Eiríkur opened his wallet and the woman looked at it with surprise.
‘Eiríkur Thór Jónsson. I’m a detective with the city force. There’s a clasp in your display case, a gold clasp and set from a set of national dress. Could I have a look at it?’
‘I. . er. I suppose so,’ the woman said, clearly in doubt, pausing for a moment for a second look at Eiríkur’s wallet before she took a key from the till and opened a glass-fronted display case. She placed a tray in front of him. The clasp and chain gleamed in the afternoon sunshine streaming through the windows.
‘There’s a problem?’
‘It seems that this may be stolen goods,’ Eiríkur said, letting the heavy chain run through his fingers. ‘So, unfortunately, I’m going to have to take this away with me.’
‘What? But. .’
‘I’m sorry. But until this is sorted out, I have to confiscate it,’ he said, taking a form from his folder and starting to fill it in. ‘Your name?’
‘Svandís Búadóttir.’
‘And you’re the manager?’
‘I’m the proprietor,’ she said, pushing out her chin and stretching herself to a height that almost reached Eiríkur’s shoulder.
Eiríkur completed the form and turned it round on the counter. ‘Sign here, please.’
‘You really are a policeman, aren’t you?’
‘The genuine article. Now, I’d like you to tell me how this came to be here.’
‘What business is that of yours? I mean, this is intrusion, surely? It’s intolerable.’
‘I’m sure the old lady whose bedroom drawer this was taken from thought the same.’
Her hands went to her mouth. ‘You mean it really is stolen?’
‘Very much so. Where did you get it from?’
‘Such a pleasant young man,’ she mumbled absently. ‘And such a beautiful set. He said it had been his mother’s.’
‘Did this pleasant young man leave his name?’
Svandís took a receipt book from under the counter, looked over Eiríkur’s shoulder as a couple entered the shop and smiled at them before her sour expression returned. She flipped through the carbon copies of receipts until she found the page.
‘There.’
He read, ‘Jewellery received from Halldór Birgisson,’ followed by an identity number and a price that prompted Eiríkur to do a double-take.
‘Is that how much this stuff costs?’ He asked, picking the price tag off the tray the jewellery had been placed in and calculating that Svandís expected to charge roughly double what she had paid for it.
‘It’s old. Nineteenth century. This stuff doesn’t grow on trees.’
‘I need to take this as well,’ Eiríkur said and watched Svandís open her mouth to protest as he pocketed the receipt book. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll get it back. I don’t suppose that’s his real name, so what did this guy look like?’
Svandís immediately looked blank. ‘Just average, I suppose.’
‘You don’t have CCTV in here, do you?’
‘No.’
‘Then when was he here?’
‘Look at the receipt. The date’s on it.’
‘Saturday? Two days ago? What time of day was it?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Right. So what did he look like? Tall? Short? Hair colour? Facial hair?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Taller than me but shorter than you.’
‘That applies to probably just about everyone in Iceland,’ Eiríkur said, putting a finger to his shoulder. ‘This tall?’ He asked, moving it up. ‘Or up here?’
‘That’s closer.’
‘Just under two metres, then? Hair?’
‘Ordinary. Brownish. Quite short.’
‘Beard? Moustache?’
‘Stubble.’
‘Anything special you noticed about him? Any distinguishing marks?’
‘Like what?’
‘Scars, tattoos. That sort of thing.’
No. Nothing. Just a nice, ordinary young man. He said it was his mother’s and that she’d died a few years ago and now he needed to stop his house being repossessed, so he had to sell it.’
Eiríkur sniffed. ‘I’m sure. What was he wearing?’
‘I’m not sure. I always look at the eyes, you know.’
‘Well, was he wearing a suit?’
‘No. A coat of some kind. I think it was green.’
‘Now we’re getting somewhere. Dark green? Light green? A long coat or a short one?’
‘Short. It was one of those ones all the young people wear these days. Like the one you’re wearing, only dark green.’
‘A fleece?’
‘If that’s what they’re called. And it had some yellow letters on it.’
‘I don’t suppose you remember what?’
Svandís put a hand to her forehead. ‘No. It’s gone,’ she said, as if remembering was something painful.
‘So we have a brown-haired man with stubble, roughly one metre eighty tall, wearing a dark green fleece with yellow lettering on it. Age?’
‘I don’t know. Under forty?’
‘All right. How much under forty?’
‘Thirty, maybe,’ she decided with an effort.
‘Thank you. That all helps,’ Eiríkur said, zipping up his own fleece.
‘When will I get that back?’
Gunna rang the bell, then hammered on the door that swung open in front of her to reveal a dark lobby.
‘Who are you?’
She was confronted by a startled woman in a dressing gown that had clearly been hastily pulled on.
‘Gunnhildur Gísladóttir, city CID. I’m looking for Sunna María Voss or Jóhann Hjálmarsson, or preferably both of them,’ she said, flicking open her wallet.
‘CID? What’s it about?’
‘Are you Sunna María?’
‘I am.’ She crossed her arms and cocked her head on one side. ‘Look, this really isn’t convenient.’
‘Maybe not, but it is urgent.’
‘So urgent it can’t wait until the morning? It’s half-past seven and I’m about to go out.’
‘If it wasn’t urgent, I’d be at home myself by now. Can I come in? This really is important.’
‘Tomorrow, please.’
‘You know Vilhelm Thorleifsson?’ Gunna asked.
‘Villi? Of course. Why?’
‘He’s been murdered.’
‘Murdered?’ Sunna María asked. ‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m absolutely sure, which is why I’m here on your doorstep at seven thirty in the evening and not at home with my feet up. So are you going to let me in?’
‘Æi, it’s not exactly convenient. .’ She looked quickly over one shoulder and then back at Gunna.
‘And it’s not exactly convenient to be stood here in the dark,’ Gunna said with determination and took a step inside as Sunna María backed away.
‘Wait here.’
Sunna María disappeared into the darkened house, leaving the door open while Gunna pulled the outside door shut behind her. She could hear whispers and a chuckle from inside the house.
‘This way, please. We’ll go into the kitchen.’
Gunna saw as she followed her along the corridor that Sunna María had brushed her hair and the dressing gown had been swapped for a silk kimono. Every door along the corridor had been shut and a slash of light from the kitchen at the end cut through the darkness.
‘I don’t even have coffee in the house,’ Sunna María apologized. ‘Jóhann drinks coffee in the mornings but I don’t.’
‘That’s all right,’ Gunna said, placing her folder on the table and opening it. ‘You knew Vilhelm Thorleifsson?’
‘Of course. We’ve known him for years.’
‘We?’
‘My husband and I.’
‘I take it that’s not him in the other room? So can I ask where your husband is?’
‘Germany, as far as I know. But he might have gone somewhere sunnier for a while. We lead pretty independent lives these days.’
‘It hasn’t been released to the press yet. Vilhelm Thorleifsson was murdered three nights ago.’