Í
VAR
L
AXDAL SEEMED
to fill the whole of the detectives’ coffee room. Gunna, Eiríkur and Helgi sat around the table as Ívar waited expectantly.
“Gísladóttir, Eiríkur and Helgi. Well, Gunnhildur?” he invited.
“The woman who was pulling the stunts at the Gullfoss and a few other hotels is Hekla Elín Hauksdóttir. She calls herself Sonja as her business name and advertises on personal.is and a few other places, as far as I’ve been able to find out, such as classified ads in the press. She’s thirty-three years old and lives out at Kjalarnes with her husband and three children. One’s his, the younger two are theirs. She’s an actress, it seems, or was. Until a year or so ago they were living in Akranes; they lost their house when the bank foreclosed and managed to swing this old place instead. The husband is a decent enough character, a good bit older, disabled in an accident a few years ago when he lost his job.”
Ívar Laxdal nodded. “And she’s in an interview room right now, is she?”
“No, we haven’t tracked her down yet, but as we have her address, phone numbers and the number of her car, I don’t expect it’ll be long. According to her husband, she was out today recording an advert at a studio somewhere. That’s what seems to be left of her theatrical career: dubbing voices onto cartoons and reading ads for the radio.”
“Fine. What else? You didn’t bring me down here just for that, did you?”
“Far from it. What did you get from Siggi at comms, Eiríkur?”
“Mister zero-one-seven, who we are certain is Hróbjartur Bjarnthórsson, has been in touch with these numbers so far and we’re keeping a watch on his phone,” he said, passing across a sheet of paper. “He’s been pretty quiet most of the time. It seems he switches on his phone, makes a call, and then
switches it off again, mostly from around the same area. But today the phone has been switched on all morning and these are the numbers called.”
Eiríkur tapped the sheet of paper and circled a group of numbers in red.
“This is an unknown mobile that Dísa over there at the drug squad believes is one of several used by a dealer called Hinrik Sørensen,” Gunna said. “These two here are the mobile and home phone number of Jóel Ingi Bragason,” she said, her finger on the paper. “Both calls were made less than an hour ago.”
Ívar Laxdal’s mighty eyebrows knitted. “Jóel Ingi? That snot-nosed young pup who lost his laptop and expected us to find it for him?”
“That’s the one. Either Baddó has been shadowing our investigation of what happened at Hotel Gullfoss when Jóhannes Karlsson kicked the bucket, or else he’d already been digging into it. Wherever we look, someone has been there first or right after us, normally calling himself Jón and telling people he’s in security.”
“He has been in security,” Helgi laughed and the smile disappeared from his face. “He spent seven years in prison in Kaunas, so he should know a thing or two about security.”
“You’re sure about this?” Ívar Laxdal growled.
“When I visit Sonja’s victim in Akureyri, who’s already been in touch? The mysterious Jón, who we have identified from CCTV at the Gullfoss as being Hróbjartur Bjarnthórsson, aka, Bigfoot Baddó,” Gunna continued. “We grill Magnús Sigmarsson, then he vanishes. That points to the mysterious Jón, who it seems had already pumped other hotel staff members for information. We start to get close to Jóel Ingi and, hey presto, Jón/Baddó again. He is now, without doubt, our prime suspect for Magnús Sigmarsson’s murder, as well as the manslaughter of Ásmundur Ásuson.”
“And now we have Jóel Ingi implicated in the mix as well,” Ívar Laxdal mused, elbows on the table and his chin resting on his hands as one stubby forefinger tapped out a slow rhythm against the other hand. “What do you want to do, Gunnhildur?” he asked suddenly.
“Probably what you won’t let me do.”
“Which is?”
“Haul Jóel Ingi Bragason down here and make him sweat. There’s something very suspicious about that young man.”
Ívar Laxdal smiled in a way that made his features light up under those heavy black brows. “You can do what you feel necessary, Gunnhildur, as far as I’m concerned. It’s a serious case and we can’t pussyfoot around with half measures. But there’s one piece of advice I’d like to give you before you approach the ministry.”
“And that is?”
“There’ll be an election soon. This year, or next at the latest. As they’ll be back out in the cold soon enough anyway, you can piss off the politicians as much you like. But don’t upset too many officials without good reason, as they’ll still be running things when we have new people in charge.”
