s either at sea or he’s in Reykjavík with Soffía. He stops off, gives his old mum a kiss on the cheek if she happens to be home, grazes through the contents of the fridge, picks up his car and he’s gone.’
‘I’m looking forward to it already, although it’s more likely their mother will be the one who has to deal with all that stuff.’
‘And then you’ll get it again in, what? Fifteen years’ time?’
‘Don’t remind me. I’ll be a pensioner by then.’
‘I don’t know how you do it, Helgi. Supporting one family’s hard enough, let alone two.’
‘Tell me about it. Overtime helps, I assure you.’
‘Speaking of which, what progress on Borgar Jónsson?’
Helgi replaced his glasses, flipped through his notes and took a breath. ‘Ready?’
‘Fire away, my good man.’
‘The boy’s name was Aron Kjartansson. Borgar ran him over, didn’t stop and was arrested an hour later by officers Sævaldur Bogason and Thorfinnur Markússon. The boy was an only child. The boy’s father, Kjartan Aronsson, and his mother, Katla Einarsdóttir, split up a few months later. Kjartan made some very public threats towards Borgar at the time, both in court and in newspaper interviews afterwards.’
‘That’s all in the police records?’
‘Only the stuff about the arrest. I had a quick browse through the papers at the time, and there’s plenty about it all in there.’
‘All right. Continue,’ Gunna instructed.
‘Borgar owned a small import business that handled tyres and a few other odd bits and pieces — exercise bikes, cheap electronics, that sort of junk. Plus he had a garage and car wash that was on the verge of bankruptcy and the yard where the boats were built. Apparently that was the most successful business. Borgar knew practically nothing about boats; it was run by this Henning guy and Borgar hardly came near it.’
‘So what do we have?’ Gunna asked, leaning back. ‘We have Kjartan and Katla, both with a strong motive to bump Borgar off. Plus we have Henning, who presumably lost his job through this. Any others?’
‘Any number of dissatisfied customers over the years, or so it seems. But I reckon if I can find Henning he’ll give us an insight into them.’
‘Borgar’s family?’
‘Wife left the country soon after he was put away. There’s a rather strange daughter who does stuff with crystals and a son who doesn’t want to have anything to do with his father, both living overseas now.’
Gunna nodded. ‘Quick work, Helgi. Where did all that come from?’
‘A lot from Ásrún, the manager at the hostel,’ Helgi said, then hesitated. ‘Gunna. .’
‘Yes?’ she replied and looked up from her screen.
‘It’s Kjartan. Kjartan Aronsson. I’ve come across him before.’
‘He has a record of some kind?’
Helgi looked briefly uncomfortable. ‘He does, but nothing to do with this,’ he said finally. ‘Kjartan’s the eldest of four brothers and they’re all as hard as nails. I was at school with his youngest brother and we were close friends when we were teenagers.’
‘So he’s from Blönduós or somewhere round there?’
‘Almost. Their father farmed out at a place called Tunga. My dad had the farm at Hraunbær, which was a good way further inland. All of us country boys went to boarding school at Reykir for a couple of terms and that’s where I was at school with Kjartan’s brother, Ingi. I went out to Tunga quite a few times when I was a lad. My dad knew old man Aron as well and he used to buy a few litres of moonshine off him now and then.’
‘So what do you reckon?’ Gunna asked thoughtfully. ‘You have an idea of what Kjartan’s capable of. Do you think he could have murdered Borgar?’
‘Undoubtedly,’ Helgi said without hesitation.
‘Do you want to talk to Kjartan, considering you know his background?’
Helgi thought for a moment. ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘It’s probably best if you do it. I’d be interested to know what you make of him, and I reckon someone he doesn’t know would get more out of him. But I’ll have a quiet chat with Ingi later if he’s in Reykjavík.’
Gunna decided that the industrial estate where Borgar Jónsson had been murdered was a relic of an earlier age when buildings were thrown up with less bother, and progress had left the street behind before there had even been an opportunity to tarmac it. Deep puddles filled the road and Gunna’s car pulled up outside the deserted and locked unit covered with brown water. She had been on the way home, but had found herself unable to pass the turnoff to the sprawl of industrial estates that had spread over the lava fields outside Hafnarfjördur, and found herself driving around curiously in the gathering darkness, which was slashed by the glaring lights from offices and workshops.
Thankful that she had worn a decent pair of boots, she splashed around the deeper puddles. Borgar Jónsson’s unit at the end was the only one that was clearly deserted. Although she could see that while Jón Geir on the opposite side of the road was still at work, the office window upstairs was black, so presumably Lára had left.
She pushed open the door of the unit three doors along from NesPlast and was greeted by Tammy Wynette from a cracked speaker urging a woman to stand by her man, accompanied by a mournful baritone in poor harmony coming from an unidentified source.
‘Hello! Anyone there?’ Gunna called and a figure in overalls, its face hidden behind safety glasses, appeared from behind the car that filled the workshop.
‘Hi. What can I do for you?’ the figure asked, sliding the glasses up with grease-covered hands.
‘Gunnhildur Gísladóttir, CID,’ she announced, flashing her wallet. ‘You have a spare minute?’
‘Is this about Borgar’s place down the road?’
‘It is. Were you about yesterday?’
The man turned his back and as Gunna made her way around the car, she saw he was scrubbing his hands at a sink in the corner. The hand he dried and extended to be shaken was still black.
‘What year?’ she asked, nodding at the rusty Ford Bronco.
‘Seventy-two, or so it says on the registration docs,’ he replied, his face lighting up. ‘You know something about these?’
‘My dad had one years ago. It practically broke his heart when he finally had to scrap it, but there wasn’t a panel left that wasn’t rusted through.’
‘Shame.’
‘You’re Stefán? One of my colleagues spoke to you this morning.’
‘That’s right. The baldie.’
‘I’m sure that’s not how he’d describe himself, but yes, that’s him. I know he asked you about yesterday, which is when we believe Borgar was probably murdered.’
‘That’s right. Didn’t see anything.’
‘You’re here on your own?’
‘Yeah. Most of the time, but I wasn’t here yesterday,’ he said. ‘There’s an old chap comes in two days a week, but I can’t afford to employ anyone at the moment. There’s work to be had tarting up old cars for rich collectors, but not as much as there used to be.’