Summerchill (13 page)

Materials had already arrived in large amounts, stored under tarpaulins at the site, and now that the plasterers had done their work and gone, as many hands as Pétur could find in the holiday desert of Reykjavík in late August were being rounded up to push work to completion before winter set in, mostly Poles and Lithuanians. The upstairs floors would be finished in the next few days, then doors and windows would all need to be fitted and finished, and they would be working alongside the decorators, who would undoubtedly trail paint through the place. On top of that, Pétur was nervous that the owner would be paying the place a visit in the next few days, along with the interior designer, who would probably want all kinds of impossible changes.

With his provisions in the back of the pickup, Logi checked his phone, found a text message from Danni and called his number. He was tempted for a moment to slot his old SIM card into the phone and see if anyone had tried to reach him, but prudence prevailed.

‘Logi? What’s going on?’

Danni sounded frightened and Logi reflected that his erstwhile brother-in-law’s nerves were not cut out for the life of crime and wheeler-dealering that he had chosen for himself.

‘Just keeping my head down for the moment. What’s happening?’

‘That gorilla who came looking for you has been hurt. You didn’t shoot him, did you?’ Danni sounded incredulous.

‘What makes you think that?’ Logi asked. ‘Why? Is he in hospital?’

‘I don’t think so, but Alli the Cornershop is asking all kinds of questions. One of his nephews was here this morning, wanting to know where you’d got to, and I said I didn’t know.’

‘Anyone asks, tell them I’ve gone abroad,’ Logi interrupted him.

‘Shit, Logi,’ Danni warbled. ‘There’s a real shitstorm brewing here. You’re not up in Borgarfjördur are you?’

‘Sorry, Danni,’ Logi said, holding the phone away from his face. ‘Reception’s shit here. I’ll call you back when I’m in range.’

He switched off the phone, dropped it on the seat next to him and started the engine.

The road was a quiet one, with potholes that would become small lakes in the winter. Trees overhung the road, hiding a few summer chalets, and a row of new houses was taking shape behind them. It was a peaceful scene and when she got to three boulders placed across the road, Gunna understood why there was no traffic.

She left the car and walked back along the street, chafing at having her attention diverted from Axel Rútur’s murder and with that matter still very much on her mind. She knocked on the doors of several of the chalets and all of them turned out to be locked up and silent. She walked past the three boulders and tapped at the doors of a few more of the old houses with the same results. It wasn’t a surprise. These houses were too far from the lake’s edge to be popular as holiday homes, and on a Monday morning anyone living there was most likely at work.

The other half of the road seemed to be busier, and Gunna saw a few cars and vans pass. A little further on, she saw the reason, as a group of fairly modern units was home to a handful of workshops and garages with a car park at one end of it. The nearest was a workshop with music blaring from the open doors and with wooden window frames stacked outside, looking vaguely abandoned without the glass in them.

‘Good morning,’ Gunna called as she banged hard on the open door with a fist, so as to be heard above the music that suddenly dropped in volume as a face half hidden behind a red beard looked up at her.

‘Good morning. What can we do for you?’

‘Gunnhildur Gísladóttir, CID,’ Gunna said, flashing her wallet. ‘There was a reported shooting around here last night. I don’t suppose you were aware of anything?’

‘Nope, ‘fraid not. I don’t live here.’ The man looked blank. ‘A shooting? Really?’

‘So it seems. A couple of gunshots were heard, but that’s all we know for the moment.’

‘You didn’t send out the viking squad?’

‘They were here, yes. But I guess by the time they got here, it was all over. So you’re just here during working hours? You know any of the people around here?’

The man shook his head. ‘Nope, not really. Try Palli, the garage on the other side. ‘He does a bit of business with people around here, and he’s been here a lot longer than I have.’

Palli turned out to be a cadaverous man with a flat cap that didn’t look as if it had been washed for at least a decade.

‘Gunnhildur Gísladóttir, CID,’ she introduced herself and flipped open her wallet.

Palli looked past it and stared intently at her. ‘Is this about what happened last night?’

‘That’s right, a shooting incident. Did you hear anything?’

‘No, darling.’ He smiled. ‘I was at home, like everyone else along here. Have you spoken to Logi?’

‘Logi?’ Gunna asked as something in her head clicked. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Logi? He’s a good lad. He’s a chippy, I think. Lives in that black painted house on the end.’

‘You know him? Any idea whose son he is?’

‘He brings his pickup here to be serviced now and again, when he remembers. Logi Gunnarsson, his name is.’

