“A quick shag for old times’ sake?” Gunna suggested.
“Fuck you, you old bitch,” Ommi retorted furiously.
“I can hang this one on you, Ommi. Between ourselves, this’ll mean another ten years inside, and with your past form, it won’t be in some soft open nick like Kvíabryggja. Think about it,” Gunna said quietly and turned to the warder. “Ómar would like to go back to his cell now,” she told him.
Gunna just made it in time for Sævaldur’s briefing. Out of breath after trotting from the car park, she took a seat at the back.
In her precise, heavily accented English that Gunna knew practically every male officer found deeply exciting, the severe Miss Cruz drily described Bjartmar Arnarson’s injuries. As Albert had predicted, there was little relevant information that hadn’t been known at first glance.
“Caucasian male, good general health, one hundred and ninety-one centimetres in height, one hundred and fifteen kilos in weight. No illnesses, no evidence of drug use. The injuries were caused by a shotgun with small-gauge lead pellets that resulted in multiple lacerations of the feet, which were bare at the time the injury occurred,” she intoned, using one finger to push her glasses back up the bridge of her nose.
“I would estimate that the perpetrator was standing no more than one metre from the victim and he would certainly have been splashed with blood from the victim’s injuries.”
She paused to draw a deep breath and push her glasses up a second time.
“The fatal injury was undoubtedly administered at very close range, within thirty centimetres of the victim’s chest, with a second round delivered from the same weapon. Mortality was instantaneous,” she said flatly, and sat down.
“Er, how long between the two shots, do you think?” Eiríkur ventured.
“Not more than a few seconds. Very soon after. With the first shot, the victim fell to the floor. He collapsed first on to his knees, which show evidence of the impact marks on the floor, and then on to one side. The floor was also badly damaged by the shot and there are slivers of glass from the surface of the ceramic tiles everywhere. It’s possible that these may have hit the perpetrator as well, but there are slivers of glass in the victim’s right buttock and side, indicating that he fell on to that side. He was lying flat on his back when the second shot was delivered, so he may have rolled that way by himself or he may have been moved by the perpetrator into a suitable position. The victim’s chest was completely destroyed by the second shot, with extensive damage,” she said.
Extensive damage-an interesting understatement, Gunna reflected, thinking quickly to cope with Miss Cruz’s English.
“Do the footprints tell us anything?” Eiríkur asked, more confidently this time.
“Just that the perpetrator stepped towards the victim to fire the second round,” Miss Cruz said. “There are three footprints. I believe he stepped forward, right foot first, then left, fired, then stepped left foot back and right foot out of the door. There’s nothing remarkable about the prints, nothing special. Training shoes that are quite well worn, size forty-eight, I estimate, so we could be looking at a perpetrator around two metres tall.”
Helgi and Gunna looked at each other, thinking back to the witness’ recollection of seeing a tall man in dark clothes walking fast. “Thank you, Miss Cruz,” Sævaldur said.
“What’s the situation with the criminal profiler?” Gunna asked, knowing that this would elicit a sour response from Sævaldur.
“Coming from Denmark and should be arriving tomorrow,” he said shortly. “Now, ideas? What are we looking for? To my mind this was a professional job.”
Gunna shook her head and scowled to herself, which Sævaldur immediately picked up on.
“You don’t agree, Gunnhildur? Reasons?” he asked.
“The weapon, mainly,” she said firmly. “A shotgun’s messy. Someone setting out to kill and wanting to keep it quick and simple would use a handgun, probably with a silencer, not a shotgun.”
“Handguns are illegal. Have been for years,” Sævaldur objected.
“Yeah. Anyone who wants to can get hold of one for the right price,” Gunna said. “If this guy was a professional, it would have been a handgun. This wasn’t a professional job.”
The rawboned figure of Steingrímur from the Special Unit nodded in agreement.
“I agree with Gunna,” he said. “A shotgun’s awkward. From the way the pellets spread out, even at such short range, I’d guess we’re dealing with a sawn-off weapon here. It looks premeditated, but sawn-off says home-made to me.”
“And there are shotguns everywhere,” Gunna added. “Anyone who wants a shotgun can find one somewhere. Is there anyone here who doesn’t know someone who shoots? See?” she said, as not a single hand went up. “This may well have been a perfectly legal, licensed weapon for all we know.”