‘Don’t you want to know how the interviews went?’
‘I really couldn’t give a toss.’
Sigurdur Óli knew that Patrekur, Hermann and their respective wives had been brought in for questioning. Finnur had been in charge of the interviews and Sigurdur Óli would have obtained a transcript had he not been so busy trying to track down Thórarinn.
‘Hermann showed me a picture of himself and claimed that Lína and Ebeneser had been blackmailing him. Of course, he didn’t admit to having attacked Lína or to sending someone to find the photos. He was pretty pathetic in fact, and his wife was in tears throughout the interview. Patrekur was tougher, though. He denied everything.’
‘What are you going to do with them?’
‘I’ve put them under a travel ban. Patrekur admitted to having gone to see you, so it’s on record — that you knew about the case but failed to report it. I’ll be writing a report later and intend to send it to Internal Affairs. You can expect to hear from them.’
‘Why are you doing this, Finnur?’ asked Sigurdur Óli.
‘I’m surprised you’ve got the nerve to continue with this case,’ Finnur replied. ‘You’re far too closely involved, and if you don’t see sense, I’ll have to deal with the situation myself. I’m in charge of this inquiry; it’s not your little game.’
‘Are you sure you can afford to threaten me?’ said Sigurdur Óli.
‘Your position is not looking good, Siggi. You’re compromising this inquiry by turning it into a private vendetta. I call the shots and you should do as I say.’
‘Do you really think I can’t be trusted? Is that what you’re implying? You, of all people?’
‘Yes, that’s what I’m implying.’
Sigurdur Óli gave Finnur a steady look. He knew that Finnur was a good policeman but his manner had begun to smack of bullying and that would have to stop. There was no way Sigurdur Óli was going to put up with it, not from Finnur. From someone else maybe, but not Finnur.
‘If you keep up this bullshit,’ he murmured, leaning towards Finnur, ‘I’ll talk. Think about it. For your own sake, you’d better leave me alone.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You know a boy called Pétur, don’t you?’
Finnur stared at him without answering, his expression grave.
‘You know him — one of those lowlifes, never out of trouble,’ Sigurdur Óli said. ‘A brain-dead thug. Well, he was nearly killed the other day, just down the road from the station. Ring any bells?’
Finnur continued to watch Sigurdur Óli in silence.
‘If you think you’re the only straight cop around here, you’re deluding yourself. So you’d better drop your preaching and your threats, and just let us both get on with our jobs.’
Finnur’s eyes were riveted on him, as if he was trying to grasp what Sigurdur Óli was insinuating. Whether he understood or not, he swore violently at Sigurdur Óli before disappearing inside the house.
When Sigurdur Óli went into the station late that afternoon he found a package waiting for him. The man who had brought it in had refused to leave his name but his description matched that of Andrés, the drunk who had accosted him behind the station. The package was wrapped in a large crumpled plastic bag from a supermarket, but the object it contained was so small that at first he thought there was nothing in the bag, that it was just some stupid prank. Finally, after he had turned it inside out and shaken it vigorously, the contents fell out on the floor.
It was a rolled-up strip of eight-millimetre film. Sigurdur Óli placed the film on his desk and searched the bag again for a message or any more rolls of film, but there was nothing.
He picked up the film and, unrolling it, held it up to his desk lamp and tried unsuccessfully to make out what was on it. Then he sat, deep in thought, picturing Andrés as he had stood behind the station, trying to work out what it could be that he wanted.
He stared at the strip of film, unsure how he was supposed to react to this meagre offering in a dirty carrier bag. There could hardly be much to be gained from such a short piece of footage, and he had no idea why the film had been sent to his office.
It transpired later that the film was twelve seconds long.
22
Lína’s colleagues at the accountancy firm where she had worked as a secretary expressed themselves shocked and horrified by her fate when Sigurdur Óli went to visit them at lunchtime on Saturday. He had intended to leave it until Monday but was told that most of the staff would be working through the weekend because the company could hardly cope with all the business flooding through its doors. No one he spoke to could begin to imagine why Lína had been attacked or who could have wished her harm. He had a chat with one of her fellow secretaries and some of the accountants she worked for, as well as sitting down in a small meeting room with the deputy director, Ísleifur, with whom Lína had worked most closely. He was in his early fifties, overweight and prosperous-looking in an expensive bespoke suit. The company’s fortunes had been transformed by the economic boom and he put two mobile phones on the table in front of him, switched to silent mode, which took it in turn to vibrate during their conversation. Ísleifur glanced at the screens and dismissed the calls, answering only one, which presumably, to judge from the exchange that ensued, was from his wife. He told her gently that he was in a meeting and would call her back later; a line she seemed to have heard before.
He described Lína as an outstanding employee, a verdict that everyone would endorse. It was true: no one Sigurdur Óli spoke to had a bad word to say about her.
‘I believe she was interested in becoming an accountant herself,’ Ísleifur said. ‘She had a good grasp of what the job entails, which is more than can be said of most,’ he added smugly.
‘Isn’t it just a question of adding and subtracting?’ Sigurdur Óli said.
Ísleifur laughed drily. ‘That’s what many people assume, but I assure you there’s much more to it.’
‘Did Lína do a lot of work for you?’
‘I suppose you could say that. And she was a hard worker too. We often have to work late and at weekends, as you can see, but she never failed to pull her weight.’
‘What sort of business do you do here?’ asked Sigurdur Óli. ‘What kind of clients do you deal with?’
‘The whole spectrum,’ Ísleifur answered, picking up a vibrating phone, examining the screen and killing the call. ‘Individuals and corporate, big business. We do the whole caboodle, from the simplest bookkeeping to the most complicated contracts.’
‘Did Lína have a relationship with any of your clients?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Can you name any clients that Lína dealt with directly?’
‘Well, I don’t know …’
One of the phones began to vibrate.
‘… do you mean involved with personally or …?’
He checked the number and cut the call again.
‘Any sort of involvement — was she personally involved with any of the firm’s clients?’
‘Not that I’m aware of,’ answered Ísleifur. ‘Naturally you form more of a relationship with some clients than others, but as a rule it’s the accountants who get to know the clients rather than the secretaries.’
‘Do you know her husband, Ebeneser?’
‘Yes, but not well. He’s a guide or something, isn’t he? I know he’s organised corporate entertainment events for us in the highlands — barbecues on the Vatnajökull glacier, that sort of thing.’
‘How was his relationship with Lína? Good? Bad? Do you know anything about that?’
Both phones started vibrating and Ísleifur picked one up, apologising.
‘I should probably take this,’ he said. ‘The person Lína had most to do with was Kolfinna. She’s a secretary as well. Perhaps you should talk to her.’