A
PHONE CALL
to a friend in the car trade told her the mud-colored Hyundai was more than likely a stolen vehicle. The man with the scarred face was certainly not the Elma Líf Sævarsdóttir the car was registered to, and she guessed that there was something shady that linked Jóel Ingi, Hinrik the Herb and the desperate-looking man with his face covered in stitches.
With Jóel Ingi’s trail gone cold, she told herself that she could pick it up later, either from his home or the ministry, and the instinct developed during years spent in uniform told her the Hyundai would be worth tailing in the meantime. This time she was ready. The brown car toiled up the slope and
the venerable Renault, sharp and well looked after in spite of its age, was quick enough to keep up at a respectable distance.
She followed it through the thickening afternoon traffic as it seemed to go aimlessly through the city and out the far side toward Kópavogur before joining the main road to Hafnarfjördur. She watched the Hyundai make a slow circuit of the harbor area, encountering locked dock gates several times before it occurred to her that the driver was lost.
Finally it stopped at the side of the road in an industrial area, parking between a couple of trucks outside a row of small fish processing plants. The little factories were deserted, the day’s work over by mid-afternoon and the staff long gone, but leaving tubs of waste outside for the gulls to peck and gnaw at. She wrinkled her nose at the aroma of stale fish that the breeze brought and closed the car window as she parked a hundred meters behind the Hyundai and waited.
After a while it occurred to her that she might be in for a long wait, telling herself it could be uncomfortable sooner rather than later. There were no lights to be seen in the Hyundai and she wondered what the driver was doing. She slipped out of the car, zipped her parka up to the neck and pulled on a baseball cap that she hoped would hide her face, walking away from the Hyundai and taking a short cut between two buildings into the street higher up, conscious that this could be a mistake. The man could decide to move off at any moment, leaving her unable to follow quickly enough.
Walking briskly around the corner, she completed a circuit by striding back toward her car, taking care to stay on the opposite side of the road, thereby giving her the opportunity for only a very quick view of the Hyundai, where she was relieved to see its occupant with closed eyes, the seat laid back as far as it would go.
Satisfied for the moment, she walked smartly back to the Renault, looking about her rapidly to see if she’d been
observed, and side-stepped between two shipping containers. Dubious about the cold, but left with no choice, out of the wind and out of sight, she unzipped, squatted quickly and emerged relieved a moment later to take her place in the Renault, where she switched on the radio, told herself that she was now good for the rest of the day, and waited for the Hyundai’s occupant to wake up and move off.
Æ
GIR
L
ÁRUSSON WAS
unamused and Már Einarsson was visibly agitated at his side.
“Jóel Ingi Bragason is on sick leave. He was taken ill last night.”
“So he’s in hospital, is he?” Gunna asked. “Which one?”
“I don’t know,” Már said stiffly. “As far as I’m aware, he’s at home.”
“What’s his address?”
“I can’t tell you that. It’s confidential.”
“Oh, come on. It’s not going to be that hard to find out where the man lives. You may as well tell me and save me going through the national register.”
Már looked at Ægir, who gave the tiniest nod of assent. Már wrote a few lines on a notepad and tore the top sheet off, handing it to her.
“Classy address,” Gunna said. Standing behind her, Helgi heard his phone chime and she registered him raising an eyebrow as he read the text message. “I’m wondering what does Jóel Ingi’s sudden illness have to do with this mysterious laptop that you were so anxious about a few days ago?”
Már looked anxious and flashed a glance at Ægir, who forced a smile. “Officer, I don’t know exactly why you are suddenly so interested in a matter you were asked to investigate some time ago. It’s not as if the police were particularly enthusiastic then.”
Gunna held his gaze as he tried to stare her down. “I don’t
know either. But I’m not a great believer in coincidences. I get the impression that Jóel Ingi is out of his depth and that neither of us has the full story. I certainly don’t believe the ministry has been entirely open on this. Far from it, in fact. I’d say that we’ve been asked to clear up your mess, but without being given the correct information.”
Ægir grimaced. “There are things I’m not at liberty to divulge.”
