Cold Steal (34 page)

‘Who do you think it is?’

‘I’d be surprised if it wasn’t our mysterious dentist, Jóhann Hjálmarsson, Sunna María Voss’s husband. He’s been missing since Friday,’ Gunna explained grimly. ‘I managed to trace him to a last sighting by an office block on Ármúli around four o’clock on Friday and a hired van that was returned on Sunday morning. Apart from that, nothing.’

‘What’s your best guess?’

‘That someone gave him a Mickey Finn, trussed him up and dropped in in the trench there just in time for the concrete to start flowing yesterday. It’s just as well it’s fresh concrete, otherwise it would have been like breaking through iron in a few days.’

‘And the wife? A suspect?’

‘Who knows? Maybe not in person, but certainly someone close to her, I’d say. Too early to tell if it’s with or without her knowledge.’

‘You’re going to question her this evening?’

‘Not sure. I’m inclined to let the pressure continue to build for the moment.’

Ívar Laxdal’s famous frown returned. ‘I’d have a word. It’s her property and she ought to be kept informed, suspect or not.’

‘You go, then. You’re the senior man.’

Ívar Laxdal preened for a moment. ‘You’re right. Why not? I’ll just assure her that everything’s under control and she’ll be kept informed.’

‘Perfect. Now I’m going over to that nice lady over the road who’s been dishing out coffee for a quick chat.’

‘What for? Is she involved? Or maybe she’s seen something?’

‘More than likely, but that can wait until we start knocking on doors. Right now there’s a more pressing issue. I could pee behind a bush like the rest of you, but I prefer not to cause a scandal.’

The truck had given him an extra day of life. He had seen the wreck squatting a little way downhill from the road and wondered what it might be. With dusk not far away and no other option, Jóhann stumbled across the tussocks to where the shape stood out against the darkening landscape.

It had been a lorry once, one of the kind that had been common in Iceland in years gone by but which had now long disappeared. The wheels had been taken off and there was only one door, but it provided shelter from the wind. Mercifully, the windscreen was still in place and unbroken.

He curled up where the driver’s seat had once been before everything had been stripped out. He guessed that the old Bedford had long since broken down up here and had been rolled off the road before someone had stripped it of the spare parts that were any use.

It wasn’t warm in there and Jóhann wondered bitterly how long it was since he had last felt comfortable. At least the rusting remains of the lorry’s cab kept the wind and rain at bay. As he pulled the overcoat tight up to his neck and wrapped his arms about him, Jóhann watched the sun set through the grimy windscreen, thankful that it had given him another day, although he was sure that now he was on borrowed time and that the day to come would be his last chance.

It was late and most of the bystanders had drifted off when the call came. Gunna and Ívar Laxdal stood side by side with Sævaldur hovering behind them. A forensics team was ready to start work, dressed in their white suits, although the team leader had already expressed his doubts that there would be much that could be done after the work of breaking up several tons of concrete had taken place.

Gunna clambered down a ladder into the trench where it was suddenly quiet. The jackhammer had stopped and the sound of the chattering compressor in the street was muffled. The body had been freed from the concrete, wrapped in a carpet and black plastic bags, and transferred as gently as could be managed to a stretcher to be lifted clear.

She made her way carefully over the sharp ridges of concrete and the officer who had wielded the jackhammer parted the carpet at the head end and exposed a shock of sodden dark hair.

Gunna looked in surprise at an unfamiliar face.

‘It isn’t Jóhann,’ she called up to Ívar Laxdal.

‘What? Who the hell is it then?’

‘Alex,’ Sævaldur said with distaste, the brim of his hat pulled down over his face. ‘His name’s Alex.’

‘So that’s why he hasn’t been at work,’ Gunna said, shivering.

‘Good morning, Maris,’ Gunna said in a cheerful voice that contrasted sharply with the expression on her face which instantly made Maris quail.

‘Hello,’ he said slowly and Gunna swung a chair across the floor, planted it backwards next to the bed and herself firmly on it, arms folded on the chair’s back.

