Cold Steal (9 page)

This time she rolled her eyes. ‘Look, Villi was a businessman. There must be hundreds of people who have been sticking pins in wax effigies of him over the years. Then there’s his wife, of course.’

‘Saga? Why do you say that?’

‘You’ve met her. Surely you can figure it out.’

‘I can. But I want to hear your take on it.’

Sunna María sighed. ‘Villi didn’t have a faithful bone in his body. He physically wasn’t capable of keeping his dick in his trousers, and a man with money to throw around doesn’t need to. He had a constant stream of mistresses and girlfriends.’

‘Does that include you?’

‘Please . . .’

‘I can’t not ask. You must realize that.’

‘All right. Yes. But it was a very long time ago. When we were at university. Long before he met Saga and way before I met Jóhann. Does that answer your question?’

‘How come you and Jóhann came in as business partners?’

Sunna María sat back and dropped the roll she had buttered back on the plate. ‘I knew the boys because we were at college together. Jóhann had some money to invest back in 2003 or 2004 and we wanted to do more than just fix people’s teeth.’

‘Your husband’s a dentist?’ Gunna asked, although she had already found this out and had called the smart practice in the Kringlan shopping centre the day before to see if he might be there.

‘And a very good one. He bought a practice not long after he qualified, years ago – bought out an old boy who was ready to pack it in and retire to the golf course. Well, after a couple of years it turned out the building off Lindargata was worth a fortune, so he sold it to a developer who built a petrol station and a 10-11 store on the site. Jóhann banked the cash, got himself a smart financial adviser and rented a new place instead. That’s when he started investing here and there.’

‘And that’s where Vilhelm and Elvar came in?’

‘Something like that. By 2006 they had figured out which way things were going to go here, so they started moving their business out of the country. Nothing flashy, just buying up smallish companies that weren’t doing so well, putting in a project manager to split them up or turn them around, and once the books looked more positive, selling them on. It was good business. It still is. Elvar is still busy, but Villi had taken something of a back seat.’

‘And Jóhann and you?’

‘We still have a couple of companies that are active with Elvar and Villi.’

‘So what about Sólfell Investment? That didn’t do so well?’

Sunna María looked uncomfortable for the first time. ‘That didn’t go as successfully as it should have done. It was an investment vehicle with a few other partners to develop some real estate here in the city.’

‘What went wrong?’

‘I knew it was a mistake from the start and Elvar didn’t like it, said it was too risky. In 2007 we bought some land. That’s our other company, Sólfell Property, which has been doing rather well . . .’ She looked up and smiled, waving across the room.

A slim young man in a silver jacket appeared by the table.

‘Why are you here, darling?’ he asked, almost pleading and staring at Gunna’s uniform in surprise. ‘This place is just so plastic.’

‘I know, Siddi. I’m so sorry, but I had some problems at home and had to move out for a few days while they’re sorted out.’

‘Plumbing again? I remember telling you there was something wrong with the water.’

‘Yes, Siddi, and you were quite right.’ She picked up her room key from the table and handed it to the young man. ‘I’m in three oh five. You just go up and wait for me, I won’t be long.’

‘Pedicure,’ Sunna María explained when Siddi had departed towards the lobby and the lifts. ‘Siddi works wonders.’

‘I’m going to need a list of companies, and a list of people.’

‘Suspects, you mean?’

‘People who could conceivably be suspects, and I’ll need it today.’

Sunna María looked horrified. ‘Today? My diary’s already full.’

‘In that case you’d best cancel a few things, because this isn’t going to wait,’ Gunna said. ‘You’ve time to get your feet scraped, but after that we need to go through the details and get all the names together. Unless you’re not concerned about us being able to figure out who murdered your friend, of course? You were talking about police protection just now.’

‘Well, yeah. Of course I’m worried,’ Sunna María said, a sulky look on her face. ‘And of course I want protection if I’m in danger.’

Orri had been bad-tempered all day and snapped at Lísa that morning, leaving the flat without a word. He came back from work to find that she had left him an unwelcome sinkful of washing up. He scowled, ignored the plates and cups, and made himself a couple of generous sandwiches.

