“That’s what it’s like when you get to rub shoulders with the rich and famous. Anyway, it’s been a bloody long day and I need a shower, badly,” Gunna announced, her blouse balled in one hand and wrinkling her nose. “Is that my smelly feet or yours?”
“Yours, Mum, definitely.” Laufey laughed. “What’s for dinner?”
“Dinner? You mean you haven’t cooked something ready for your old mum?”
“I thought Steini would be making dinner tonight.”
“Apparently not,” Gunna said through a second jawbreaking yawn. “A takeaway, then. Decide what you want and we’ll go and get it when I’m out of the shower.”
“Woo-hoo! Junk food!”
Gunna stopped in the bathroom doorway.
“Not pizza, though,” she decided. “Well, you can have pizza if you want. Some of that deep-fried fish would be good if they have it. See you in a minute,” she said as Laufey pounced on the local shop’s takeaway menu. “And ice cream,” she added through the closed door as the hot water started to run.
“Ice cream? Aren’t you on a diet?”
“To hell with the diet. I want ice cream,” Gunna yelled back. “Because I’m worth it.”
“What do you have for me, Gunnhildur?” Ívar Laxdal said with no preamble, overtaking at a smart trot as she made her way up the stairs deep in thought.
“What? Oh, sorry, I was miles away. What did you say?”
“Come with me. A quiet word before we both get busy.”
Ívar Laxdal took Eiríkur’s chair, while Gunna sat scanning her own desk and the junk piled on it.
“Three primary suspects. Jónas Valur Hjaltason, Bjarki Steinsson, Hallur Hallbjörnsson,” she said. “I think one of these three either murdered Svana Geirs or possibly made sure that she was murdered. All three of them had left fingerprints in her flat in the week before she died.”
A questioning black eyebrow crept up Ívar Laxdal’s forehead.
“It could be any one of them. Jónas Valur is a vindictive old bastard and he’s supposed to be here at nine to give a statement. You’re not a Mason, are you?” Gunna asked suddenly.
“Why?”
“Just because. Jónas Valur is, and it seems he’s a mate of Örlygur Sveinsson’s.”
Ívar Laxdal grinned and shook his head.
“Bjarki Steinsson is a bag of nerves and completely distraught,” Gunna continued. “Most likely because Svana had called time on the syndicate, so there’s the theory that he was so upset, he lost it and clobbered her. As for Hallur, who knows
what his motives could be? Certainly he stood to lose his political career if the story came out.”
“Sure? Plenty of people have stayed on in politics after being caught with their trousers round their ankles.”
“Yeah, admittedly. But this wasn’t your run-of-the-mill fuck on the side. He’d been paying her upkeep for the best part of two years. Somehow I don’t think his career could have survived that.”
“And the brother?”
“Possible, but I don’t believe so.”
“Sævaldur thinks Ómar Magnússon is the killer. He’s killed before.”
“Or not. We certainly have enough to look very hard at Sindri Valsson as the man genuinely responsible for that killing.”
“And he’s gone to ground somewhere, which a cynical man would see as an admission of a guilty conscience.”
“Someone cynical like me,” Gunna agreed.
“What next?”
“Clear some of the paper.” Gunna looked with distaste at the contents of her desk. “Listen to what Jónas Valur comes up with, pay a visit to Hallur’s poisonous wife and then start putting pressure on Bjarki Steinsson. There’s something about this syndicate that none of them have been telling us, and I reckon he’s the most likely one to crack.”
“I’ll leave you to it. Let me know how you get on,” he commanded, and made for the door. “Don’t screw up on this, Gunnhildur. We have to get this one right. If we don’t …” He merely shook his head sadly.
Gunna was deep in paperwork when her desk phone rang. She snapped out of updating her case notes and heard Sigvaldi on the front desk announce gloomily that she had a visitor.
“Eiríkur,” she called out, rapidly signing forms without bothering to read them a second time. “There’s a good friend of the police downstairs. How would you like to go down to reception and bring him up here to an interview room?”
“All right,” Eiríkur replied, rising from his seat. “Who’s that?”
“Jónas Valur Hjaltason. Delightful man, a philanthropist and a gentleman,” she said drily. “Tell him I won’t keep him waiting.”
But Gunna did keep Jónas Valur waiting, delayed by an encounter with Sævaldur on the way, and their disagreement over charging Ómar Magnússon left her devoid of the good humor she had acquired by having signed off long-overdue paperwork.
“Apologies,” she said irritably, bustling into the interview room where Jónas Valur lounged in one of the chairs while a dark-suited man with a greying combover who nevertheless put Gunna in mind of a wolf sat upright next to him.
“Good morning, officer. I’ve been waiting for some time now and I’d like to remind you that my time is valuable,” Jónas Valur drawled.
“And so is mine,” Gunna snapped more sharply than she had intended.
“My lawyer, Ólafur Ja-”