He clapped his hands to dismiss the group, clearly enjoying the moment, while Ívar Laxdal caught Gunna’s eye: the barely perceptible lifting of one eyebrow indicated that he wanted a quiet word.
Jón opened his eyes with difficulty and wondered where the strange low ceiling had come from. Then the previous night came flooding back and he shut his eyes and began to shake.
“You’re awake, then?”
Elín Harpa sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him questioningly.
“You’ve had a bad time,” she observed.
“Yeah,” Jón grunted, his throat dry, struggling to sit up. “Look, I’m really sorry about yesterday. I was desperate and didn’t know where to go.”
“S’all right. There’s plenty of desperate people about these days.”
“I’m really grateful you let me stay here. I’ll be out of your way now.”
“S’all right,” Elín Harpa repeated, shrugging off the long-since-white dressing gown and wriggling back under the duvet. “Stay if you want. You’ll have to buy some food, though. There’s none here and I don’t get any money until tomorrow”.
Gunna deeply felt the need for a cigarette, something she was sure she had conquered over the last few weeks and months of withdrawal. Sævaldur’s briefing had triggered a craving inside that she tried to cure with a brisk walk around the car park in Ívar Laxdal’s company.
In spite of his shorter legs, Ívar Laxdal walked at a pace slightly faster than Gunna’s and she matched it by keeping to the inside track.
“Bjartmar Arnarson. Is this linked to the case you were already investigating?” he asked bluntly.
“Probably, yes. I’d be amazed if there wasn’t some kind of link, even if not directly. The number of people the bloody man had upset over the years, we’re spoil for choice for suspects until Technical come up with something to work on or we can find a witness to give us a lead. The best we have so far is a tall man in dark clothes and a van parked two streets away. That’s it. No fingerprints, no witnesses, bugger all, in fact.”
Ívar Laxdal’s pace picked up and Gunna wondered how soon she would find herself jogging to keep up.
“Actually, we have a problem there,” she said.
“The Svana Geirs case? What’s that?”
“Our star suspect has an alibi.”
“Solid?”
“He was beating somebody up a hundred kilometres away. It’s possible at a stretch, but I don’t think it was him.”
“Long Ommi, you mean?”
“That’s him. Even he can’t be in two places at once. If he was handing out a beating that means he couldn’t have been anywhere near Svana Geirs’ flat when she was killed.”
Ívar Laxdal nodded as he walked. “Bjartmar is the priority now. Was this a vendetta of some kind? A professional killing?”
“God, I hope not,” Gunna said with feeling. “There are enough firearms floating around the country but they’ve never been used. But I suppose it was always going to be a matter of time before we were to see gun crime. If this was a contract killing, it could open the floodgates for all the scumbags who have weapons to start using them.”
“My feeling precisely. This has to be sorted out quickly, very quickly. Svana Geirs being bumped off is one thing; that could be what the French call a crime passionnel. Temporary insanity, the Americans call the same thing. But this is something we can’t afford to get wrong.”
“Are we getting the killer profiled?”
Ívar Laxdal snorted. “We are. But that’s just to keep them happy upstairs. It’ll be legwork that sorts this one out, just you see.”
“And Sævaldur’s going to do that?”
Another snort. “Sævaldur’s going through the motions. I want you on the Svana case, ostensibly. I want every possible angle examined that could have any bearing on Bjartmar. Everything, understand? You can have all the overtime you want, but I don’t have any bodies for you. There’s no spare manpower for an emergency these days, I’m afraid.”
“Why did you cut all your hair off?” Jón asked.
“Felt like it. This is easier. Not so much to wash.”
“It makes you look younger. It looks good.”
“How young do you think it makes me look?” Elín Harpa asked with secretive smile.
“I don’t know,” Jón said, taken by surprise. “Twenty-six, twenty-seven?”
“Close. Twenty-four. And you? You’re quite old, aren’t you?” she said blandly.
“Thirty-eight,” Jón answered, subtracting three years from his age and wondering why.
Jón had bought pizzas. He and Elín Harpa perched on the edge of the bed, while two of the children sat on plastic chairs and the smallest lay happily in the crook of his mother’s arm, sucking on a bottle.
The little boy and his younger sister chewed the spicy slices and guzzled cola greedily, apparently unconcerned by Jón’s presence. They watched the television constantly, engrossed in cartoons in English, until only one slice of pizza remained and both decided that they wanted it.
“Stop it!” Elín Harpa commanded as the two of them began to squabble noisily. “Stop! Now! Or I’ll change the channel,” she threatened as they ignored her.
She stabbed at the taped-up remote control until the channel changed and the two children howled at the injustice.