‘That would be advisable,’ Vilhjálmur said, picking up the old-fashioned fountain pen from his desk, his attention already on the top report in a pile, indicating that the meeting was at an end.
‘Do you mind if I ask some background questions?’ Skúli asked timidly.
‘Fire away, young man. If there’s anything I don’t want to tell you, you’ll find out.’
Skúli sipped his Coke. They were sitting at one of the few small tables at a truckstop at the top of the heath halfway between Hvalvík and the handful of small communities to the east. Rain from a sudden shower pelted down outside from clouds as black as inky fingerprints on the western sky and formed rivers that flowed down the truckstop’s windows.
‘How does the station at Hvalvík run?’
‘It’s not a main police station, so it’s staffed during the day. Normally there’re three of us: me, Haddi the old guy and Snorri the new boy. We belong to Keflavík, so out of hours any police services have to come from there — in theory. In reality the three of us are in and around Hvalvík most of the time. Then we have the rural areas we have to visit on occasions, like today.’
‘So you do a nine-to-five day?’
‘It doesn’t work like that, I’m afraid. We run watches outside station hours so one of us is always on call all the time, so you can be at work even if you’re asleep at home. I like to keep work and personal life separate as far as is possible in a little place like this, but a lot of the time it’s just impossible.’
‘How do you mean?’ Skúli asked.
‘Well, in Reykjavík or even Akureyri, you can change out of uniform and not be a copper any more. You can’t do that here. Everyone knows you’re the police, whether you’re in uniform or mowing your lawn.’
‘So it really is a full-time job?’
‘Absolutely. And that’s something that people can fail to grasp. Yesterday evening some kids were out playing behind the school and they found a mobile phone somebody had lost. They could have taken it home and given it to their parents to hand in at the station, or tried to find the owner, or just kept it, I suppose. But no, they knocked on my door and gave it to me, because they all know where Gunna the Cop lives and it didn’t occur to them that I might be off duty.’
‘Is this a problem for you?’
‘Not at all. It’s just part of being on the force in a rural area. It’s part of the package. But it’s the same in town to some extent. Your neighbours are always going to know you’re in the force and they might treat you slightly differently, or they might not.’
Skúli wrote hasty notes on his pad.
‘So. Young man. Tell me, why Hvalvík?’
‘Don’t know really. It was partly my idea, I suppose, and Reynir Óli said it might make a good feature.’
‘Who’s Reynir Óli?’
‘My editor. It was all set up through the police PR department. I asked the lady there for somewhere rural to go to, but not too far from the city, so she called back the next day and suggested Hvalvík or somewhere up in Snæfellsnes.’
‘So you chose Hvalvík.’
‘Yup. Closer to town,’ Skúli said, delicately wiping the detritus of hot dog from his chin. ‘And it sounded a bit more interesting as well,’ he added sheepishly.
‘Why?’
‘Well, one of my colleagues said it might be a better feature because there are so few women in the police.’
‘You what?’
‘He reckoned it might make a good story because there aren’t many female police officers of your experience.’
‘You mean all the policewomen you see are these young ones who’ve been in the job for five minutes and you might get something more out of an old bag like me?’
‘Um. Yes.’
Gunna grinned. ‘Good answer. When being questioned by the law, just tell the truth. And who told you this?’
‘Jonni Kristinns, the political editor.’
‘I know Jonni well enough from when I was in the city force. He’s a friend of the bloke who was my partner at the time.’
‘Your husband?’
Gunna looked sourly across the table at Skúli. ‘No. My police partner when I was on the city force. You work together a lot of the time and I suppose in many ways your partner is someone you get to know better than a husband or a wife.’
‘Is this guy still in the police?’
‘Bjössi? Yeah. But he moved out of the city as well, and out of uniform. He’s in CID in Keflavík now.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Björn Valsson, known as Bjössi. I haven’t seen Jonni in years. He was on TV as well, wasn’t he?’
‘I think so, a while ago. He’s one of those old guys who can’t keep away from paper.’
Skúli was acutely aware that he had asked few of the questions he had lined up, but had again ended up doing most of the talking while Gunna asked the questions.
‘How long have you been in the police?’ he asked finally.
‘Sixteen years, with a break in the middle.’
‘What for?’
‘You know, children, all that stuff.’
‘So you’re married?’
‘Not any more.’
‘Is it long since you split up?’
Gunna gave Skúli a sharp look. ‘Is this really necessary? The last thing I want to see is my private life splashed across Dagurinn on a Saturday morning.’
‘No, it’s not for print. It’s just, you know, for me to build up a picture of you,’ Skúli gabbled. ‘I don’t want to put in too much personal stuff, but people like to see it.’
‘All right,’ Gunna said unwillingly. ‘I have a son from a relationship when I was in my teens. Gísli’s nineteen now. I have a thirteen-year-old daughter with my husband, who died eight years ago in an accident that I don’t want to discuss. Is that enough for you?’
‘Plenty, thank you,’ Skúli said gratefully. He had noticed the broad gold ring on Gunna’s finger and wondered why she had never mentioned a husband. ‘How did you wind up in a place like this?’
‘You mean, what’s a girl like you doing in a nice place like this?’
‘Yeah. I mean, no,’ Skúli stumbled. ‘Sorry. That’s not what I meant. Are you from around here originally?’
Gunna smothered a grin. Making the lad gabble with embarrassment was becoming a source of light relief during an otherwise dull day.
‘No. I’m not from round here. I’m from Vestureyri.’
‘What? Right up there in the western fjords? Wow. So, why Hvalvík?’
‘All right, here we go. I was brought up in Vestureyri, worked in the fish when I was twelve, all that stuff. When I was nineteen one of my uncles suggested I could be a copper for the summer. I thought — why not? My mum was happy to babysit for me. I gave it a try as a probational constable for a few months and got a kick out of it. Less money than working in the fish, but a lot more interesting.’
‘So you stayed with it?’
‘Yup. Applied to the police college and was accepted straight away. There weren’t many women going into the force then, so they were glad to get applications, although my family weren’t too pleased when I moved south for the winter so I could go to college.’
Skúli decided to try Gunna’s tactic and sat in silence for her to continue.
‘So, we moved back west in the summer and I was on the force in Vestureyri for a few years. Then I met Raggi and moved south to live with him, and transferred to the city force.’
Skúli sat in expectant silence, already chastened once, while Gunna’s face hardened.
‘After my husband died I was on compassionate leave and then sick leave for the best part of a year. The posting at Hvalvík came up and I applied and got it, which was something of a surprise. And I’ve been here ever since,’ Gunna concluded with a deep breath.
‘What, er — what happened?’