Gunna laid a card on the slats of the garden table. “My number’s there. I’d appreciate a call if there’s anything you remember.”
“Ah, there he is,” Hulda Björk said. She pointed to her son at the far end of the garden, using a bamboo cane to push an offcut of wood across a puddle. “I’d better stop him before he gets too filthy.”
She turned to Gunna awkwardly.
“I’m sorry. I don’t think I’ve been a lot of help to you somehow,” she apologized. “But there’s a friend of Steindór’s you might want to talk to. He was at college with us. I haven’t seen him for a long time, but he works for a magazine now. Gunnlaugur Ólafsson, his name is.”
The bastard had a big enough house, Jón thought, staring at the sprawling building on the far side of the quiet street. He’d taken a detour to see the place yet again. He had done this more than once, stopping by the curb on the other side of the road to glare at the house with its double garage, set between lines of young birch trees that already were bushy enough to shield the place from prying eyes either side.
Jón’s own house had been away down the hill in a decent, yet less exclusive neighbourhood. If things hadn’t gone so terribly wrong, Ragna Gústa could have found herself mixing with children at school from this very street.
Jón knew that Bjartmar and his snobby wife had no children. The gossip around town was that they weren’t getting on well lately, and that the man had set up some woman he’d brought to Iceland with a business in the city centre. Jón didn’t make a habit of listening to gossip, but any mention of the bastard who had tipped his business over the edge was always going to make him prick up his ears.
He sighed, gritted his teeth and started the van’s engine. A woman in the western end of town with two small children was waiting for him to again patch up the worn-out washing machine that she couldn’t afford to replace.
“You know someone called Gunnlaugur Ólafsson?” Gunna asked, phone to her ear as she marched across the street to her car.
“Er. Not sure,” Skúli said slowly. “Know anything more about him?”
“Not a lot,” Gunna replied, switching the phone to the other ear as she unlocked the car and got inside. “He’d be in his early thirties, works for a magazine.”
“Sales or editorial?”
“No idea. Editorial, I guess.”
“I’ll ask around, see what I can find. Is that all right?”
“Skúli, that would be wonderful,” Gunna said, realizing that she had been unnecessarily sharp with him.
“Cool. Leave it with me, then,” Skúli said crisply, and closed the connection before Gunna could say anything more.
She started the car and listened to the engine hum into life. She let it roll gently down the street and stopped at the end, wondering whether to go left or right at the junction. A few years of frantic property speculation had left the sprawling peripheries of the city criss-crossed with streets that she had no recollection of, as well as confusing new junctions that appeared to lead nowhere, left unfinished as the estates they were supposed to reach were boarded up.
She opted to turn left, immediately regained her bearings and decided to continue through the quiet estate of houses set back from the speed-bump-studded road. This was a smart neighbourhood, not fashionable, but populated by younger, two-and three-car families who clearly took the look of their homes seriously.
Gunna’s phone rang and she pulled over to the side of the road to answer it. “Skúli, that was quick.”
“And easy as well. Someone knew the guy straight away. He shortens his name to Gulli Ólafs, that’s what threw me.”
“Understandable. But do you know where I can find him?”
“You’re not going to give him a story before me, are you?” Gunna could hear the grin behind his voice.
“Of course not. Hey, are you back at Dagurinn?”
“Yeah, just covering a few shifts for someone else.” Skúli’s cheerful tone vanished. “Two days a week at the moment. Gulli Ólafs works for a business magazine called Verslun. It went bust last year and someone came along and bailed them out, so it’s still running and he is one of only about half the staff they kept on. They used to be in smart offices on Borgartún, but now they’re above a garage down at Grandi.”
“Excellent. Thanks, Skúli.”
“No problem. Just wondering, do you have anything to tell me?”
“Not right now. But progress is being made. I’ll let you know when I can say anything. Keep your eyes open, though. This could be bigger than I thought. But not a word out of place. All right?”
“You know, Gunna? Anyone else saying that and I wouldn’t believe them for a second.”
“But you know you can trust your Auntie Gunnhildur, don’t you?”
“If you say so,” he said dubiously.
“Oh yes. Are we just the finest detectives around or what?” Eiríkur asked, rubbing his hands with pleasure.
“We are, Gunna and me. Don’t know about you, young feller,” Helgi grunted in reply.
“Don’t mind him, Eiríkur. He’s had a bad night,” Gunna said. “Teething again, Helgi?”
“Yup.” Helgi yawned.