“No suspects? No leads?” Skúli asked plaintively.
“So far, nothing. No witnesses, no dabs, no ballistic evidence, nothing. So no bones to throw.”
“Hell. This has to be the front page tomorrow, and we haven’t anything to put on there. The whole story is two paragraphs and some waffle. Was it a professional killing, d’you think?”
“I’m sorry, Skúli, I can’t speculate. But if you were to dig into Bjartmar’s business affairs, you wouldn’t go far wrong.”
She heard the grin in his voice. “Thanks, Gunna.”
“The companies are Rigel Investment, Arcturus Construction, Arcturus Management, Landex and Sandex Property. It’s all public record stuff. All you have to do is join the dots and you should find something spooky.”
“Thanks, Gunna. You’re a star,” Skúli said with evident delight, and rang off.
The van whined and complained, but eventually started. Jón waited for it to settle down and stop belching smoke before he chivvied it into the morning traffic heading out of town. It rattled through Gardabær as he thought about Elín Harpa and the unreal day he had spent in her tiny flat, numbed and isolated from the world outside.
It was yet another relief to think that he wouldn’t have to worry about the van’s exhaust, ready to drop off into the road at the slightest bump. After today, he’d have other concerns.
He took a detour past his old house, and then wished he hadn’t. A car was parked in the driveway and there was a light in the kitchen. Somebody was having breakfast in the kitchen he had built, probably the same somebody who had started making an effort to tidy up the garden that had been at the bottom of Jón’s list of priorities.
He felt physically sick as he gunned the van down the street and back to the main road that took him towards Hafnarfjördur and the half-finished industrial area where the workshop stood. According to the plans, it should have been demolished already to make way for a new development, but construction had come to a halt a year before and the workshop had been given a reprieve.
Jón fired up the stove and the heat spread quickly, the bare walls drinking in the warmth and the metal of the stove dticking happily. From force of habit he cleared up, sweeping dust and debris from the floor straight out of the door to be caught by the breeze and whipped away.
At the workbench, he took his bag from an overhead locker and carefully unwrapped his shotgun. The barrels were blackened and he was shocked to see that there were blood spots on them as well. He carefully wiped the weapon down with a cloth and ejected the used cartridges. These he dropped into the stove that had already eaten up the trainers and overalls he had taken off after the shooting at Bjartmar’s house.
Wondering why he was being so careful, he clicked on the kettle. He hadn’t been able to face breakfast as Elín Harpa’s children had wolfed down cereal, but there was time for a mug of coffee before he needed to get to his appointment.
“His name’s Jón Jóhannsson,” Eiríkur said, eyes on the screen as he clicked and scrolled.
The man’s image appeared before him, a cheerful character who looked unused to having his photograph taken and had a serious expression on his face that didn’t suit him.
“You’re sure?” Gunna asked, leaning forward to see Eiríkur’s screen better.
“Yup. We have CCTV footage of a white van registered to this guy taken within ten minutes of the shooting at the intersection below the Setberg district. We could only make out three numbers on the registration plate, but that combination only fits one pale-coloured van on the vehicle registry-Jón Jóhannsson’s.”
“So this certainly points to our man. If not, he’s still going to have a lot of questions to answer,” Gunna said grimly.
“He’s a plumber, apparently.”
“How do you know that?” Gunna asked.
“His ID number. Then looked him up in the phone book.”
“Address?”
“Here,” Eiríkur said, holding out a slip of paper. “He lives in Hafnarfjördur.”
“Then we’d better get the Laxdal to call the Special Unit out to pay him a visit, hadn’t we? I hope he hasn’t gone to work.”
Steingrímur two black-clad colleagues emerged from the van and got into position. Helgi took a deep breath and marched up the garden path beside Gunna, gulping as she hammered on the door.
“Coming,” sang a cheerful voice an instant before the door opened and a smiling young woman appeared, hair in a turban made from a towel. “Yes?”
Gunna flashed her ID.
“I’m Gunnhildur Gísladóttir from the CID Serious Crime Unit. This is my colleague Helgi Svavarsson,” she said grimly. “We’re looking for Jón Jóhannsson.”
Her heart was pounding and she hoped her nerves didn’t show.
“Jón? There’s no Jón here,” the woman said with a laugh that died on her lips as she looked past Gunna and Helgi to see three black-clad men with their weapons trained on the house. “What’s going on?” she quavered.