Cold Steal (11 page)

‘Yes,’ Jóhann said in a dry voice. ‘Sunna, would you?’ He asked, nodding at the minibar in the corner of the room. ‘Ach, I seem to spend half my life in hotel rooms, and now I come home and have to spend the night in yet another one.’

He sipped the whisky Sunna María handed him. ‘Drink?’

Bára shook her head. ‘I’m at work.’

‘Not just Villi,’ Sunna María broke in. Nobody knows where Elvar is.’

‘There could have been two murders?’

‘We don’t know that,’ Jóhann said. ‘Elvar appears to have dropped off the face of the earth, but it’s not as if that hasn’t happened before. Both of these men are . . . were business acquaintances of ours.’

‘So you feel you could be subject to some kind of similar attack?’

‘Exactly. I’m not too worried, but my wife is concerned, as you can imagine.’

‘I see.’

‘What can you do?’

‘What do you want? I can provide advice on where to go and not go, what to do or not do, places to avoid, things to look out for. Or I can accompany you if that’s what you feel you need.’

Sunna María looked anxiously at Jóhann and nodded while he rested his chin in one hand.

‘Round-the-clock or daylight hours?’ he asked.

‘It’s up to you. I can sleep in the same room as you if that’s what you feel is needed.’

‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary,’ Jóhann said with a tired smile.

‘Can you tell me anything about the circumstances of these murders, so I have an idea of what we are talking about here?’

‘Villi was shot,’ Sunna María said, her voice welling up with pent-up anxiety.

‘I thought that was a drug-related killing?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Sunna María said.

‘So what can you do?’ Jóhann asked. ‘Anything?’

‘No guarantees. I can’t stop a bullet but I would expect to be able to keep you out of a dangerous situation.’

‘Good,’ Jóhann said with the air of a man who has made a decision. That’s what we’ll do. Can you be here from nine to nine?’

‘Of course.’

‘Fine. We’ll see you here tomorrow morning.’

‘You don’t want to know how much I charge?

‘No.’ Jóhann covered a yawn. ‘If I get murdered then I’m not going to be here to write any cheques, am I?’

Orri shouted out but heard only his own voice coming back at him. He strained at the tape holding his hands together, and in a fit of panic he pulled frantically, the broad tape cutting into his wrists as he did so.

Panting with anger and fear, he stopped and sat motionless, the unbearable pressure in his bladder forgotten as he felt blood trickling over his hands. He made himself think, banishing his loathing of the voice from his mind as he concentrated on how to free himself. Hands, feet, eyes, he thought. Any one of those would make it easier to deal with the other two problems, and after that he could think about escaping from this terrible house that he fervently wished he’d never set foot in.

He forced himself to relax, and as he did so he felt the chair shift under him. He wriggled in his seat and wondered what kind of chair he had been bound to, hearing it groan. He guessed wood from the sound it made. He tried to stand up, straining to straighten his body, and was rewarded with feeling the chair start to loosen its grip. He kicked frantically, both feet at a time, feeling the tape cut this time into the skin above his ankles as the chair complained and finally collapsed under him. It left him winded on the floor in its wooden wreckage, but he was able to slide his bound ankles over the ends of the chair legs, and the back of the chair had broken, leaving his hands taped loosely together.

Cautiously he sat up and shook away the remnants of the chair back that his arms had been tied across, finding that he could at least move them. He struggled to his feet awkwardly and took a few slow steps forward, blundering into a wall hard enough to make him see stars. With the wall against one shoulder, he stumbled cautiously around the room, trying desperately to remember what he had seen in it before he had been ambushed.

Just as he recalled having seen a set of shelves with a steel frame, he found himself walking into it, giving himself a knock on the side of the head that almost sent him reeling back in pain as he fought back his rising panic. Turning his back, Orri felt clumsily along the bottom shelf at waist height, his fingers becoming increasingly numb, and groaning with relief as he found the end, and with it the sharp edge of the steel angle bar that supported the shelf.

