“Put ’em to sleep, boys. Calpol works wonders. I’d have cheerfully strangled both of mine without it,” Gunna said. “What have you found that’s making you so happy, then?”
Eiríkur put a stack of printouts on his desk and patted them. “Witness statements from the Ómar Magnússon case. Dug them out from the archives, and guess what? There are a couple of very interesting witnesses who say they saw Ómar having an argument with Steindór Hjálmarsson the night he was murdered.”
He paused for effect.
“Go on, get it over with,” Helgi grumbled.
“There’s a statement from the lead singer of the band, Svanhildur Mjöll Sigurgeirsdóttir, and also from one of the doormen, Óskar Óskarsson, currently in hospital in Keflavík.”
“Weren’t you on that case, Helgi?” Gunna asked.
“Not really. I was with the team that arrested Ommi, but it wasn’t actually him we were looking for. If I recall correctly, we were searching Evil Eygló’s summer house for stolen goods when Ommi came wandering out of the bedroom rubbing his eyes. I don’t know which of us was more surprised.”
“So Skari and Svana both gave witness statements saying that Ommi and Steindór had a ruck?” Gunna asked.
“Yup. That’s it. There are plenty more and I thought I’d check through the rest of them, just to see if there might be a name that pops up anywhere, and there’s one that made me think. Sindri Valsson, the man’s name is. He was also interviewed at the time and claimed not to have been aware of anything. So I did a bit of a check and it seems he lives overseas now, Portugal.”
“Any relation to …?”
“Spot on. Jónas Valur Hjaltason’s son. It threw me to start with because he calls himself Valsson and not Jónasson. But he’s still a director of a few of his dad’s companies, including the one that owns property in Portugal and Spain, and he’s also a director of one of Bjartmar Arnarson’s companies, Rigel Investment.”
“So how did you stumble on all this?”
“Well, I’d already been checking out the ownership of Rigel Investment and saw the name there as a director. It wasn’t until I saw the witness statement in his name that it jogged my memory and I put two and two together. But guess what? He was here last week, left on Friday on a flight to London.”
“How did you find that out so fast?”
“I had a look through the passenger list archive and it seems he’s a regular traveller, four or five times a year normally.”
Verslun occupied a cramped space with a row of desks along one wall decorated with posters from the magazine’s more prosperous days. A sharp-faced young man with gelled hair looked up from the front desk.
“Yes?”
“Gunnlaugur Olafsson?”
He looked at her suspiciously.
“Gulli’s in a meeting. Is it important?” he demanded sharply. “What’s it about?”
Gunna felt her hackles rise. She dug in her pocket and flashed her police ID card at him.
“Yes, it is important, and no, I’m not going to discuss it with you. Where is he?”
The young man deflated and retreated, opening a glass door and holding a conversation in whispers, punctuated with quick looks over one shoulder.
“Gulli’ll be right with you,” he said, returning and sitting back at his desk, where he proceeded to ignore Gunna and concentrate on the computer in front of him. In the glass door behind him, Gunna noticed a reflection of the young man’s screen and saw he was devoting his attention to his Facebook page. Finally the glass door opened and a tall man with a harassed manner came out, sweeping a lock of untidy hair away from his face and frowning.
“You’re looking for me?” he asked doubtfully.
“Yup, Gunnhildur Gísladóttir. Serious Crime Unit. A quiet word would be useful.”
“I recognize you,” Gulli Olafs said, eyes narrowed. “There was a feature about you in a newspaper last year, wasn’t there?”
“There was,” Gunna said gravely. “I can see that my notoriety goes before me.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“Can we go somewhere quiet?”
Gulli Olafs held his hands up and looked around the cramped office with its desks and a few booths. “There’s nowhere right now. The meeting room’s in use and I don’t know how long they’ll be. Is it something particular you want to ask me about?”
“Yes. Steindór Hjálmarsson.”
Startled, Gulli Olafs took a step back and then looked around him. “I think we’d better go outside,” he said heavily, nodding his head almost imperceptibly at the young man at the front desk.
They walked the few hundred metres to Grandakaffi, one of the workmen’s cafés. It looked to be thirty years behind the times in the increasingly smart dock area, but still saw a thriving trade for its traditionally down-to-earth food.
“Been here before?” Gulli Olafs asked as they went into the quiet café with the lunchtime rush over.
“Many times,” Gunna assured him, taking coffee and a roll, and fumbling for coins.
“No, on me,” Gulli Olafs said, handing over a note and asking for a receipt, which he folded carefully away.