The man smiled. ‘Because we are wondering what to do with you. Can we trust you to do what you are asked to do?’
Orri’s eyes bulged as he suppressed his fury. ‘What the hell do you mean? What do you think I am?’ He struggled to stay calm, infuriated by the man’s placid smile.
‘We would pay you, of course,’ the man said, as if dropping a careless remark. ‘Probably quite handsomely by this country’s standards.’
He had been ready to yell at the man but found his anger suddenly gone. ‘How much?’ he asked quickly.
The man smiled and Orri regretted having asked so fast, knowing he had lost a point.
‘Enough for you to be comfortable, I would think. But I’m not here to discuss anything specific.’
‘And if I say no?’
This time the man smiled broadly and chuckled. ‘You think you have a choice? I think you have an idea of what we are capable of and how far we will go. Do you really want to turn down such an interesting offer?’
‘If I don’t have a choice. .’ Orri growled, his frustration returning.
‘Listen. We may need you for an assignment occasionally. Sometimes several times in a single week, then you may not hear from us for a long time. It’s simple enough work and you have already demonstrated that you can do it without a problem. You will be paid for this work, and no, you don’t have a choice.’
‘So what are you going to do if I don’t play ball?’
The man looked into Orri’s eyes. ‘I don’t have to tell you what would happen to you. My associates wanted to dispose of you the night we found you sneaking through our apartment, and I assure you that you would have disappeared without trace.’
Orri gulped. ‘Then I guess I’d best say yes.’
‘A healthy choice. Continue to go to work as usual. It’s important that you remain unobtrusive. Don’t stand out. Don’t try to follow or trace us as you did before. That shows initiative, but once is enough. You’ll be well paid so don’t screw up. You have a phone number. Don’t call it. If you have a problem or need to be in touch, send an SMS and somebody will contact you. You will get instructions. Money will appear a few days after each operation. Cash, probably. What’s your preferred currency? Euros? Dollars?’
‘Er. . I don’t know. Krónur.’
The man snarled disparagingly. ‘Icelandic money. Please. Have a little imagination, Orri, and let’s make it Euros. Your krónur are worth nothing,’ he said and pulled the door handle to step out.
‘Hey. . before you disappear.’
‘What?’ The man asked, his head still inside the door and the cold wind snatching at his coat.
‘This is a stupid question, right, but why are you paying me to do this stuff?’
‘That’s the first sensible question you’ve asked,’ the man said with a sinister smile pulling one corner of his mouth sideways and down. ‘Let’s say you’re a skilled operator and your skills are valued. We don’t particularly want you to be caught and I expect you not to compromise what you’re doing for me by supplementing your income with a little thieving. When you’re doing a job for me, you’re working only for me. Let’s say it’s to keep temptation at bay.’
He made to pull the door shut as Orri stopped him with another question. ‘What do I call you?’
‘Why?’ He asked, and Orri saw him nonplussed for the first time.
‘You know everything about me. I know nothing about you, not even a name.’
‘So?’
‘Hey. One more thing.’
‘What now?’ There was a trace of irritation in the scratched voice.
‘I need to know, what if I get caught?’
‘Caught? Who by?’
‘Anyone. The police, maybe.’
The man shrugged. ‘It’s up to you.’
‘And if I tell them everything?’
He saw a smile tug at the corner of the man’s mouth. ‘Orri, you can tell them whatever you like, because once it’s checked out, they won’t believe a thing, believe me,’ he said and shut the van’s door. ‘Oh, and before I forget, here.’
He handed him a plain envelope and winked, leaving Orri sweating in spite of the chill air as he watched the little blue car drive away and decided that trying to follow it might be a seriously bad idea.
They had parted coolly. Svala had been silent all morning while they looked around Ikea and there had been none of her usual chatter while Eiríkur had pushed the buggy and she had carried the baby in a sling over her chest. It had been a relief to leave her and the children with Svala’s parents, who had immediately sensed the tension between them.
He wondered as he drove into the car park if they were even now being regaled with a litany of his shortcomings, but dismissed the thought as uncharitable. In spite of her routine of visiting them every weekend, Svala and her parents were not particularly close, and he guessed that few confidences were exchanged. Maybe that was what had brought them together, he mused as he inspected the cars parked outside the block of flats. His own parents were elderly, old enough to have been his grandparents, he’d often thought as a youngster. Both he and Svala had awkward relationships with their parents. His parents found it inconceivable that their son should be a police officer while her teacher parents instinctively distrusted authority. Eiríkur often found them difficult to understand, a couple who were happy to demand their rights but ready to denigrate the authority he felt was there to protect those rights.
There was no grey Ka to be seen anywhere in the windswept car park. Eiríkur wanted to grind his teeth at being too late, and wondered where it could have gone on a Sunday. If Elísabet Höskuldsdóttir really was a chef, then she could be at work, he decided, and told himself that he could check back later, just as his phone rang and Gunna’s number appeared on the screen.
‘Hæ. I’m on the way.’
‘Meet me at the station, would you? There’s someone we need to pick up and it’s a job that needs two of us.’
‘No problem. I’ll be right with you,’ Eiríkur said, putting the car into gear and heading for the main road as a white van bumped down into the car park and stopped outside the block’s door. In the mirror he caught a brief glimpse of dark green fleece jumping out of the van and into the building, and stamped on the brakes. He quickly reversed, wondering whether to follow the figure in the fleece or head for the hospital as he had been told to do.
He decided it would be as well to do as he had been told, and quickly jotted down the van’s number before plugging his communicator in and driving away.
‘Control, zero-four-fifty-one.’
‘Zero-four-fifty-one, control. What can I do for you, Eiríkur?’
‘Check a number for me, can you?’ he said, taking his eyes off the road for a moment as he read out the number jotted on the back of his left hand.
‘White Trafic, registered to Green Bay Dispatch. All legal. Anything else?’
‘Is there an address?’
‘It’s in Bæjarhella, out at the end of Hafnarfjördur.’
‘Thanks,’ Eiríkur said, a fist clenched and pounding the wheel in triumph.
It was Valmira’s first day back at work and Emilija sounded the van’s horn outside her house, concerned that her friend would not be ready to come back to work so soon, but her fears disappeared as Valmira opened the door and smiled warmly as she settled into the passenger seat.
‘You don’t want to drive like you normally do?’
‘No, you drive. It makes a nice change to be a passenger.’ She looked closely at Emilija. ‘Are you all right? You look tired.’
‘I’ll be fine. A bad night, that’s all,’ she said, pulling away into the stream of traffic. ‘And you?’
‘I’m fine now,’ Valmira said, her face hardening. ‘A difficult couple of days, but that’s over now. Are the children keeping you up?’
‘I had a visitor last night.’
‘A welcome visitor, or the other kind?’