‘He comes back at 23.31. That would fit nicely. Our man drives out to Sandeyri when it’s quiet. You can’t see the dock from any of the houses because it’s behind the sea wall, and nobody’s likely to be looking out of the window at that time of night anyway. He rolls his car off the dock, calls a taxi and waits to be picked up.’
‘Very neat,’ Gunna decided. ‘Right. Can we trace the taxi?’
‘Easy enough. It’s a Mercedes, dark colour, and if you look at that picture of it coming off the roundabout, you’ll see that the front wing is dented as well.’
‘Snorri, my boy, I think you can imagine what I’m going to ask you to do next.’
‘As it happens, I’ve already done it.’
‘And?’
‘The taxi is owned by a company called Radio Taxis, which is in turn owned by a gentleman called Jón Gunnsteinn Hannesson.’
‘Otherwise known as Nonni the Taxi and old friend of the police, as they say in the cop shows,’ Gunna said grimly. ‘Know him of old, I’m afraid. That’s excellent, Snorri, much more than I’d hoped you’d come up with. But, there’s one thing.’
‘Hm?’
‘I’d prefer this to be kept very discreet.’
‘Riiiight?’ he said slowly, both his tone and eyebrows rising as he said it.
‘Look, it’s not secret, but I don’t want it all over the place yet. If we dig into the Egill Grímsson case, we’re in danger of stepping on the city force’s toes to begin with, and. .’
‘And?’
Gunna felt awkward but steeled herself to admit what she had been hoping was not the case. ‘I get the feeling this is all being sidelined. I’m sure it’s being quietly dropped.’
‘Shit. Who?’
‘Couldn’t say. I’m being leaned on by Vilhjálmur not to put too much effort into this.’
‘What? The Emperor?’
‘Excuse me? Why do you call the chief inspector the Emperor?’
‘Bára Gunnólfs said it first. Haven’t you noticed he looks like a Roman emperor?’
‘You cheeky bastards,’ Gunna guffawed. ‘I’ll bet you youngsters all say rude things about me as well.’
‘No. We like you. But we do wonder about your toyboy, though.’
‘What?’
‘You know. The one from
‘Skúli? He’s a good lad, just a bit bewildered at the real world, I reckon. He’s only been out of school a few months.’
‘He seems a strange character.’
‘That’s what a sheltered upbringing and years of university do for you, I suppose.’
‘The opposite of us, then?’
‘Yup, I’m afraid so. Anyway, say a word out of turn and I’ll tell Vilhjálmur what you lot call him and you’ll find yourself transferred to Grímsey before you know it.’
Lára looked up and frowned as she parked outside. She remembered leaving the kitchen window of her flat open so the cat could jump out on to the balcony, but she hadn’t left it that wide open.
On the stairwell something whispered to her that things weren’t quite right. She wrapped a hand around the rape alarm that nestled in the bottom of her bag, hoping that it would work if she needed it, wondering if any of the mostly immigrant occupants of the other flats in the block would hear it or even take any notice if it were to go off.
Her key slid into the lock and she swung open the door as quietly as she could, wincing to herself as it creaked. Stepping inside and leaving the door open, she looked carefully around the living room and bedroom, satisfied herself that there was nobody hiding behind the shower curtain in the tiny bathroom and only then noticed that the place had been ransacked.
Every drawer and cupboard was open, with contents spilled on to the floor. Her underwear was in a heap on the bed, jeans and tops piled on the floor. Books and papers had been hauled from shelves and the kitchen cupboard that contained her cameras had been rifled, but nothing appeared to be missing. Lára sighed with relief that she had taken her laptop with her that morning and finally put down her bags in the remaining clear space in the middle of the living room.
A sudden rattle in the kitchen made her nerves scream in alarm, until the black and white cat jumped from window sill to kitchen table with an inquiring look on its face.
‘Hi, Kisi. What happened here, then?’ she asked it, but the cat only stared back at her.
Hunched under the sink, she fumbled for the panel under the sagging kitchen unit and triumphantly brought out a handful of disks that she knew contained most of her recent work.
Relieved, she unclipped the phone from the ragged patch of denim on the waistband of her jeans and dialled 112.
Tuesday, 16 September
Gunna felt self-conscious in Reykjavík. The city had changed so much since she had been on the Reykjavík force that she even found herself taking wrong turnings along the new roads that seemed to sprout up every time she ventured into town.
Radio Taxis had a yard at the back of an industrial area not far from the main road. On an overcast morning Gunna nosed the police Volvo through grey puddles between drab workshops until she found Radio Taxis’ offices, a shed that looked slightly better on the inside than the ramshackle exterior.