Winterlude (3 page)

‘I drop in here once a month or so to make sure nobody’s broken in or that there aren’t any burst pipes. Apart from that, nobody comes near the place.’

‘This was your uncle’s workshop, was it?’

‘Yeah. It’s all that’s left of the businesses he had before his . . .’ He gulped. ‘His accident,’ he finished.

‘So your uncle built boats?’

‘Sort of. He owned the place and he had other businesses and properties as well. This place was run by a guy called Henning, and Borgar just left him to it, as far as I know. But when he went to prison, it was all sold off and I guess Hafdís dealt with all that stuff. Then there was the crash and nobody wanted to buy any more. So this place has been pretty much forgotten. It’ll get auctioned off, I suppose, sooner or later. The council tax bills are piling up and they won’t wait forever for their money.’

‘Hafdís?’

‘Borgar’s wife. She divorced him once he was inside and moved away. Took the kids with her as well.’

‘Full name? And where did she move to?’

‘Hafdís Hafthórsdóttir. As far as I know she moved to somewhere in Norway. Our side of the family doesn’t have a lot of contact with Hafdís, but I’m in touch with one of the children on Facebook.’

Gunna’s phone ringing in her pocket startled them both as it echoed against the bare walls.

‘
Hæ
, Helgi,’ Gunna greeted him. ‘What news?’

‘All sorts, Chief. All sorts. Just wondering when you’re likely to be back. I’ve made a list of people who didn’t have a very high opinion of our Borgar and I’m wondering where we make a start.’

‘Spoilt for choice, are we? I’ll be back in twenty minutes or so. In the meantime, can you organize a locksmith to get over to Borgar’s unit and change the lock, and a patrol to be here while the job’s being done? It needs closing up securely before we go much further.’

‘Will do, Chief,’ Helgi said and rang off.

‘You heard that?’ Gunna asked Óli, who had listened to the brief conversation with a dazed look on his face.

‘Yeah. I’ll stay here until the locksmith has been if you like.’

‘Good. I need your contact details and I’ll certainly have to ask you a few more questions, probably tomorrow,’ Gunna said, writing quickly in her notepad.

‘Hafdís Hafthórsdóttir, you said?’

‘Hafdís Helga Hafthórsdóttir, her name is. The children are Sævar and Sara Björt.’

‘Address?’

‘I don’t have it on me. Norway somewhere.’

‘Your name?’

‘Óli Már Baldursson.’

Gunna wrote down names and a string of home, work and mobile numbers before closing her notebook and giving Óli a smile as her phone buzzed.

Locksmith in 15 minutes. Patrol on the way. H
, she read.

‘We’ll stand outside, if you don’t mind,’ she decided and followed him down the clanging staircase. ‘By the way, Henning – the chap who used to run this place – where’s he now?’

‘No idea. He was an old boy, so he ought to be retired by now,’ Óli said, discomfort evident in his voice. ‘But I don’t suppose he is. He’s not the retiring type, I guess.’

‘Full name?’

‘Henning Simonsen. It’s a Faroese name, I think, although I don’t know if he’s from the Faroes or if his family came from there.’

‘Any idea where he lives?’

‘Sorry. I try and steer clear of my uncle’s affairs as far as possible. I can do without the headaches, if you know what I mean.’

A blast of wind met them as Gunna pulled open the heavy outside door just as a burly uniformed officer was about to push it open.

‘
Hæ
, Gunna. Job for us, is there?’ he asked, looking Óli up and down suspiciously.

‘Just a quick one, Geiri. There should be a locksmith here in a few minutes to change the lock on this place. I’d like you to be here while it’s done and drop the keys in at Hverfisgata when he’s finished. Oh, and get him to secure the other doors while he’s at it, would you? Just make sure they’re bolted from the inside.’

‘But what about me?’ Óli asked. ‘Don’t I get a key?’

‘When it’s no longer a crime scene you can have all the keys,’ Gunna told him. ‘But until then it stays locked up tight.’

Gunna shook the rain off her coat as she walked in at the main police station on Hverfisgata and found Sævaldur Bogason on the way out. They had regularly clashed as uniformed officers more than a decade ago, before Gunna left Reykjavík for a country beat in her coastal village of Hvalvík, where she still lived, resolutely refusing to move to the city and commuting for almost an hour each way every morning and evening instead. Returning to Reykjavík after almost ten years to join CID, Gunna found that Sævaldur was still there and had been promoted, most recently to chief inspector. Wary of each other and each other’s methods, they generally kept out of the other’s way.

