“No, of course not. My husband lives here as well.”
“And he’s at work at the moment, I suppose?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Nothing special. I was just wondering if he might have noticed anything. When do you expect him home?”
Gunna could see that the pink tip of Arna’s tongue was protruding from a corner of her mouth as she concentrated on the magazine pages in front of her.
“Him?” Eiríkur prompted.
“Yeah. I’ve seen him. What? Tolli’s back tomorrow night. He’s in London this week,” she added proudly.
ON THE WAY down the stairs to the street, Gunna welcomed the reappearance of the city sounds that had been ruthlessly excluded from Arna Arnarsdóttir’s hermetically sealed apartment on the top floor.
“So, Eiríkur, what kind of a haul do we have?”
“Half a dozen of the country’s finest to try and talk to discreetly. Two shady businessmen, Jónas Valur Hjaltason and Bjartmar Arnarson, plus Bjarki Steinsson, a high-flying accountant, and a brand new MP,” he said, counting them as he looked at his notes. “She said there were a couple of younger men who visited as well, but doesn’t know who they are.”
“Which MP?”
“Hallur Hallbjörnsson. Been a naughty boy, I reckon. Didn’t think the Social Democrats went in for that sort of thing.”
Gunna watched the street doors to the block hiss open automatically as they approached.
“Did you get any joy with that?” she asked suddenly, pointing to the security camera fitted above the door.
“No. The caretaker says it’s been broken for weeks, so no security footage.”
“Shame. Now, we’d best divvy these jokers up between us and see what we can get out of them. Do you want the MP or shall I?”
GUNNA SENSED SKÚLI’S awkwardness from the set of his jaw and the thin line his mouth made. She waved to him and his face relaxed as he saw her.
“Sorry I’m a bit late. Traffic,” he apologized.
“No problem. I don’t have long, though.”
Gunna sipped her coffee and glanced towards the counter, where a bored young man was waiting with a blank expression for something to do. Around them the shopping centre in Hafnarfjördur bustled with people buying their last-minute groceries under soothing artificial light.
“Already done your shopping?” Skúli asked.
“Nope. Left it to the boyfriend. D’you want a coffee?”
“Yeah. Why not?”
“Go on. Get me a refill while you’re there.”
He returned with mugs and a dry sandwich on a plate.
“Lunch?” Gunna enquired.
“Yup. Not much time to eat today.”
“Now then,” she said in a businesslike tone that made Skúli swallow and pay attention. “I’m sure we’ve been doing much the same sort of research on all this stuff, you and I. So tell me what you’ve found out and I’ll fill in the gaps I’m allowed to.”
“Svana Geirs was a talented dancer, did OK as a model, not very successful pop singer, even less successful actress, shameless self-publicist. Married twice, both times briefly. No kids. Numerous operations—”
“Operations?”
“Yeah, cosmetic. Thighs, tits more than once, I’m told, face lift, nose job, teeth fixed, liposuction. The works, more or less.”
“OK, understood.”
“She owns a third share of this health club, which has traded on her image from when she had a fitness show on TV. But from what I can figure out, the club has been struggling these last few months. Fewer customers since the bank crash last year, now that people don’t have so much cash to spend, and they haven’t been able to raise finance.”
Gunna smiled inwardly, recalling how only a few months ago Skúli had been a shy young man surprised at everything around him in the real world after all his years of study.
“There’s been a rumour flying around that Svana was linked with somebody prominent,” Skúli continued.
“Linked businesswise, or romantically?”
“Either or both. The rumour is that she had been sleeping with someone prominent, but no names. Someone prominent and married, that is. But what’s the state of things now as far as the police are concerned?”
“So the mystery deepens. We’ll confirm officially first thing in the morning that the victim is Svana Geirs. The family have been notified, so it’s all yours.”
“Can I have that now?”
Gunna thought for a moment. “The confirmation will be at eight tomorrow. But I reckon you’d be safe enough if it goes on the Dagurinn website after midnight. That won’t upset anyone and you’ll still be ahead of everyone else.”
“Brilliant,” Skúli grinned.
“Right. I’m going home,” Gunna announced, fumbling in her coat pocket for car keys. She looked down at their empty mugs, squinting at the remnants of sandwich on Skúli’s plate. “You ought to eat your crusts if you want to grow up big and strong. I’ll get these,” she added, striding towards the slackjawed young man staring into space behind the counter.
Sunday 14th
“WHERE D’YOU GET the number from?”
“From the brother, strange character,” Helgi replied. “I had to push him a bit, but he came up with it. It’s as if he wants us to find out what happened to his sister, but he doesn’t want to do anything that might actually help.”
“He is odd,” Gunna agreed. “You’d be odd if you’d grown up where he did. A country lad like yourself should know what these out-of-the way places are like.”
“That’s rich from someone who grew up in Vestureyri,” Helgi shot back.
“So, what have you found out since last night?”
Helgi looked pleased with himself. “There are actually two numbers registered to Svana Geirs, neither of which has been used for months. Plus there’s the number I managed to get out of Högni.”
“And?”
“It’s a contract phone, all paid up to date, and it’s registered to Fit Club. I asked for a warrant to track the phone, and according to the phone company it’s still switched on. It’s in the vicinity of the flat and hasn’t been far. At least, the connection has been through the same mast the whole time. And no, there’s no answer.”
“That’s quick work. Well done. So what do you reckon?”
“No idea,” Helgi said after a moment’s silence. “It could still be in the flat, but the place has been searched thoroughly. Or else it’s somewhere close by. Picked up by the killer and dumped in a bin, something like that?”
“Or been put somewhere we’re never likely to find it, more like,” Gunna said grimly.
“I don’t know. I’d have thought that someone who wanted to get rid of it would have switched it off first, or just taken the SIM card out and destroyed that, rather than leaving the phone lying about switched on.”
“Unless it’s some kind of false trail?” Gunna wondered.
FIT CLUB WAS less than its website had indicated, but managed to be everything Gunna found uncomfortable. Sandwiched between a residential area of 1960s blocks and the business district of Ármúli, the short street of which Fit Club was the main feature was full of cars parked badly across the club’s glass frontage. Gunna peered in and saw that a few of the running machines were in use. Rather than the bright young things that Fit Club’s advertising indicated, these were being pounded by middle-aged women and a few men, all on a mission to get into something slightly smaller.
“Agnar Arnalds about?” Gunna asked the waif-like blonde at the front desk.
“Er, like, who are you?” the girl demanded in return, and Gunna wondered if she really was thinner than the sad yucca plant in a pot next to the desk, of if she simply looked that way. “Police.” Gunna flashed her wallet quickly in front of the girl.