Cold Steal (39 page)

‘You were doped,’ Gunna said. ‘As soon as you’d drunk that coffee, your friend didn’t need to worry any longer about being convincing. A witness saw a man answering your description leaving the building with this man on Friday afternoon. He thought you were drunk. So you wake up in the wilderness and then what?’

‘I think I’m lucky to be here. I don’t believe I was intended to survive.’

‘Maybe he got the dose wrong,’ Eiríkur suggested.

‘We’ll probably never find out what it was he gave you. Most of these drugs are out of your system after a day or two and this was a week ago. Rohypnol, ketamine, there’s plenty to choose from.’

Jóhann shuddered as he thought back to the moment he woke up in the distant ruined farmhouse.

Gísli fidgeted as the waitress took away the empty plates, casting glances around him.

‘Why this place?’ Gunna asked. ‘Not your usual stamping grounds, surely? I thought you would have preferred the place by the dock.’

‘Actually, I would have. But here there’s less chance of seeing anyone I know.’

‘Don’t want any of the guys to see you out with an old lady?’

‘Come on, Mum. It’s not like that. If we’d gone to Kænan then there’d be someone around I’d sailed with or worked with, or someone who knows Steini. We’d just be talking boats and engines.’

‘Instead of what?’

Gísli sighed and looked up as the waitress brought them fresh cutlery. He stayed silent until she had gone, shredding a piece of bread between his long fingers. A craftsman’s fingers, Gunna thought, like his grandfather’s.

‘I’m not a complete slob, you know, Mum. I do like to go to smart places occasionally. I came here with Soffía once or twice,’ he said wistfully.

‘How is she?’ Gunna asked.

‘Soffía’s fine. For a skinny little thing she’s as tough as old boots.’

‘It’s something that hadn’t escaped my notice,’ Gunna said as the waitress returned with steaming dishes. Pasta with chicken for Gísli, grilled fish for her. ‘Looks good,’ she said as the girl vanished silently into the background.

They were silent for a few minutes as each made inroads on lunch. The restaurant was quiet, with only a few lunchtime customers holding quiet conversations over their meals beneath subtle lights and sprays of dried flowers on the walls between dark abstract oil paintings. The quiet suited her. Conversation at the table had never been encouraged when Gunna had been growing up in a large family where food had to be eaten before it disappeared into two hungry big brothers, and the same custom had been unconsciously carried on in her own household.

‘The pasta’s a bit overdone,’ Gísli said eventually and Gunna stared at him.

‘Overdone? You can overcook pasta?’

‘Sure, mum. Haven’t you seen Steini timing it every time he does pasta?’

‘I suppose so. I hadn’t noticed that.’

‘It should be
al dente,
so it still has a little texture to it, not boiled to death like . . .’

‘Like I do?’

‘I wasn’t going to say that. I meant like a ship’s cook does it.’

‘In that case you can be forgiven.’

Gísli cleared his plate first and fidgeted again while Gunna finished her plaice.

‘Not bad,’ she said, downing her knife and fork. ‘Gísli, what’s bugging you? I know there has to be plenty, but what in particular? Soffía? Drífa? Any decisions? I know I’m only your old mum, so I’m the last one to get any information, but it would be nice to know what’s going on.’

‘I know Soffía would be your choice, wouldn’t she?’

‘I like the girl a lot. There’s bone in that nose.’

‘And Drífa?’

Gunna took a deep breath. ‘She’s lovely, but she’s a child.’

‘She’s growing up fast. I think she needs me more than Soffía does.’

‘You don’t have to tell me. I see more of her than you do.’ The words slipped out and Gísli flushed. ‘I’m sorry, Gísli. I didn’t mean it like that. You have to make your own choices and decisions.’

‘Like you did, you mean?’

Gunna frowned her eyebrows into a dark bar. ‘In what way?’

‘Like when you and my dad . . .’

She sat back and looked him in the eye. ‘Your father was a mistake on my part.’

‘So I was a mistake?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

The waitress sensed the tension as she collected their plates. ‘Would you like to see a dessert menu?’ she asked shyly.

Gísli shook his head. ‘Just a coffee for me.’

‘I would, thanks,’ Gunna decided. ‘As I’m being treated.’

‘Sorry, Mum. I didn’t mean to snap at you,’ Gísli mumbled. He reached across the table and placed a hand on hers.

Gunna wanted to snatch her hand away but resisted the temptation.

