“At the block on Lindargata when I was fitting all those bathrooms and kitchens for Ingi Lár. We used to see him wandering about in his suit and wearing a helmet, looking like a twat. Then, after that, I used to notice him around his house. It’s only a street or two above my place.” He coughed. “What used to be our place until the bank had it off us,” he corrected himself. “Look, I’ve already been through this with your mate, the fat bloke. Why do I have to tell you as well? Not that I have other plans.”
“That’s because I’m working on another investigation that concerns Bjartmar. So was this the only time that you spoke to him face to face?”
“You mean when I told him just what a bastard he was and then shot him?”
“That’s it.”
“Yup. That was it. Never spoke to the man in person before.”
“So how did you know it was Bjartmar who was responsible for your financial problems?”
“Ingi Lár told me all about it,” Jón said with heat. “I know Ingi and he wouldn’t lie to me. He’s come out of it badly as well, poor old feller. His company went bust because Bjartmar’s company declared bankruptcy. Because Ingi didn’t get his bills paid, he couldn’t pay me, although he helped us out with what he could.”
He smacked the table with a palm. “Ingi’s broke as well now. He’s sixty and doesn’t have two pennies to rub together, so he’s doing odd jobs for people who used to work for him. Good, eh?”
He sat back and scowled.
“Who’s Elín Harpa?” Helgi asked.
Jón shrugged. “Some woman I did a job for. I think I left my phone there, but I figured I wasn’t going to need it in prison, so I didn’t bother going back for it.”
“Where does she live?”
“Off Hringbraut somewhere,” Jón said uncertainly.
“Where off Hringbraut?”
“Can’t remember.”
“How was she involved in your plans?”
“She wasn’t,” Jón said animatedly. “Look. I got a call asking if I could replace a kitchen tap. I did the job, took five thousand for it and that’s all. I might have left my phone there. Or I might have dropped it somewhere.”
“Where does she live, Jón?”
“Like I said, one of those streets off Hringbraut. I can’t remember which.”
“All right. If you won’t tell us, we’ll find her.”
The rambling house on Álfhólsvegur was closer to the road than its neighbours were, and Gunna could see people inside as she pulled up and switched off the engine. Not that many years ago, this had been a quiet residential street, but it had since become a thoroughfare from one end of Kópavogur to the other, with cars taking it as fast as the vicious speed bumps allowed.
“I’m looking for Högni Sigurgeirsson,” Gunna said to the wrinkled woman who answered the door. “Is he here?”
The woman didn’t answer, but stepped back and to one side to allow Gunna in, letting out a yell of surprising volume from someone so diminutive.
“Högni! Someone for you, boy!”
Gunna closed the door behind her and followed the woman into the kitchen, where an elderly man sat at a table and leafed through Morgunbladid while drawing on what Gunna could smell was a filterless Camel even before she saw the overflowing ashtray at his elbow.
He nodded and returned to his newspaper as the woman went through another door, calling out without getting a reply other than a blast of cold air. A door from the house’s living room leading to the garden swung open and showed where Högni had disappeared.
“I can’t understand it. He was here just now,” she grumbled. “Láki! Where did Högni go?” she called to the man at the kitchen table.
“Dunno,” he wheezed.
“Who are you anyway?” the woman asked finally, looking up at Gunna. “I’d have thought Högni’s girlfriends would be a bit younger.”
“I’m from the police,” Gunna said stiffly. “This is the address he gave us, so I was wondering who you are?”
“I’m sorry, dear. I’m his mother’s aunt. It’s terrible about poor Svanhildur. The lad’s awfully upset, you know. Would you like a cup of coffee?” She took unsteady steps into the kitchen and fetched a cup without waiting for a reply. “Sit down, dear.”
“And have you found out who did it yet?” the man rumbled. “She was a lovely girl, Svana was. A crying shame what happens these days. And what do the police do about it? Nothing,” he went on, oblivious to Gunna’s presence as he continued to leaf through the newspaper.
The old woman poured coffee as black as tar into the cup. Gunna sipped doubtfully, but found that it was excellent.
“How has Högni been?” she asked.
“Æi. He’s taken it badly, the poor dear.”
“Is he here much?”
“No, we don’t see a lot of him, but we’re up early and in bed early, not like you youngsters.”
“Is he working, do you know?”
“He can’t work much, not since his accident, so he only does a few hours. He broke his leg a year ago.”
“Two years ago,” the old man corrected.
“Two years ago. Lord, but time flies. Yes, he’s a martyr to his bad leg, the boy is.”
Not so much a martyr that he can’t shift quickly out of the back door as soon as the police show up, Gunna thought, draining her cup.
“Do you know where I might find him?”