He sawed frantically, stabbing blindly to pierce the tape with the shelf’s sharp end and feeling it weaken further with each lunge, providing his wrists with further grazes and scratches, which he ignored in the frenzy to free his hands. When the tape finally tore under the strain he rubbed his wrists furiously to restore circulation. Before attacking the bag still over his head, Orri tore at his trousers with nerveless fingers, finally freeing his flies and groaning with relief yet again, this time as a stream of hot piss steamed in the cold air.

Finally he leaned uncertainly against the shelf and clawed at the bag over his head, dragging down deep breaths as he emerged into the semi-darkness. Orri looked around in suspicion, certain that he was being watched. He crouched down as he recovered his breath and the panic began to fade, leaving him drained after the effort of escaping from his bonds. As his heart stopped hammering, he took deep breaths and stood up, feeling faint, and made for the stairs. Listening to the muted rattle of the steel steps, he stopped and paused before carrying on and eased the door at the top open.

The apartment was empty. There was nothing to indicate that the voice or the voice’s companion had been there. The cases had disappeared. The beds had been stripped. Even the kitchen looked spotless in the glimmer of moonlight through the window. Outside the street looked cold and peaceful in the dull orange glow of the street lights.

He tiptoed back downstairs, feeling his pockets, and was worried to find they had been emptied. In the basement he took the chance of switching on the lights, and as they flickered into life, he was sickened to see the wrecked remains of a wooden kitchen chair in a pool of cooling urine laced with streaks of his own blood. Casting about quickly, Orri’s heart leaped to see his belongings neatly arrayed on the floor next to the back door. He quickly pulled on his shoes and stowed his keys, torch, lock picks, phone jammer and wallet in his pockets, and peered at his phone to check the time, seeing with a shock that he had been in the house for almost five hours; more than four hours longer than he had intended to be there. He also saw missed calls from Lísa and a couple of text messages, including one that read simply,
If you’re reading this, then well done. I’ll be in touch soon.

That set his heart beating with anger as he kicked the door. To his surprise it swung open gently. A flood of cold air stole into the basement and he escaped into the night, certain that hidden eyes were watching him.

‘Hæ,
Mum.’

Laufey lay on the sofa, legs crossed at the ankles, absorbed in the iPhone she had recently become the proud owner of.

‘Hæ
, sweetheart,’ Gunna said, lifting Laufey’s legs, sitting down and laying the legs across her lap as she did so. ‘How’s things?’

‘We were wondering where you were.’

‘Where’s Steini?’

‘Gone out. Some friend of his has a car that won’t start, so he went to give him a hand.’

‘So there’s nothing to eat?’

Laufey’s phone whistled and she put it down. ‘There’s what’s left of a casserole in the slow cooker. It’s a bit heavy on the garlic, though. Drífa couldn’t eat it. If you ask me really nicely, I’ll do you some pasta while I warm it up.’

‘That would be very welcome, darling daughter.’

‘All part of the service to the republic’s guardians of law and order, dear mother,’ Laufey said, swinging her legs from Gunna’s lap. ‘You’ve been busy? That guy who was shot the other day?’

‘You know better than to ask. But, yes. That’s about the shape of it.’

‘Are you going to catch whoever did it?’

‘I hope so,’ Gunna said grimly. ‘Is Drífa here?’ She asked, her question answered immediately by a wail from the next room.

‘Yep. You weren’t here, so we invited her to come and eat with us. Steini played with Kjartan until his friend called and asked him to help him get his truck going.’

‘Fair enough. Do I have time to run for the shower before they appear from the bedroom?’

‘If you’re quick,’ Laufey said.

Under the hot water, Gunna reflected that Drífa had become part of their household over the last year, until she had been allocated a small social housing flat in the village. Since then, Drífa and baby Kjartan Gíslason had become a frequent presence, particularly with Laufey spending much of her time with the pair.

Gunna had found herself getting closer to the girl, who had clearly come to rely on her as a replacement for her own mother, who hadn’t spoken to her since the baby had come into the world the previous summer. Now Drífa and Kjartan staying the night in Gísli’s long-abandoned bedroom was an occasional occurrence when she could see the girl was feeling particularly lonely.

Almost to her own surprise, Gunna found herself warming to the girl and sympathizing with her, but the question of which of the two Gísli might settle down with still nagged at her. Sensible, sharp-tongued Soffía would have been her preferred choice of daughter-in-law, and she still felt that Drífa was too young for parenthood, although Kjartan’s arrival had forced her to grow up rapidly.

