“Interview with Helena Rós Pálsdóttir, officers Eiríkur Thór Jónsson and Gunnhildur Gísladóttir present,” Eiríkur recited for the benefit of the recording. “Helena Rós, can you tell us where you were on the day your husband was attacked at your home?”
“At a fundraising event.”
“Fundraising for what?”
“For the National Theatre, at Hotel Borg.”
“And there were people there who will confirm your attendance?”
“Of course.”
“Have you any idea who might be responsible for the attack on your husband?”
Helena Rós folded her arms and glared, head back. “You’ve already asked me all these questions.”
“How long have you been in a relationship with Gunnlaugur Ólafsson?”
“Who says we’re in a relationship?”
“I’m asking,” Eiríkur said. “Are you saying there isn’t a relationship between you?”
“All right. About a year.”
“How long have you known Gunnlaugur?”
“Since we were at college. Twenty years, something like that.”
“And how did you become aware of your husband’s arrangement with Svana Geirs?”
“Do I really have to answer these questions? This is very personal.”
“But it’s also a murder inquiry.”
“Surely you don’t suspect me of murdering that woman?”
“Would you please answer the question?”
Helena Rós fidgeted with the ends of her scarf. “I knew there was something going on. Hallur has always been easily led astray, especially by pretty women, but since the children were born he’s kept his dick in his trousers, or so I thought. This was different. To answer your question, it was simple. I checked the SMS messages on his phone while he was in the bath. He must have realized, because after a while he started taking his phone with him to the bathroom.”
“Was this before or after your relationship with Gunnlaugur began?”
“Before. Gulli confirmed it and told me what the arrangement was.”
“Which was what?”
“You know perfectly well,” Helena Rós said in a voice that dripped scorn.
“I’d prefer to hear it from you.”
“Hallur and three other dirty old men were paying to take turns on that plastic Barbie doll. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“That will do nicely, thank you,” Eiríkur said politely. “You know Jónas Valur Hjaltason?”
“Of course. He sits on a couple of committees with my husband.”
“He’s dead.”
“A heart attack, I suppose?”
“You don’t seem surprised,” Eiríkur said with a frown.
“He was overweight and unhealthy.”
“He was murdered. It’s not public knowledge yet. Where were you on Friday evening?”
“At home, I think. Yes, I’m sure of it, I was at home.”
“Anyone who could corroborate that?”
Her cheeks flushed pink. “Gulli. He stayed the night and left early in the morning.”
“What time did he arrive?”
“Eight-ish. Something like that.”
Eiríkur shot a glance at Gunna. “The threats and demands posted to your husband. Who had this bright idea?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Gunna opened the file on the desk and passed two sheets of paper across. Helena Rós ignored them.
“There are more,” Eiríkur said. “Some of these were retrieved from the bin in your husband’s office at your home. A couple more are from his parliamentary office.”
“So who was blackmailing my husband?”
“That’s what we’d all like to know, and I have to consider your involvement in it.”
“This is absolutely ridiculous! How dare you!” Helena Rós lifted herself to her feet and towered over Eiríkur.
“Sit down, will you?” Gunna growled, speaking for the first time.
“Idiots,” Helena Rós hissed, ripping the two letters into shreds and dropping the pieces with a flourish on the desk as she dropped back into the chair.
Ívar Laxdal rubbed his chin irritably, the first indication Gunna had seen that he might be tired.
“What’s the situation with Hallur now?” he asked.
“He’s not doing well. It seems he has a level of brain damage due to oxygen starvation. It could be weeks or even months before we can understand quite how much damage has been done, and all the indications are that he may never be fit to stand trial. One doctor says he’s going to be a twelve-year old for the rest of his life. Another says he should make at least a partial recovery, so we’ll have to wait and see.”
“But there is some good news for you,” Ívar Laxdal said. “Högni Sigurgeirsson is being flown back to Reykjavík right now from Tórshavn.”
“What? Out there in the east? What was he doing there?”
“No, Tórshavn in the Faroes. It seems he arrived there the day before yesterday. Showed up on a flight from Reykjavík with a bag full of money, still with Jónas Valur Hjaltason’s name tags on it, and brandishing Jónas Valur’s passport.”
“Sounds weird, doesn’t it?” Eiríkur asked. “Why the Faroes?”
“He had a ticket for the next morning to Copenhagen, but Faroese customs only picked him up as he was waiting for his flight from there to Kåstrup, not when he landed from Reykjavík,” Ívar Laxdal explained patiently.
“If you want to fly to Denmark, there are direct flights all the time. Why go through the Faroes? It doesn’t make sense.”