Leaving the block of flats and still hungry, he was grateful for the darkness that matched his mood. Although it was cold and the days still felt short, there was an undeniable smell of spring on the chill air. A few more weeks and there would be real daylight well into the evenings, which would push his darkness break-ins into night-time proper and the occasional thrill of exploring houses while the owners slept, although that meant that the easy springtime crop of power tools from sheds and garages would become a larger part of his activity.

He drove past Sunna María Voss’s house. There were lights on in almost every room and a car in the drive, a black four-by-four Mercedes that gleamed in the light of the street lamps. He shook his head, trying to push her from his mind and telling himself to concentrate. The two houses he had in mind for that night both looked to be quiet as he drove past, turning at the next junction and parking the car in the street above.

Orri walked back, patting his pockets as a final check that he had everything before slipping quickly behind the large detached house further along, which he’d already identified as being rented. Situated where the street curved gently, the back of the building could not be seen from the neighbouring houses. Creeping silently and with all his senses alert, he was sure there was nobody inside as there was no sound to tell him of any occupants. Normally a burbling TV somewhere was enough to tell him someone was home, although it wasn’t an infallible rule. People made noise, or generally surrounded themselves with sound, and the deep silence around this house told him there was nobody home.

This time it was the garage door that let him in. Like every house in the street, there was an integral garage built into the basement, and this one had both an overhead door and an ordinary door next to it. He tried to slide his strip of plastic past the door jamb, but the fitting was too snug and he fell back on the set of tools from his wallet, starting with a lever in the keyhole to provide tension, then quickly raking the lock in the forlorn hope that it was cheap enough to give easily. When that didn’t work, Orri looked over his shoulder, the sweat starting to appear down his back in spite of it being a cool night. He selected a hook pick and inserted it, feeling the pins click one by one until the torsion lever turned the lock and the door swung open. Orri grinned to himself in triumph. Picking locks was a skill he had painstakingly taught himself.

The garage was practically empty. The steel rack of shelves was clear of the usual paraphernalia that families collected and stored out of the way. He peered into the basement and saw it was empty, too, and with disgust, Orri realized that he might have spent time and effort breaking into an unoccupied house. There were the usual white goods in a row, but there were no power tools of the kind that he guessed Alex had a ready export market for.

He ascended the stairs and eased open the door at the top into the house itself. His soles whispered on the pale wood floor as his torch threw a narrow beam of light ahead of him. Like the basement, the kitchen was vacant apart from a few empty pizza boxes and cartons that had once contained noodles, stacked neatly on the worktop.

So there had to be someone here, he decided, wondering if they were preparing to move. There were cases in the living room, all locked, and he did not feel inclined to try picking the locks, at least not until he had checked the rest of the house. A tablet or even a decent smart phone would do the trick, he thought, that would be enough to have made the trip pay for itself.

In the bedroom there was a vast double bed, bigger even than the one he had seen at Sunna María Voss’s house the night before. This one was bare of any bedclothes but had a couple of cases stacked on it. It was one of the smaller bedrooms that was in use, with the bed meticulously made and only a very few personal items to be seen.

Back in the main bedroom, Orri clicked open the first case and immediately shut it again. A ThinkPad laptop, more than few years old and therefore worth next to nothing. Another case revealed another laptop, sleeker and newer, but still not modern enough to be worth taking, although it might do as a last resort, Orri decided.

The contents of a heavier case were what made him catch his breath as he snapped the clasps and lifted the lid. The metal parts of the pistol were nestled snugly in foam cutouts, waiting to be plucked and assembled. The case had a faint, sharp smell of oil and he wondered if the weapon had been used. Orri felt a sudden fear as he knew this was far beyond anything he could have expected. Even with his limited knowledge of firearms he could tell it was a specialist tool that gleamed malevolently in its padded case in front of him, a murder weapon designed for one purpose only.