‘The good news is, we’ve found your friend Alex. The bad news is, Alex is dead,’ she said and watched the blood drain from his face. ‘He was murdered, probably two days ago, and now you’re going to tell me every single thing you know about Alex Snetzler. Who were his friends? Who did he hang around with? But we can start with who was providing you two with stolen goods and who was your buyer?’

‘I don’t know,’ Maris said, still half asleep and running a hand through his tousled hair. ‘That was Alex’s business. I didn’t have anything to do with it.’

‘You expect me to believe that?’

‘It’s the truth. I’ve been here for a few months. Alex has been here for a couple of years. The flat was already full of stuff when I got here, and stuff would go and more junk would arrive. I didn’t pay it much attention.’

‘You knew Alex before you came to Iceland?’

‘No I didn’t.’

‘So how come you were living with him?’

‘It came with the job. I came here to work for Mr Vadluga and I guess it’s his place.’

‘Where are you working?’

‘It’s a place called Vison, just outside the city.’

‘Vison? Doing what?’

‘It’s a mink farm that’s just starting up.’

‘Tell me about Mr Vadluga.’

‘Boris Vadluga. He’s a businessman in Latvia, all kinds of businesses. He owns the company where Alex was working as well.’

‘Green Bay? The transport company?’ Gunna asked, reaching for her phone and standing up.

‘That’s the place.’

‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ she said, her phone to her ear and closing the door behind her. ‘Don’t go away.’

‘Eiríkur?’

‘Yep.’

Gunna could hear him trying not to yawn. ‘Listen. I need you to check out a company called Vison. Maris Leinasars works there. The missing dentist and his wife are involved with it, plus the same Boris Vadluga who owns Green Bay Dispatch.’

She could hear Eiríkur come to life. ‘Where Alex Snetzler worked?’

‘Precisely, and Orri Björnsson. I’m at the hospital with Maris. You check on Vison, I’ll go to Green Bay.’

‘Will do,’ Eiríkur said smartly. ‘Oh, and a bit of extra information for you. Guess who’s the owner of the flat where those two jokers were living?’

Maris looked at her with wide brown eyes as Gunna shut the door behind her again.

‘When did you last see Alex?’

‘The night this happened,’ he said bitterly, lifting up his splinted and bandaged hand.

‘How was he? Did he seem worried before this happened?’

‘No, not at all. He was going out for a beer somewhere. He seemed happy enough.’

‘Who was he meeting?’

‘I don’t know. His girlfriend, maybe.’

‘Alex had a girlfriend?’

Maris looked uncertain. ‘Well, maybe not a girlfriend exactly. He was seeing a girl. Emilija, her name is. She’s from Latvia as well. He liked her, but he told me he didn’t like her kids. They got in the way, he said.’

‘There are traces of amphetamines in the apartment you and Alex were living in, found in the living room and some of the clothes showed distinct traces. Where did that come from?’

Maris looked too innocent for Gunna’s liking. ‘I don’t know. Alex, maybe?’

‘Look, you’ve gone from being a victim to a suspect, so let’s do without the bullshit, shall we? These were in the bag of clothes in the living room. Your clothes. Alex had the bedroom. This tells me that someone had been handling respectable amounts of the stuff, not for personal consumption.’

Maris started to shake. ‘I don’t know,’ he whispered, cradling his smashed hand.

‘We also found some traces of precisely the same stuff in a house in Kópavogur.’

‘Not me. It’s nothing to do with me.’

‘Look, Maris. Have you been inside a prison? Icelandic prisons are great, very comfortable. Central heating and three meals a day. But if you don’t start to co-operate then I’ll make sure that one day you get sent home to sit out all of your sentence in a Latvian prison. How does that appeal to you? You’re not a criminal, are you? No friends there to make life easier? I’m telling you, you won’t enjoy it.’

There was a roof in the distance. Jóhann was certain of it. He had become more familiar with Iceland’s landscape than he had ever expected to be and he knew that there are no straight lines in nature. Everything natural is made up of elegant and subtle curves that turn and sway with the wind and rain.

But far ahead there was a straight line that jarred with the view he had become used to over the last few days. It was too far away to be distinct yet, but he was sure that it had to be a roof of some kind and hoped that it was a farmhouse with a plump farmer’s wife inside a centrally heated, well-stocked kitchen with a hissing percolator in one corner and the promise of a hot shower and an even hotter breakfast.