She could sense that Drífa had made an effort to be independent and not to impose more than she had to on Gunna, who admitted to herself that she would not complain if the girl were to impose more, and she realized with discomfort that Steini saw more of her grandchild than she did herself.

Laufey was as good as her word. A plate of chicken casserole and pasta waited on the table as she emerged from the shower, scrubbed and fragrant, while Drífa sat on the sofa and Laufey held Kjartan. The little boy looked at his grandmother with wide eyes and held on tight to Laufey.

‘That’s granny,’ Laufey whispered to the little boy. ‘She locks up bad people, and if you’re naughty she’ll lock you up as well . . .’

‘Hæ,
Drífa,’ Gunna said, blowing on a forkful of hot food. ‘How’s things with you? The little man’s getting bigger, isn’t he?’

‘He looks like his father,’ Drífa said. ‘And he has the same temperament.’

‘Awkward, you mean?’ Laufey asked. ‘We get that from Mum.’

‘Yeah, and I get it from a long line of Westfjords wizards and bandits, so beware. Speaking of which, Gísli’s ashore now?’

‘Yep, yesterday.’

‘Hell,’ Gunna swore, fumbling for her phone. ‘He texted me this morning and I clean forgot to get back to him.’

‘He probably thinks you’re a bad mother now,’ Laufey chided, holding Kjartan’s hands as he stood in front of her on unsteady feet. ‘Your granny’s a bad example to us all,’ she told the little boy as he laughed and gurgled back at her.

Two of the men had moustaches, bristling moustaches that slashed their lined faces in half. Kalashnikovs slung over their shoulders, they brought with them the smell of smoke and anger, but the menace came from the slighter, younger man with the clean-shaven face and beady eyes at the back of the group.

Valmira watched with a feeling of disbelief as the young man inspected the kitchen and stepped forward to point at her father and brother, jerking his head towards the door. The other two nodded, as if carrying out an everyday job of work. Valmira’s father got to his feet and looked one of the two men in the eye, grunting a greeting that was returned in kind. Her brother scowled as he stood up from the table, quickly squeezing her hand as he did so, and she could see the fear he was bottling up inside.

Her mother was silent, arms tightly folded. Her father smiled at his daughters and muttered a blessing as he left. The clean-shaven man was the last to leave, turning to look at the woman and the two girls, giving them a thin smile that made Valmira shiver.

Outside they watched the truck make its way slowly down the potholed road, loaded with a dozen men and boys who did not look to see where they were going, while by the tailgate two men sat with Kalashnikovs cradled carelessly in their hands.

That night there was a crackle of gunfire in the valley below and Valmira’s mother began packing what belongings could fit into one suitcase and an old army backpack. They left on foot soon after dawn, letting the goats and the chickens out to fend for themselves, and Valmira looked back at her home for the last time as the three of them walked down the road, following the path the truck had already taken.

She woke with a start, the image of the white-painted house with its sagging tiled roof as fresh in her mind as the confused clucking of the chickens they left behind them. She shook off the dream, one that returned several times a year and which she knew from bitter experience would mean no more sleep that night. She slipped out of bed and went to make coffee in the kitchen, where she could sit and watch the day break over the sea in the country she now called home.

Valmira stopped the van outside Natalia’s house, gave a short blast on the horn and was relieved to see her come running across the grass, her trademark puckish smile in place.

‘Hey, Emilija, how’d it go with lover boy?’ She asked, taking the seat at the end as Valmira pulled away, the van bumping through puddles and splashing gritty grey water in all directions.

‘Ach. You know. Men,’ Emilija said.

‘Younger? Older?’

‘Younger, a bit.’

‘Young guys are useless,’ Natalia declared. ‘Find yourself an old boy. They’re so much better, and they’re grateful as well.’

‘I know.’ Emilija sighed. ‘You keep telling me.’

‘So how was he?’ Natalia asked slyly. ‘Did you . . . ?’

Emilija sighed again. ‘No. He ate everything I’d cooked and then Anton woke up, and after an hour trying to get him back to sleep, lover boy decided to go and meet his friends in some bar.’