‘How goes it with Borgar?’ Sævaldur asked, and Gunna wondered if he was being friendly, helpful or simply inquisitive.

‘Early days yet. Plenty of people to quiz.’

Sævaldur spun a set of car keys on his little finger, twirling them and catching them in his palm. ‘There’s a guy called Kjartan you ought to talk to,’ he said finally. ‘The father of the boy Borgar drove over and killed.’

‘That’s understandable. You reckon he could have done it?’

Sævaldur shrugged. ‘No idea. But I was there on the last day of Borgar Jónsson’s trial and Kjartan was in the gallery as well. Kjartan went wild when the verdict was given. Snapped, I suppose. He yelled across the court that he’d be waiting at the prison gate for Borgar when he came out.’

Gunna’s eyebrows lifted and she nodded. ‘Like I said, that’s understandable. Eight years for killing the boy and then he’s out in four. Have you heard anything of this Kjartan since?’

‘Not a word. He was a sailor back then and he was at sea when his son was killed, somewhere off West Africa, and it was three days before he could get home.’

‘Must have been three nightmare days,’ Gunna declared.

‘I’d imagine he’s probably still at sea, and if it’s an Icelandic ship he’s on, he’ll be registered on board.’

‘Which means a chat with Customs. Thanks, Sæsi.’

‘I don’t know what’s the matter with Sævaldur,’ Gunna grumbled when she reached her desk.

‘What’s the awkward old fool done now?’

‘Nothing. That’s what’s so confusing. He’s actually been helpful.’

Helgi lifted his glasses from his face and let them drop to the table in front of him as he rubbed his eyes. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I suppose there has to be a first time for everything. Midlife crisis, maybe?’

‘Hell, I don’t know. I’ve never understood much about how men think.’

‘Speaking of which, how is your Gísli?’

Gunna sat down and nudged her computer into life. ‘You know, Helgi, I don’t see a lot of the lad at the moment. Hardly surprising considering he’s at sea for weeks at a stretch.’

‘He still lives with you, does he?’

‘You have all this to come. He lives with me in the sense that there’s a stack of post for him, I keep tripping over his boots in the hall and there’s a room in my house that’s full of his stuff. But that’s as far as it goes. He’s either at sea or he’s in Reykjavík with Soffía. He stops off, gives his old mum a kiss on the cheek if she happens to be home, grazes through the contents of the fridge, picks up his car and he’s gone.’

‘I’m looking forward to it already, although it’s more likely their mother will be the one who has to deal with all that stuff.’

‘And then you’ll get it again in, what? Fifteen years’ time?’

‘Don’t remind me. I’ll be a pensioner by then.’

‘I don’t know how you do it, Helgi. Supporting one family’s hard enough, let alone two.’

‘Tell me about it. Overtime helps, I assure you.’

‘Speaking of which, what progress on Borgar Jónsson?’

Helgi replaced his glasses, flipped through his notes and took a breath. ‘Ready?’

‘Fire away, my good man.’

‘The boy’s name was Aron Kjartansson. Borgar ran him over, didn’t stop and was arrested an hour later by officers Sævaldur Bogason and Thorfinnur Markússon. The boy was an only child. The boy’s father, Kjartan Aronsson, and his mother, Katla Einarsdóttir, split up a few months later. Kjartan made some very public threats towards Borgar at the time, both in court and in newspaper interviews afterwards.’

‘That’s all in the police records?’

‘Only the stuff about the arrest. I had a quick browse through the papers at the time, and there’s plenty about it all in there.’

‘All right. Continue,’ Gunna instructed.

‘Borgar owned a small import business that handled tyres and a few other odd bits and pieces – exercise bikes, cheap electronics, that sort of junk. Plus he had a garage and car wash that was on the verge of bankruptcy and the yard where the boats were built. Apparently that was the most successful business. Borgar knew practically nothing about boats; it was run by this Henning guy and Borgar hardly came near it.’

‘So what do we have?’ Gunna asked, leaning back. ‘We have Kjartan and Katla, both with a strong motive to bump Borgar off. Plus we have Henning, who presumably lost his job through this. Any others?’

‘Any number of dissatisfied customers over the years, or so it seems. But I reckon if I can find Henning he’ll give us an insight into them.’

‘Borgar’s family?’

‘Wife left the country soon after he was put away. There’s a rather strange daughter who does stuff with crystals and a son who doesn’t want to have anything to do with his father, both living overseas now.’