He closed the lid and fastened the clasps again. The sweat broke out along his back as he felt an anxious hot flush of fear. In a rush of realization, he knew that the people who owned a weapon like that were not ones he would want to meet, and he wouldn’t even want them to know they’d been visited. He backed away, nervously keeping his movements as deft as they had been on the way in, terrified that he would knock over some pretentious ornament and set alarms ringing along the street. His feet made no more sound than they had when he’d entered the house. The torch was switched off and he made his way along the hall and back to the door leading to the basement and way out, reasoning that the clear route through the front door was too obvious.

At the top of the steps, Orri felt his breath coming in gasps and consciously made himself breathe more slowly, at a measured rate that also settled his mind and helped him think logically. There was no hurry. If there were anyone here, they would have raised the alarm. The place was silent. There was nobody here. Although there was no reason to hang about, he told himself there was no need to move as silently as a cautious mouse.

He crossed the basement in almost complete darkness and gulped in relief at the sight of the door, but relief morphed slowly into panic as the door refused to open. In desperation he rattled the immobile handle and turned to go back into the house and seek out another door, upstairs and out through the front door. He’d be in full view of the street, but what the hell?

At the bottom of the steps he paused at a sound a few inches behind his head. It was a full-bodied click, the snick of engineered metal that he’d heard often enough in movies but never expected to hear in real life.

‘Stand still,’ a voice behind him instructed. ‘Lift your hands up.’

Just like he had seen in the movies, Orri lifted his hands above his head and panted with fear. ‘I don’t mean any trouble. I’m leaving. I haven’t taken anything and I haven’t seen anything,’ Orri forced himself to say as clearly as he could.

‘Name?’ the voice continued in its accented English.

‘Orri Björnsson.’

‘And what are you doing in here, Orri Björnsson?’

‘I’m a burglar,’ he admitted; it was the first time he had said the word out loud, and it felt distinctly odd to be saying it in English.

‘You steal from people’s houses?’

‘Well . . .’ Orri began, twitching as swift hands began to delve in his pockets. A light flickered into life behind him.

‘A professional, I see,’ the voice said as the phone jammer was lifted from Orri’s pocket. ‘Not a particularly good model, but it’ll do the job well enough at short range.’

‘Look, I . . .’ Orri said, turning his head to look behind him.

‘Don’t turn round,’ the voice said softly, administering a sharp kick to Orri’s calf muscle that made him gasp in pain and force himself not to cry out. ‘So who are you working for?’ The voice immediately demanded.

Orri sniffed and blinked back tears that appeared unbidden. ‘I work for myself,’ he said finally.

‘You work alone?’

‘Look, who are you?’ Orri said, trying to think fast. ‘You’re not a cop, are you?’

‘Who do you work with?’

‘A friend.’

‘And your friend, he knows where you are and he’ll come and look for you if you’re not back at the right time?’

‘Or he’ll go to the police.’

This time there was a snort of laughter behind him. ‘That does not sound likely, Orri Björnsson. A thief going to the police because another thief is late getting home. I don’t think so.’

‘Who are you?’ Orri asked again. ‘Listen, I can help you. I can hear you’re not from here and I could . . .’ he said, but his voice faded away lamely.

‘I think we need to go for a walk, Orri,’ the voice said softly and his hands were swiftly hauled downwards and taped together behind his back. A second later a bag descended over his head and the faint light of the torch behind him was blotted out. Then he was spun round in a circle several times in each direction and roughly dragged, before his knees were kicked from under him and he collapsed in a heap. He could hear the voice making a joke in a language he didn’t understand and the sound of something scraping on the concrete floor before everything went quiet, even though he hadn’t heard anyone leave.

Gunna could see that Jóhann was tired. He looked younger than his fifty years, she thought, although he had clearly put effort into keeping himself trim. He was a slim, spare man with a mop of curly hair that had turned an incongruous pale silver grey. It made him look oddly youthful, Gunna thought, deciding that he must have been a striking man in his younger days. He fiddled with his glasses, turning them over in his fingers and putting them on to check the laptop in front of him that chimed at intervals.