‘Listen. Your father was five minutes of madness. I should have known better, but I wasn’t much older than your little sister is now. I was sixteen when you were born.’

‘You must have been . . . ?’ Gísli said and stopped, colouring.

‘You can work it out easily enough,’ Gunna said sharply. ‘A month or so short of my sixteenth birthday if you must know.’

‘You weren’t . . . together at all?’

‘Are you joking? Your father was in the process of divorcing his first wife and the last thing he wanted was to be shackled to a wayward teenager. Why? You’ve seen him, haven’t you? What’s your impression?’ Gunna scanned the dessert menu the waitress handed her. ‘The fruit salad, please. And a coffee.’

‘Latte, expresso?’

‘Just ordinary coffee will do nicely.’

‘He’s a charming man,’ Gísli said. ‘In his own strange way.’

‘I wouldn’t say charming,’ Gunna said after a moment’s thought. ‘He’s a fascinating man, and when he was younger he was a remarkable character. But there’s a dark side to everyone and your father’s dark side is very close to the surface. So what did you make of him?’

‘Disappointed,’ Gísli mumbled.

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because he wasn’t interested, like I told you before.’

‘He must know when your birthday is but he never sent a present or a card, never tried to maintain any contact. But to his credit, I suppose, he never tried to claim you were nothing to do with him. You thought he’d have been waiting all these years for you to come and find him? Think again. He could have had access when you were a child but he didn’t want to know then. So why would he now? I’m afraid Thorvaldur Hauksson is a rather self-centred character.’

‘Have you seen him?’ Gísli asked.

Gunna let the fruit salad the waitress delivered sit untouched on the table in front of her as she wondered whether to tell Gísli the truth or not.

‘He left Vestureyri before you were a year old,’ she said finally. ‘It wasn’t exactly a healthy place for him to stay. He had an affair with a woman whose husband didn’t take kindly to it when he heard. So he left town and moved to Reykjavík, taking only what he could pack in the back of that old American gas guzzler he had at the time.’

‘That’s the last you saw of him?’

‘After I moved south to go to the police college I heard of him around town, but we didn’t run into each other, which was probably just as well. You were being looked after by your uncle Hafsteinn’s Anna Sigga at the time. They had three children of their own, so she said one more didn’t make much difference. It was very generous of Anna Sigga, I realize now.’

Gunna toyed with the fruit salad, but her appetite had deserted her, while Gísli sipped his coffee.

‘I saw him once,’ she said slowly. ‘You must have been about six or seven, I think. I was at the Hafnarfjördur station at the time. Two of the guys had been to a fight at a club and rounded up everyone who’d been involved, herded them into the back of a meat wagon and brought them down to the station to be charged.’

‘And my dad was one of them?’

‘He was the only one they had to handcuff,’ Gunna said sorrowfully. ‘It was a shock to see him sitting there having his details taken, sloppy drunk and with his hands behind his back. Someone had smacked him and given him a fat lip. He didn’t recognize me, I don’t think. At any rate, I didn’t say anything and just left the boys to it. I suppose he must have been turned out first thing the next morning because they were all gone when I came in for the next day’s shift.’ She forked up a slice of guava. ‘That was the last time I saw your father.’

‘You didn’t say anything?’

‘Not a word. I thought I’d leave the poor bastard a bit of dignity without having some young copper crowing over him,’ Gunna said and reached for her coffee. ‘So, how is he? He must be past fifty by now.’

‘Fifty-six,’ Gísli said. ‘He’s tired, I think. High blood pressure and he smokes like a chimney.’

‘Like a coal-fired sidewinder, as Steini would say,’ Gunna said and was relieved to see Gísli smile.

‘Something like that.’

‘You want some of this?’ she asked, pushing the fruit salad over to him and watched him spoon up what was left.

Outside the restaurant Gísli hugged her. ‘Thanks, Mum.’

‘For what?

‘You know,’ he mumbled. ‘Nothing. You’re going back to work?’

‘Oh, yes. I have to go and make some decisions before Ívar Laxdal makes them for me.’

‘Well, you’ve a track record of making tough decisions, I suppose. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Gísli walked down the street and Gunna affectionately watched his broad back as he made his way downhill, car keys hanging from one finger, until he was no longer in sight. When he had gone, she shook herself, recalling their conversation and setting off towards the Hverfisgata station where Orri Björnsson was waiting in a cell for the hour-long ride in a police van to the prison at Litla Hraun.

