“I …” Símon hesitated. “I was away yesterday and Magnús was the duty manager. He didn’t leave anything in the notes about an incident,” he said, looking at the two pictures. “Which one?” Símon asked, looking from the elegant blonde to the track-suited brunette, clearly perplexed.
“I’m working on the theory that they’re the same person. So either version.”
“This was taken at the Gullfoss. I recognize the bar. So was this, on the back stairs.”
“You know the Gullfoss well, do you?”
“There aren’t that many hotels in Reykjavík, not smart ones, whatever the tourist industry likes to tell people. There are a few of us who have worked in most of the city hotels at one time or another,” he said thoughtfully. “I was the bar manager at the Gullfoss Hotel a few years ago and came here when this place was opened. Then the company that owns this and several other hotels bought the Gullfoss as well. We tend to swap staff between hotels when it’s convenient, so I could find myself back there.”
“Why’s that done? Any particular reason?”
“Not really. It’s just easier to rotate staff to where they’re needed rather than taking on new people temporarily and then having to lay them off. I like it because it keeps standards high across the group. Sorry,” he apologized with a wry smile. “That two thousand and seven word again.”
“Seen this person?” Gunna asked, hauling Símon back to the here and now.
“No. It’s not a face I recall seeing, and now that you mention it, once you disregard the different hair, they do look similar,” he said, laying an envelope over the top of the head of the woman with the black wig. “Do you want me to ask the staff?”
“Actually I wanted to speak to one of your staff. Magnús Jóhann Sigmarsson. His name came up in conversation with staff at the Gullfoss and I understood that he’d be working here today.”
Símon grimaced. “He’s not here, unfortunately.”
“Any idea why?”
“Well, let’s say he’s a decent enough member of staff when he’s here and a pleasant young man …”
“But?”
“But he’s not punctual. He likes to sleep,” he said with a return of that wry smile. “He should have been here at twelve. He’s not here and instead of trying to get hold of him, I asked someone else to take his shift. So if he shows up at three, which is quite possible, he’ll be told he’s not working today after all and he’ll be given his first written warning.”
“All right. In that case, you have his address, phone number and so forth?”
Símon hesitated. “I’m not supposed to give anyone outside the company personal details, you understand.”
“It’s up to you. I’ll track him down anyway. Tell me where he lives and it just saves me an hour or so of enquiries elsewhere.”
Símon clicked and tapped at his computer, and wrote on a sheet of headed notepaper. “It’s in Hafnarfjördur. He’s only lived there a couple of weeks, so I may have saved you more than an hour’s enquiries,” he said. “Is it only Magnús you wanted to talk to?”
“To start with,” Gunna said, and Símon hid a rapid grimace. “I expect I’ll need to speak to a few more of your staff, but not today.”
“We’re more than happy to help with enquiries, but of course we’d prefer them to be as discreet as possible. The last thing any hotel needs is its reputation damaged, and that can happen very easily.”
“Not a problem. Kicking down doors isn’t exactly my style,” Gunna assured him. “Not unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
Gunna hammered at Magnús Sigmarsson’s door, and it remained resolutely locked and silent. It was on the third floor of a fairly old block of flats that had seen better days. There was no lift, and while there were buzzers by the outside door at ground level, there was no intercom and the door had been wedged open. Gunna peered the wrong way through the peephole in the door, but could see only the blank walls of a shadowy interior distorted through the lens. She could sense that the flat was deserted.
Not wanting to leave empty-handed, she knocked smartly on the door of the flat next door, from which the smell of frying onions and the sound of a radio indicated that it was definitely occupied.
“Good day, I’m a police officer,” Gunna began as the door opened a crack and a suspicious face peered out.
“No more trouble, please,” a voice inside pleaded in a thick accent. “You here for the boy again?”
“I don’t know which boy you have in mind, but it’s your neighbor I’m enquiring about,” she said and could sense the relief from the far side of the door as it opened and an olive-skinned woman surveyed her.
“You have …?” She asked, miming showing an identification card. Gunna opened her wallet for the woman to check. She stared at it for some time and nodded, apparently satisfied.
“Your neighbor, Magnús. Have you seen him today?”
“No, not seen him.”
“When did you last see him? Was it long ago?”
“Two. Three days, maybe.”
“Do you know him well? Speak to him at all?”
The woman shook her head in a way that made it clear she had little time for her neighbor.
“He hasn’t lived here long, has he? When did he move in?”
“Three weeks.”
“And you haven’t seen him today or yesterday?”
“No. Not seen him.”
Gunna gave up and fished in her pocket for a card. “This is important. You understand?” She asked, wondering if the woman was taking in everything she said. “If you see him, can you give me a call? Thanks for your time and apologies for disturbing your meal.”
The woman took the card and nodded as Gunna turned to leave.
“Not see him today. But we hear him,” she said suddenly.
“So he was there today?”
“This morning. Walls are this thin,” she said, holding up a hand with a minuscule gap between her thumb and forefinger. “We hear plenty. Too much,” she announced with evident disapproval.
“What did you hear and when was this?”
“Ten. Ten thirty. He have friend there. In the bath.”
“They were in the bath together?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Noise from bathroom.”
“Did this go on for long?”
“I close the door. Don’t want to hear.” The disgust in her voice was overwhelming and Gunna understood why there had been no neighborly contact. “I hear the door bang. Half hour, maybe. Then nothing. Quiet.”
“I see,” Gunna said thoughtfully. “All right, thanks for your time,” she repeated. “But please give me a call if you see him come back, won’t you?”
Jóel Ingi found it impossible to concentrate during the afternoon; he found himself gazing blankly at the screen of his PC several times, with his hands idle on the desk in front of him. Már looked in on him a couple of times without saying anything and carried on toward the printer.
In the middle of the day his mobile hummed discreetly and he squinted at the picture on the screen, where an image of Agnes looked back at him with that stern expression he rather liked.
“Hæ, darling.”
“What time will you be home? You’re not working late again, are you?”
It was an instruction rather than a question.
“No. I’m not feeling great. I’ll do another hour or so and then I’ll be home. Do you need the car?”
“No. Why?”
“I thought I’d walk home if you don’t need it.”
“All right then.” She sounded dubious. “I’m going to my sister’s for an hour. Text me when you leave work and I’ll be home at the same time as you. All right?” Agnes asked, sounding brighter.
“No problem, darling. Will do.”
He did nothing but sit at his computer for the following hour, and at the end of it he stood up, knotted his white scarf around his neck and pulled on his coat.
“Not feeling well. Not sure I’ll be in tomorrow,” he said to the girl at reception and was gone before she could reply.