“That’s up to you. But without the facts, there’s not a lot we can do. On the other hand, it may well be that the ministry’s security is compromised. Tell me, what does Jóel Ingi do here, exactly?”
Már coughed. “He works with me. We’re part of a team that carries out analysis and prepares digests for policy development.”
“Tell me that’s more than watching foreign TV news reports?”
“Of course it is,” Már snapped.
“So he, and you, are dealing with sensitive or confidential data?”
“Naturally.”
“Like what?”
Már looked at Ægir, who pursed his lips and shook his head. “Where is this going, officer?” he asked wearily.
“What I’m after is some kind of background information that could tell me if Jóel Ingi is being pressured or even blackmailed. What kind of information is he working with?”
“Trade figures, mainly. Analysis of exports from countries that compete with our industries. That’s his main role at present.”
“What about his personal life? He’s married? Children?”
“He’s married, no children.”
“Hobbies? Activities? Clubs? Politics? Friends?”
Ægir sat back and his eyebrows twitched. Már looked blank. “He works out a lot. Fitness is important to him. When
I go to the gym, he’s normally either there already or on the way. Politics? I don’t think he takes an interest. At least, not an active one. He doesn’t have many friends, as far as I know, not after he left the bank.”
“What? Explain, will you?”
“He used to be a legal adviser at one of the main banks before the crash. He left the bank about six months before everything went wrong, so I don’t know if he’d seen it coming or what, but he got out and applied for a post here instead. I gather most of his friends were in the banking sector and pretty much cut him off after the crash.”
Gunna looked squarely at him without saying anything until Már’s hands fluttered. “I really don’t know why. I suppose they resented the fact that he’d managed to get out with clean hands and a few million stashed away. There were never any questions about his role at the bank. He wasn’t called in by the winding-up committee. As far as I’m aware, he came away from it with his hands clean.”
“And his personal life?”
Már shrugged. “I really don’t know. He doesn’t have close friends. I suppose I’m the closest thing he has to one,” he said haltingly. “Although …” he tailed off and paused.
“Although what?” Gunna prompted.
“I’m not sure his marriage is all that stable. He’s devoted to Agnes, but it’s quite a stormy relationship. They can both be pretty volatile and I’ve seen them practically fighting one minute and in each others’ arms the next.”
“Understood,” Gunna said, making notes before turning to Ægir Lárusson. “This laptop you’re so keen to retrieve. What’s on it that’s so important?”
“You’re not security cleared. All I can say is that it contains sensitive data.”
“Just who is going to be inconvenienced if this sensitive stuff leaks out? Jóel Ingi? You? Someone higher up?”
Ægir scowled and his face flushed. “I’m not at liberty to say. All I can say is that we consider it important that this information doesn’t fall into the wrong hands.”
“And whose hands would those be? The press? Another ministry? The opposition?”
Ægir shoved his chair back. “That’s all I have to say,” he said abruptly.
A
S HE PUT
the phone down and the panic started to rise again, Jóel Ingi saw his phone flash a second time. While he hoped that it was Agnes calling to heal the rift between them, he knew deep inside that an apology would have to come from him first.
“Hello,” he said, answering the call even though his instinct had been to ignore it.
“
Hæ
, my name’s Skúli Snædal and I’m a journalist at the
Reykjavík Voice
,” he heard and froze. “Hello?” the voice continued. “Hello, is that Jóel Ingi Bragason? Are you there?”
“I’m here,” he said after a long pause. Fatigue seemed to have eaten its way deep into his bones as he closed the car door. “I’m sorry. This isn’t a good moment. Can it wait until tomorrow?”
“I have an allegation from a foreign human rights group that four asylum seekers arrived in Iceland in two thousand and nine, but that they weren’t processed in the usual way and were instead immediately put on a flight leaving the country. Can you confirm that this was the case?”
Jóel Ingi heard a buzzing in his ears that almost drowned out the sound of the man’s voice. He felt a sense of removal, as if he were looking down on himself from above.
“It’s not something I can comment on,” he said.
“That’s a shame, as we have been given copies of emails that appear to have been sent from your ministry email address, implicating several officials and confirming that a transfer
could take place at Keflavík airport, where these four people were placed on a military flight leaving that same evening. Are you telling me this didn’t happen?”