‘No! Absolutely not.’

Sævaldur’s face had gone an entirely new shade of red that Gunna had never seen before. Lunch with Gísli had driven Orri completely out of her mind for an hour and she felt raw after the long talk with her son, but deeply relieved that they had gone some way to making peace with each other again.

‘All right, give me one good reason, will you?’

‘Because I’ve been chasing after this bastard for the last year and I want him to stew in a cell for ever. I don’t want him to see the light of day ever again.’

Three years of working with Ívar Laxdal had given Gunna an insight into his character, and she recognized the glint in his eye betraying that he relished the sight of Sævaldur Bogason in full furious flow.

‘That’s still no reason,’ she continued. ‘He’s been arrested and he’s been charged. He’s no danger to anyone but himself and he’s hardly likely to go on a last burglary spree now, is he?’

Are you off your fucking head, woman?’

‘Ívar?’

‘My feeling is that Gunnhildur is right,’ Ívar Laxdal said. ‘It hurts to let this character out, but he’s been charged and in any case his lawyer can argue convincingly enough for bail. He’d get it, no doubt, as far as I’m concerned. He’s not a violent criminal and I can’t see him hurting anyone.’

‘Have it your own way,’ Sævaldur said, his frustration evident. ‘But I hope they throw away the key. Not that they’re likely to give him more than a pat on the back and ask him nicely not to do it again for a while,’ he added bitterly. The door banged behind him.

‘He’s not a happy camper, is he?’

‘No, Gunnhildur, he’s not, and I understand his feelings entirely. But if you have to, I suggest you get this done quickly.’

A few minutes later Gunna stood at the back of the least comfortable interview room as Eiríkur gave Orri back the contents of his pockets.

‘Sign here, will you?’ he said, spinning the form around and placing a pen on it.

Orri looked bewildered. ‘What does this mean?’

‘It means you’re being released,’ Eiríkur told him. ‘Pending recall for further questioning and a court appearance.’

‘But . . . I thought . . .’

‘Thought what? Thought you were going to be shipped off to Litla Hraun? Count yourself lucky is all I can say.’

‘But I don’t want to be released,’ Orri blurted out.

‘What? You don’t want to be let out? Listen, we get drunks turning up asking for a cell to crash in often enough, but you must have a good reason to want to be inside, surely?’ Eiríkur said with interest. ‘What’s the problem?’

Orri deflated in confusion. ‘Nothing,’ he said finally. ‘It’s all right.’ He switched on his phone and listened to the chime of it starting up before he stowed it in his pocket. He scrawled a signature on the form to confirm his belongings had been returned.

‘I’m going that way myself,’ Gunna said. ‘I’ll even give you a lift home.’

‘What the hell’s going on?’ Orri demanded. ‘Why is this happening?’

‘Why are you so suspicious?’ Gunna retorted. ‘I’m going to Hafnarfjördur anyway. I can drop you off on the way. But if you’d rather go over the road and wait for a bus, that’s up to you. I’ll be downstairs in ten minutes,’ she said and left the room, leaving Eiríkur to deliver Orri to the car park.

Gunna discreetly glanced in the rear-view mirror to make sure that Eiríkur was in sight while Orri sat slumped in the seat next to her.

‘I shouldn’t have told you anything,’ he said as the Golf swished through puddles on the way out of town.

‘You didn’t have to. Listen, Orri. What’s the problem? Go back to work.’

‘That’s what I don’t understand.’

Gunna slowed as they approached a set of lights. ‘What don’t you understand?’

‘I don’t understand why you’re being so nice,’ he sneered. ‘That fat bastard wanted to lock me up for ever.’

‘Sævaldur? Yeah, he’s a bit extreme. But we’re not all like that.’

‘So why the nice cop, nasty cop thing?’

The traffic crawled to a standstill on Miklabraut as a large four-by-four with tinted windows caused a furore of horns as it stopped across two lanes at the intersection.

‘If I wasn’t busy, I’d pull that idiot over and give him a ticket,’ Gunna mused. ‘Because that’s the way we are. Some of us are rougher round the edges than others. As far as I’m concerned, you haven’t been charged with any violent offences, your passport’s been impounded and it’s not as if you’re going to skip the country. So I don’t see the point in keeping you fed and watered at taxpayer’s expense. Do you have any idea how crowded Litla Hraun is these days and how much it costs to keep someone on remand?’