Gunna wondered how Bjartmar felt about his wife’s injuries, or if he was more concerned about the damage to the house.
“Where were you when Svana Geirs was killed?” she asked.
“Abroad,” he answered without hesitation. “I returned from the States the day of the fire, as you know. Before that I’d been away for almost two weeks, Belgium, Germany, Spain and then Chicago. All verifiable if you want to see tickets and reservations.”
“You know, I’d been wondering about you, and then I remembered. You used to run Blacklights, didn’t you?”
Bjartmar frowned and his jaw pushed forward, as if he were unprepared to have his past dug over. “That was one of my earlier ventures, yes.”
“I thought so. At the time, we were always as sure as we could be that there was a lot more to that place than met the eye, but never anything that could be pinned down,” she recalled as Bjartmar’s eyes narrowed. “So what happened to the place? Did you sell up?”
“Someone else took over that business. We still own the building. In fact, The Fish Lover is exactly where Blacklights used to be.”
“And this is a better business than the nightclub?”
“Not as profitable as a nightclub, but without the headaches. There’s a better class of customer, and we never have to throw anyone out these days.”
“I see,” Gunna said. “How about your old friend Long Ommi? Heard from him recently?”
“What?” Bjartmar asked, as if Gunna had dropped a firecracker on the table in front of him. “Ommi? Why would I have heard from him?”
“That’s what I’m asking you. Ommi and you go way back, I’m told, until he was put away.”
“Listen, I don’t know where your information comes from, but I haven’t seen or heard of him for years,” Bjartmar snarled, and Gunna was pleased to see that the suave businessman had vanished.
“Just how many years?”
“Eight, nine. I don’t know. A long time.”
“I’ll refresh your memory, in that case. Ómar Magnússon was jailed in 2001 for murder and got a fifteen-year sentence. He would have been up for parole next year, and as he’s been a good lad inside, he’d have been out within a year. But for some reason that nobody has been able to fathom, he did a runner from his comfortable open-prison billet at Kvíabryggja last month and is still at liberty.”
Bjartmar sat with his fists clenched so the knuckles whitened. Gunna noticed suddenly that they were not the soft hands of an office worker, but shovel-like and better suited to a farmhand than a businessman. For a second she recalled the old story about the size of a man’s hands being relative to other parts of his anatomy-or was that feet? — but dismissed the thought irritably. She leaned forward and looked Bjartmar in the eyes.
“What I’m wondering is whether Ommi is going round settling scores on his own account, or whether he’s clearing up for someone else, carrying out a contract, so to speak. And if he’s doing business for himself, who’s next, and why? Has he been in touch?”
Bjartmar’s face was the colour of parchment and the veins stood out on his neck as his jaw jutted ahead of him.
“I’m not prepared to discuss this any further,” he said hoarsely.
“Now that’s a shame, because I have a distinct feeling that you know a good deal more than you’re obviously prepared to let on,” Gunna said gently. “I have a feeling that you and Ommi have probably been in touch since he’s been out, and I don’t doubt that he’ll spill the beans in return for some kind of a deal when we catch up with him, which will be soon enough.”
“Iceland’s a small country and you can’t stay hidden for long,” Helgi added.
Bjartmar stood up suddenly and his chair shot back on its wheels to hit the wall behind, where it rolled over and crashed on to one side.
“I’m not prepared to continue this,” he rasped. “You two had better leave. Now, right now.”
Gunna stayed sitting down for a moment and took a long look at Bjartmar flexing his fists, shoulders tensed, before she got slowly to her feet without taking her eyes off him.
“Well, thanks for your time. Very interesting in many ways. I’m sure we’ll speak again soon.”
“You can call my secretary, and I’ll have my lawyer here. I have nothing more to say.”
Bjartmar swept from the room and left them to find their own way out through the office space where staff tried not to look up, reminding Gunna precisely of Bjarki Steinsson’s staff staring fixedly at their computer terminals.
She looked back as Helgi pulled the door open to see Bjartmar gesticulating with his phone to one ear, the fury apparent on his face rendered silent by the soundproof glass wall of his office.
“Coming, are you?” Helgi asked. “I thought you two were getting on so well when you had to go and spoil it.”
“I don’t know about you, but I’d dearly love to haul all of them in and chuck them in cells overnight before we give them a proper roasting.”
“You think so?” Helgi asked, listening to the gearbox rattle with a pained expression on his otherwise mild face.