The thought helped him overcome the pain in his ankle as his pace increased. The track twisted over the base of a hill that spread out in front of him and the uphill gradient was hard work. He stopped to catch his breath a couple of times, leaning on a stick he had pulled from the fence by the cattle grid. Jóhann told himself repeatedly not to be too hopeful and that the dream of the plump lady farmer who bore startlingly little resemblance to Sunna María was a vision he could not afford to allow himself.

He was right. It took more than an hour before the straight line of the roof hove close enough into view for him to make it out. His pace slackened as he finally made out the lowslung farmhouse’s blank windows, like empty eye sockets in a dead face. The place had been abandoned years ago, just like the ruin he had already left behind him. This time there was at least a sign by the road; its paint was long gone but the raised metal letters announced that the place it pointed to had been known as Brekka.

He felt crushed by disappointment. Jóhann wanted to howl at the injustice of it. He had walked for two days, slept in a steel hut and wrecked truck, yet the sanctuary he had hoped for had been swept away. The plump farmer’s wife and her kitchen had been snuffed out in a second as soon as he saw the farmhouse’s blind windows.

He walked slowly, his energy eaten up by disappointment and his feet sore as he almost tiptoed along the road. Now each pebble underfoot hurt and he felt the gaze of the ravens that had retired into the distance earlier in the day suddenly closer than ever.

There was nothing to indicate where Vison was and Eiríkur found himself backtracking more than once along dirt roads that made the Polo rattle and rumble alarmingly. When he finally found the place, he was already irritated at having wasted time.

He parked in a yard between two long buildings where the lack of any other cars told him there was little likelihood of anyone being about who might be able to answer a question or two. He knocked and tried the handle of the first door he came to and found it locked tight. Another door marked Vison Ltd, Office & Reception was also locked and there were no lights to be seen. He shivered as he rounded the end of the building, stepping into the cold wind that stole down the hillside, and rattled the handle of yet another locked door.

Something about the place unsettled him. Eiríkur had always tried to fend off superstition, but found himself a victim of it when presented with dark and unfamiliar places. He had the inescapable feeling that he was being watched and walked back the way he had come, keeping his eye on the car. He walked quickly around the second long building, apparently identical to the other. Again there was nobody to be seen, and a perfect full moon still visible in the thin daylight between the torn clouds racing over the sky added to his discomfort.

He clicked his fob and the lights of the Polo flashed comfortingly as the silence was broken and a quad bike roared into the yard.

‘Can I help you?’ A heavy man in a blue padded overall asked as he got off the bike, removing his helmet and hanging it on the handlebars.

Eiríkur opened his wallet quickly, not giving the man enough time to read the contents, just as he had seen Gunna do. ‘Eiríkur Thór Jónsson, city police.’

‘Aha. And what does the law want with this place?’

‘Just being curious. The name came up in connection with an investigation and I thought it best to take a look.’

The heavy man looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘Which name? This place has only been Vison for a few months. Before that it was just called Akur.’

‘I can’t give too many details, but it’s a name connected with this location. What’s your connection with this place? You work here?’

The man grinned and unzipped the overall that had been closed tight to his neck. ‘Ásgrímur Stefánsson. I’m the manager. At the moment, anyway.’

‘Which means what?’

‘Ach. It’s complicated. You want a look around, do you?’

‘That’s the idea.’

He unlocked the office, clicked on the lights and pushed open a second door, beckoning Eiríkur to follow. He found himself in a cold, dark space, his breath visible in the chill. There was a moment’s disquiet and then the lights shimmered into life and he saw the room stretching away into the distance.

‘This is it,’ Ásgrímur said, hands in his pockets as he nodded towards the rows of steel cages that filled the place.

‘This is for mink, right? No animals?’

‘Yep. Mink. The animals won’t arrive for a while yet. We’re still setting up.’

‘So this is a new place? It doesn’t look new.’

Ásgrímur barked with mirthless laughter. ‘You want the full story?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘This was a mink farm years ago, back in the eighties. My family built the place and when the market fell to pieces we shut up shop. Closed down.’