‘It’s all starting to tie in together,’ Gunna said quietly as Helgi appeared in the office with a grin on his round face. ‘And what are
you
so cheerful about?’

‘The powder-blue Megane that was seen last night near the lake is owned by a rather nice widowed schoolteacher called Magnhildur Helgadóttir, as the Laxdal told us this morning.’

‘Yep. And?’

‘It’s for sale at a place called Car World up on Fossháls, and is in, wait for it . . . the same building as Stefán and Axel Rútur’s gym. Stefán’s Land Cruiser is tucked away at the back of Car World’s showroom, and a very nervous salesman is now terrified that he might be an accessory to something unpleasant by lending him an overpriced Megane that had been on their books for a long time and which nobody seems to want to buy,’ Helgi said, dropping himself into his chair, which complained at the onslaught. ‘So what’s all adding up, then?’

‘Yesterday Stefán Ingason assaulted Brynja Jónsdóttir, where he was looking for—’

‘Her boyfriend, right?’

‘Right. Logi Gunnarsson.’

‘You’re losing me, chief.’

‘Stay with it, Helgi. We’re getting there. The shooting last night—’

‘Reported shooting.’

‘The reported shooting last night took place somewhere close to the house where Logi Gunnarsson lives,’ Gunna said. ‘And the blue Megane places Stefán at the same scene. Too much of a coincidence?’

‘Far too much of a coincidence. So now we need to find this Logi Gunnarsson, preferably before Stefán does. And the best bit?’

‘Go on. Don’t keep a chap in suspense.’

‘Sawdust. The man’s a carpenter.’

‘Bingo.’

‘So where do we find him?’

‘You tell me, Helgi. You’re the detective. He’s not at home. He owns a pickup that we ought to put out an alert for. I’ve emailed you his driving licence photo.’

‘Wife? Parents? Where does he work?’

‘Good luck finding them. Oh, and his phone’s switched off. So if you have any ideas where Stefán could be, then be my guest. He’s the priority, considering he’s our prime suspect for the murder of Axel Rútur.’

Helgi screwed up his face. ‘I still don’t like it. Let’s suppose that maybe Logi Gunnarsson had something to do with the murder, which is why Stefán’s pursuing him?’

‘That could well be. But if we find Stefán, we can hold him indefinitely for the assault on Brynja. If we find Logi, we can only ask him awkward questions unless there’s something solid to link him to Axel Rútur.’

‘On the other hand, if we find Logi, then Stefán probably won’t be far away.’

The old man was wrapped up in spite of the heat, and he ignored Gunna while eyeing Helgi with undisguised suspicion. He coughed wetly into a handkerchief and folded it back into the pocket of his cardigan. The coffee table in front of him was arrayed with a variety of cold cures in glass bottles.

‘What are you looking for then, young man?’ he asked in a voice that was close to a whine. ‘Don’t you know I’m retired?’

‘Yeah, right,’ Helgi said. ‘When you retire’s the day the deepest level of hell will reopen a skating rink.’

Gunna stood in the doorway and cast her eye over the cramped, overheated room with its knick-knacks on the shelves. Helgi sat down in the other armchair without being invited.

‘You’re still in business, Alli, and there’s no point trying to fob me off with the usual bullshit.’

‘I’m an old man now—’

‘Crap. You’re not much older than I am.’

Alli’s eyes twinkled and she could see that he hadn’t changed a great deal since she’d first encountered him more that fifteen years ago, with his various ventures that generally included selling either dope, moonshine or porn videos too exotic for even the highest top shelves, or anything else that might make a dishonest living.

‘Ah, but I’ve had a hard life, Helgi,’ he said.

‘A hard life? Don’t talk shit,’ Helgi repeated. ‘You’ve sat in comfort and let other people do the hard work. Don’t we even get a cup of coffee when we come to visit old friends?’

‘If you like. I’d ask my nephew to make some, but I don’t think he’d be able to keep from dipping his dick in it if he thought it was for a copper.’ He looked up at Gunna and gave her a theatrical wink. ‘Apologies, darling. But if you work with Helgi, I’m sure you’re used to hearing that kind of language.’

‘I’m pretty used to it by now.’

‘Alli, let’s get to business, shall we?’

‘Fine, Helgi my boy.’ Alli winked at Gunna again. ‘How much do you need?’

‘Where’s Stefán?’

‘Let me think for a moment. No, I don’t know anyone called Stefán, except Stebbi Jóakims, and he’s in Litla Hraun at the moment.’

