‘He just appeared and I was told he was the new driver.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Óli Hansen. He owns this company. Or rather, he’s one of the owners now,’ he said as Gunna raised an enquiring eyebrow and he continued. ‘None of us have been told this, you understand, but we see things change and it’s easy enough to find this stuff out if you know where to look. The majority shareholder now is a gentleman called-’
‘Boris Vadluga,’ Gunna said, finishing his sentence for him.
He felt unaccountably warm, for the first time in days. He carefully opened one eye and found himself somewhere dark, but swaddled in something heavy. His stomach was complaining and he realized that the smell of food had woken him.
Jóhann put out a hand and felt for the side of whatever it was he was lying on. He found to his alarm that his clothes had disappeared and the rough blanket he had under him was making him itch. His head swam as he put out a foot to the floor, but he pulled himself upright, his eyesight getting used to the gloom.
He found that he could stand, although his feet were sore. A table in the middle of the room had the remains of a meal on it and his hands shook as he poured milk into a cup and drank it, savouring the sweetness of it. He immediately felt stronger and let himself drop onto a chair. The rest of the table swam in to view and he wondered what had become of his glasses as he squinted at the loaf of bread in a plastic bag, a pot of yoghurt and some slices of cheese under a plastic wrapper.
The taste of the cheese was so sublime it almost brought tears to Jóhann’s eyes. He tried to remember how long he had been without food other than the dried fish he’d pulled from the drying racks where he’d woken up, how many days ago now?
Sunna María had lost none of her usual bluster as she sat, straight-backed, in the interview room. ‘I suppose you want me to answer all kinds of questions, do you? If that’s not Jóhann you found under the concrete, then I have no idea who it is.’
‘Were you expecting it to be Jóhann?’
Her cheeks reddened in anger. ‘Of course not. Who is it, anyway?’
‘Who was it, you mean,’ Gunna said, opening her notes and taking out a file. She gave Sunna María a print of Alex’s face, enlarged from the driving licence in his pocket, gazing into the camera with a louche smile. ‘Anyone you recognize?’
This time the reaction looked genuine enough, but the momentary hesitation and the flash of uncertainty in her eyes told Gunna that Sunna María was stalling. She handed it back with a shake of the head. ‘No idea, sorry.’
‘Alexander Snetzler,’ Gunna said and thought she detected a tremor in Sunna María’s face as she continued. ‘He’s a Latvian citizen. Any ideas?’
‘None whatever.’
‘Vilhelm Thorleifsson and Elvar Pálsson were doing a lot of business in Latvia, weren’t they, with a company that you and your husband were partners in? I understand that Sólfell Investment crashed leaving a lot of people out of pocket. They are both dead, your husband has vanished, there’s a dead criminal in the foundations of a house you’re building and you’re telling me you have no idea what’s going on? Don’t give me bullshit, Sunna María. I can smell it a mile off.’
Sunna María froze and Gunna wondered how many years it might have been since anyone had spoken to her so abruptly.
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about. Jóhann handled our business affairs.’
‘Except that he didn’t. You were at university with Vilhelm Thorleifsson and Elvar Pálsson. You all did business studies, but they both dropped out and you finished with a very good degree. So don’t pretend to me that all this business stuff is too complicated for you. Who is it that has a grudge against you? Who killed your friend and has probably done the same with your husband in a slightly more subtle way? And why do a not very good job of hiding the body of a small-time Latvian criminal in the basement of your house? I’m wondering if whoever did that actually wanted to get rid of the body or if they wanted to implicate you?’
Sunna María’s mouth hung open. ‘I didn’t think of it like that,’ she said with an effort and after a painfully long pause.
‘Where is Boris Vadluga?’
‘Latvia, I guess. He travels a lot.’
‘And do his travels coincide with Jóhann’s, maybe?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘You and he are pretty good friends, I understand?’
‘He’s a business acquaintance. That’s all.’
‘You seem happy to do him favours, such as supplying an apartment for his staff to live in.’
‘Well, yes. Look, it wasn’t easy for foreigners to buy property in Iceland back then and he was looking for somewhere for his staff. So we bought the place and rent it to Boris.’
‘Who’s this?’ Gunna laid the blurred screengrab of the hook-nosed man on the table.
‘I haven’t a clue,’ Sunna María said immediately, eyes darting to one side.
‘Bullshit. I think you know exactly who this is, and I suspect that this person also knows exactly where your husband or his remains are to be found.’
Sunna María burst into tears. ‘You don’t understand,’ she sniffed eventually.
‘I’m starting to think I do. Where did the money for all this construction come from?’ Gunna demanded. ‘Your husband pulling teeth doesn’t pay for this kind of venture. So come clean, where did it all come from? Who did you rip off?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘In that case, who are the two men who rented the house at Kópavogsbakki fifty, the ones you told the estate agent were friends of yours so he didn’t need to go through any formalities?’
‘That was Jóhann.’
‘No. Óttar Sveinsson the estate agent told me himself: “Sunna María told me she knew them and we could skip the formalities.” That was you. Someone was brutally assaulted in that house just before those people left. Who were they?’
‘Boris asked if we could accommodate some friends of his. I don’t know any names.’
‘They paid? Bank transfer? Cash? To you?’
Sunna María nodded and Gunna tapped the picture of the hook-nosed man on the desk. ‘This man?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘So why did they repaint the whole basement from floor to ceiling?’
‘What?’
‘You heard. The whole of the basement was repainted from top to bottom. Walls, floor, ceiling. Óttar Sveinsson says he had nothing to do with it. So why would two tenants do a thing like that?’
True to his word, Eiríkur had tracked Emilija down and she was sitting fearfully with him in the section’s hired Polo as Gunna drove in.
‘Why am I here?’ Emilija asked as Gunna approached. ‘I have done nothing wrong.’
Gunna took her arm and propelled her through the door into the building, with Eiríkur behind them stumbling over the steps in his efforts to keep up. Instead of using a formal interview room, Gunna sat Emilija down in a quiet corner. The now much-folded picture came out and she turned first to Eiríkur.
‘I sent this to our liaison officer in Riga yesterday but haven’t heard back yet. Check if there’s been a reply, will you? We really need to know who this man is,’ she said and Eiríkur departed at a trot.
‘Now, Emilija. When did you last see Alex?’
‘Not for a long time.’
‘Alex is dead.’
Emilija’s eyes bulged. She stared at Gunna, who watched her shake her head violently and her small fists clenched into tight balls.
‘No! Alex? How?’
‘He was murdered. His body was found late last night.’
‘Who did this?’
‘I don’t believe your ex-husband is involved, although he certainly had a grudge against Alex. When did you see Alex last?’ Gunna repeated.
The reply came grudgingly. ‘Sunday morning. He stayed the night.’
‘You didn’t see him or hear from him after that?’
‘No. I told him not to come back,’ she said in a blank voice. ‘But I expected he would. Alex doesn’t give up.’