He had finished his collections and was unloading when Alex returned from his pick-ups. Orri drove carefully, cautious not to let the forklift slide on the rain-wet concrete as he lifted the pallet that had weighed down his van on the way back. The forklift whined and complained but did as it was asked, under protest, unwillingly depositing its load on the warehouse floor. Orri hoped that it would lift it onto the truck later when it came to be collected.
Alex stood in the doorway and lit a cigarette, watching as Orri moved the forklift across the floor to the charging bay on the far side and plugged it in.
‘You have anything for me?’ he asked with a dramatic look around him as Orri stood outside and took a breath of cold air.
‘A few bits. Not a lot.’
‘What sort of gear?’
‘A couple of electric drills, good brands, no rubbish. An iPad. A couple of phones. A couple of good watches. A bit of metal.’
Alex wrinkled his nose. ‘Not much,’ he said dismissively. ‘You not working too hard, are you?’
‘Just being careful. That’s all.’
‘Bruno won’t be happy.’
‘Bruno can kiss my arse,’ Orri replied. ‘If I get caught, you guys aren’t the ones who’ll be doing time for it.’
Alex looked shocked for a moment, and then smiled. ‘Maybe Bruno don’t buy from you if you don’t have the goods.’
Orri shrugged elaborately to demonstrate his lack of interest. ‘Plenty of people willing to buy good stuff,’ he said with a wink just as theatrical as the shrug. ‘There are other buyers than just Bruno out there. You know, sometimes I wonder if this Bruno guy really exists.’
Alex’s eyes widened in unconcealed curiosity and he ground out his cigarette beneath the toe of his boot. ‘You believe so? Not so many now, I think.’ He made a play of elaborately extracting another cigarette from its packet and looked into the grey distance as he lit it. ‘I have a few contacts as well,’ he said quietly. ‘Just so you know.’
‘You’re telling me that you’re in competition with Bruno? That might be a dangerous game.’
This time Alex shrugged and Orri sensed the bravado. ‘Bruno is not so much here now. He’s busy back home. Some of his friends there come to me and ask if I can send to them. Tools, electronics,’ he said. ‘Metal.’
Orri could see the gleam in his eye and understood that Alex desperately wanted to be a kingpin himself, not just the messenger boy who ran the risks.
‘Yeah, right,’ Orri said. ‘What happened to Juris? I think it’s a risky game you’re getting into, Alex.’
Alex snapped his fingers and winked again. ‘Juris was careless. I have friends. Juris didn’t have friends like mine.’
Vilhelm Thorleifsson’s wife was remarkably composed for a brand-new widow, Gunna thought, and her mind was inexorably dragged back to Raggi’s sudden loss. It was a long time ago, she told herself ruthlessly, but someone else’s loss always reminded her of that devastating shock and the terrible aimless year of depression that followed it. The fact that it was a long time ago made no difference on the occasions when the thought caught her unawares and the misery came flooding back.
‘Gunnhildur Gísladóttir, I’m with the CID team investigating your husband’s death. My condolences,’ she offered, knowing in advance that they would not be wanted.
Vilhelm Thorleifsson’s wife sat stiff on the edge of a leather sofa at her parents’ vast house where nothing was out of place and Gunna wondered if dust would ever dare to get past the front door, let alone settle in the corners.
‘What happened?’ She asked in a blank voice.
‘Your husband was murdered by two attackers,’ she said baldly, deciding that Saga probably had no desire to be shielded from any gory details. ‘He was shot, twice, at close range.’
‘Was it quick?’
‘Probably.’
‘That’s a shame. Was his extremely personal assistant with him?’
‘Personal assistant?’
‘Yulia. The Russian girl.’
‘Yes, so it seems.’
‘And was she hurt?’
‘Physically, no.’
‘That’s a shame as well.’
‘I take it you didn’t get on?’
‘Me and Villi or me and the Russian girl?’
‘I meant you and your husband.’
‘We had our moments. But not for a few years. He led his life and I lead mine.’
She sat almost immobile, her face a mask that Gunna guessed had to be artificial to achieve quite such an unnatural lack of mobility. Saga’s knees were pressed together as she sat on the edge of the sofa, her back straight. Her skirt and jacket looked to Gunna’s eyes as if they had been tailored from the same supple leather as the sofa’s covering. A starched blouse was buttoned to the throat and ink black hair shrouded a narrow face that might have been attractive if it were to see a little animation.
‘How long had you been living separately?’
‘We live together, just in separate rooms. Villi chased his businesses from country to country and I’d given up asking him when we were likely to see him next.’
‘How about his business affairs? Did you have any involvement in his work?’
‘No. Nothing. Occasionally he’d give me something to sign as I was a name on some of his companies, but I just signed without looking too closely.’
‘Isn’t that rash? Signing something without reading the small print?’
‘Villi was a shit husband, but he knew how to make money. Cashwise, I could trust him. But not dickwise.’
‘We’ll need to take a look at his business affairs.’
‘Good luck. Most of Villi’s business was in his head, and what wasn’t there is in his laptop, if you can get into it.’
‘Property?’
‘The house in Copenhagen is mine. I made sure of that when the first personal assistant showed up five or six years ago.’
‘There’s more than one?’
‘Three to my knowledge. Maybe more. They’re always bright and beautiful. Gold diggers. That’s why the houses are in my name only. I hold the real estate; Villi got to play. It was — what do you call it? — a mutual understanding.’
‘Holiday? What’s that?’
Emilija looked up, the toilet brush held in front of her like a sword.
‘I just asked,’ Natalia said, propping herself against the basin and feeling in her pockets for a cigarette before reminding herself that smoking on the job was a sackable offence. ‘When did you last have a trip home? When did you last see your parents?’
‘I’m not sure. Three, four years ago,’ Emilija said, applying herself to the toilet, even though it was virtually in its original pristine state. ‘It was before Anton was born, and before the divorce. So four years, I think. And you?’
Natalia scowled. ‘Ten years.’
‘What? As long as that?’
‘At least,’ Natalia growled, spraying and polishing the mirror over the basin. She stopped, tensed, placed her hands on the edge of the granite slab the two basins were set in and jumped. She stood on the slab to polish the top half of the mirror. ‘Hjörtur will never agree to let Nonni out of the country. He thinks I wouldn’t bring him back.’
‘And he’d be right, wouldn’t he?’
Natalia looked at herself in the mirror and pulled a face. ‘Yeah. Probably. But it’s a long time to not see your home, parents, friends, all that stuff.’
‘Finished, ladies?’ Valmira asked, appearing in the doorway.
‘Almost,’ Natalia replied. ‘I’m just finishing polishing the mirror and Emilija’s busy with some old bastard’s shitstained toilet. Apart from that, we’re almost done.’
Emilija used her shoulder to push from her eyes a strand of hair that had come adrift.
‘Hey, Vala. When did you last get to go home?’
Valmira looked at her sideways with disquiet.
‘What do you mean? Home?’
‘You know,’ Natalia said, jumping neatly down from the granite slab and wiping off the marks her trainers had left. ‘Home. Yugoslavia. The place you lived in before.’