‘Stefán Ingason. Twenty-nine years old. One metre ninety-eight,’ Helgi said, slapping Stefán’s picture on the coffee table, where it made the medicine bottles rattle. ‘That’s the one we’re looking for. Where is he? I know for a fact he’s doing some debt collecting for you.’

‘Stefán?’ Alli said in a querulous voice. ‘I’m sure I don’t know any Stefán.’

‘How about Axel Rútur?’

He shook his head, but not before Gunna had seen his eyes widen first in discomfort.

‘That’s not a name I recognize. It’s an unusual name and I’d remember that one. Are you finished, Helgi? I have to take my medicine now.’ He coughed just as theatrically as he had winked, patting his chest with the heel of his hand, and looked up at Gunna. ‘Take him away, would you, darling? I don’t have anything to say.’

‘Sure?’ Gunna replied. ‘We have a witness who will stand up in court and tell the judge that you lent her a million krónur, and when she couldn’t pay back three million in interest, you sent the hard boys round. That’s harsh, isn’t it? Beating up a single mother in front of her kid?’

Alli’s face hardened, but he quickly recovered, and the pretence of being a frail old man vanished.

‘And I have a lawyer who will rip your witness up for arse paper in three minutes flat.’

‘It’s just a question of whether you want your dirty linen aired in public, isn’t it, Alli? It’ll have to go to court and the papers would have a wonderful time with you. That would be a terrible shame, because we know how you value your privacy.’

Alli scowled. ‘I don’t imagine your legal team would let a case like that go forward unless it’s watertight, and as it’s all a pack of lies, it can hardly be watertight, can it?’

‘Who knows? It’s remarkable what floats to the surface when you start to poke around a little, especially if the financial division and the taxman were to take into account your new car outside.’

‘I have a top accountant.’

‘That’s good,’ Gunna said, leaning down to look into Alli’s watery eyes. ‘Because you’ll need him, and even if the case doesn’t get as far as court, you’re going to have him on a retainer for weeks and weeks,’ she added, and looked at Helgi. ‘How much does a good accountant cost these days, Helgi?’

Helgi sucked his teeth dubiously. ‘I don’t know, Gunna. A good accountant can more or less write his own cheque. You’d be looking at a quarter of a million a day, I reckon,’ he said, and Alli’s pale face went paler. ‘You’d be talking about weeks of work to straighten out this kind of tangle. Nice car, by the way. That new Golf outside is yours, isn’t it? Not bad for a man who’s been on disability benefit for the last ten years.’

Alli shifted in his chair. ‘If I were to ask a few questions and find out where this character might be keeping himself – Stefán Ingason, was that what you said his name was? – then one hand would naturally scratch the other, wouldn’t it?’

Logi laid the boards one by one, packing insulation beneath them as he went and using a nail gun to fix them down quickly. The pressure was on to finish the job and there was no time to waste screwing them down carefully as he would usually have done. Halfway through the afternoon he stopped for a break and went outside to sit with the boys, leaving Hassan alone in the house to face Mecca for the second time that day.

He sipped water from a bottle and poured some over his head before he tore at the sandwich Tadeusz had given him and realized just how hungry he was.

‘Any news?’ he asked quietly.

Tadeusz nodded slowly and lit a cigarette as he lay back on the grass.

‘I have to call again tonight. But I think it will be OK. My aunt has a farm in the south of Poland near the Czech border. She needs some help around the place and you should be fine to stay there for a few months, after that, no problem for a good carpenter to get some work in Germany.’

‘That sounds good to me. This place is getting a little bit unhealthy right now.’

‘I understand.’ Tadeusz grinned. ‘I let you know tomorrow.’

Stefán didn’t need telling twice. As soon as he had finished the call, he was out of the door and heading for the Megane. It had collected a few scratches since yesterday and he was painfully aware that classes at the gym would have to be cancelled while he took care of business. He texted his students as he sat in the car at the lights, keeping his head low as he assumed the police would now be looking for him.

He hurtled through town faster than he knew was sensible, but unable to keep his foot off the accelerator. Nobody had ever made a fool of Stefán Ingason to quite such an extent and the pain in his arm was a reminder of that fact. Alli had found an off-duty nurse who’d disinfected and dressed the wound, no questions asked in return for a bag of money, but it still hurt, and he recalled the sour middle-aged woman’s lips, pursed in disapproval at the sight, tutting as she dressed the ragged injury.