Gunna nodded. ‘Quick work, Helgi. Where did all that come from?’

‘A lot from Ásrún, the manager at the hostel,’ Helgi said, then hesitated. ‘Gunna . . .’

‘Yes?’ she replied and looked up from her screen.

‘It’s Kjartan. Kjartan Aronsson. I’ve come across him before.’

‘He has a record of some kind?’

Helgi looked briefly uncomfortable. ‘He does, but nothing to do with this,’ he said finally. ‘Kjartan’s the eldest of four brothers and they’re all as hard as nails. I was at school with his youngest brother and we were close friends when we were teenagers.’

‘So he’s from Blönduós or somewhere round there?’

‘Almost. Their father farmed out at a place called Tunga. My dad had the farm at Hraunbær, which was a good way further inland. All of us country boys went to boarding school at Reykir for a couple of terms and that’s where I was at school with Kjartan’s brother, Ingi. I went out to Tunga quite a few times when I was a lad. My dad knew old man Aron as well and he used to buy a few litres of moonshine off him now and then.’

‘So what do you reckon?’ Gunna asked thoughtfully. ‘You have an idea of what Kjartan’s capable of. Do you think he could have murdered Borgar?’

‘Undoubtedly,’ Helgi said without hesitation.

‘Do you want to talk to Kjartan, considering you know his background?’

Helgi thought for a moment. ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘It’s probably best if you do it. I’d be interested to know what you make of him, and I reckon someone he doesn’t know would get more out of him. But I’ll have a quiet chat with Ingi later if he’s in Reykjavík.’

Gunna decided that the industrial estate where Borgar Jónsson had been murdered was a relic of an earlier age when buildings were thrown up with less bother, and progress had left the street behind before there had even been an opportunity to tarmac it. Deep puddles filled the road and Gunna’s car pulled up outside the deserted and locked unit covered with brown water. She had been on the way home, but had found herself unable to pass the turnoff to the sprawl of industrial estates that had spread over the lava fields outside Hafnarfjördur, and found herself driving around curiously in the gathering darkness, which was slashed by the glaring lights from offices and workshops.

Thankful that she had worn a decent pair of boots, she splashed around the deeper puddles. Borgar Jónsson’s unit at the end was the only one that was clearly deserted. Although she could see that while Jón Geir on the opposite side of the road was still at work, the office window upstairs was black, so presumably Lára had left.

She pushed open the door of the unit three doors along from NesPlast and was greeted by Tammy Wynette from a cracked speaker urging a woman to stand by her man, accompanied by a mournful baritone in poor harmony coming from an unidentified source.

‘Hello! Anyone there?’ Gunna called and a figure in overalls, its face hidden behind safety glasses, appeared from behind the car that filled the workshop.

‘Hi. What can I do for you?’ the figure asked, sliding the glasses up with grease-covered hands.

‘Gunnhildur Gísladóttir, CID,’ she announced, flashing her wallet. ‘You have a spare minute?’

‘Is this about Borgar’s place down the road?’

‘It is. Were you about yesterday?’

The man turned his back and as Gunna made her way around the car, she saw he was scrubbing his hands at a sink in the corner. The hand he dried and extended to be shaken was still black.

‘What year?’ she asked, nodding at the rusty Ford Bronco.

‘Seventy-two, or so it says on the registration docs,’ he replied, his face lighting up. ‘You know something about these?’

‘My dad had one years ago. It practically broke his heart when he finally had to scrap it, but there wasn’t a panel left that wasn’t rusted through.’

‘Shame.’

‘You’re Stefán? One of my colleagues spoke to you this morning.’

‘That’s right. The baldie.’

‘I’m sure that’s not how he’d describe himself, but yes, that’s him. I know he asked you about yesterday, which is when we believe Borgar was probably murdered.’

‘That’s right. Didn’t see anything.’

‘You’re here on your own?’

‘Yeah. Most of the time, but I wasn’t here yesterday,’ he said. ‘There’s an old chap comes in two days a week, but I can’t afford to employ anyone at the moment. There’s work to be had tarting up old cars for rich collectors, but not as much as there used to be.’

‘I know you didn’t see anything yesterday, but I’m wondering about the week or two before. Have you noticed any activity in Borgar’s unit? Or anyone new poking around?’

Stefán gingerly inserted a little finger into one ear as he thought, scratching deep inside with a thoughtful look on his face.