Cold Comfort

“That’s what’s missing. No phone. Somebody like Svana Geirs must have had an iPhone or a BlackBerry. There’s no way round it-everyone has a mobile these days. Even my dad has one and he’s the world’s most old-fashioned man.”

Eiríkur rarely mentioned his parents, but Gunna knew that his father was a clergyman and that Eiríkur had several considerably older siblings. She sometimes wondered how easily Eiríkur’s parents accepted his not being married to the girlfriend with whom he had a small child.

“It’s a thought,” she said, more to encourage him to continue than to say anything.

“She must have relied on a mobile. Even if people have a landline these days, it’s normally just for the internet connection. You just can’t function now without a mobile. So where’s Svana’s phone?”

“Do you have a number?”

“No. But I’m starting on some of her friends this afternoon and I’ll see what I can get out of them. It stands to reason. If we could get hold of it, it would give us a load of information on her movements that day.”

“Go for it. Let me know what you come up with.”

“God! And right next door!”

Svana Geirs’ neighbour was alone at home and seemed pleased to have company when Gunna and Eiríkur called on her. She was a tiny, doll-like woman, casually and fashionably dressed.

“I mean … Svana. It’s …” She floundered for the right words and eventually gave up, letting a despairing fluttering of hands speak for her.

“It must have been a shock for you,” Gunna said.

“God! Of course! I know this is Reykjavík 101 and you should expect it to be … er, like …”

“Rowdy sometimes?” Gunna finished for her.

“Yeah. Rowdy, lively. That’s it. But, God,” she said with emphasis, dropping on to a plush sofa while Gunna and Eiríkur stood. Gunna thought better of the sofa and lowered herself on to one of the chairs arranged around a long dining-room table. The room was spotless. Gunna gazed around her with a practised eye and saw nothing cheap, from the minimalist pictures on the walls to the weighty crystal ornaments and the huge screen that filled one wall. She placed her notes in front of her and opened the folder.

“All right. You’re Arna Arnarsdóttir?”

“That’s me,” she simpered.

“My colleague Eiríkur Thór …” Gunna looked over at him, enveloped in the sofa’s grip. “My colleague spoke to you yesterday, and according to your statement you recognized some of the people seen leaving and entering Svana’s flat. Is that right?”

“Yeah, God. I saw one of them on TV last night as well,” she said in excitement.

“Who was that?”

“On the news!”

“RÚV or Channel 2?”

Arna’s excited smile stopped in its tracks. “Er, I don’t know. They’re the same, aren’t they?”

“Not quite,” Gunna said. “Were you aware of the same people coming and going regularly? Or were there people you only saw once?”

“Well, both really.”

“So, have you any idea who some of these people are?”

Arna almost bounced with eagerness and reached down to the floor beside the sofa for a stack of glossy magazines that she put on the table in front of her.

“I went through all these …”

“And you found some faces you recognized?”

“Yeah!” She opened the first one and flipped through it, peering at the pages. “Him.”

Gunna moved over to the table and looked down at the magazine to where Arna pointed with a lacquered nail at a flashed photograph of a man in a dark suit getting out of a sleek car.

“But I don’t know who he is,” Arna said.

“Jónas Valur Hjaltason, it says there,” Gunna pointed out, and looked over at Eiríkur again.

“Businessman,” Eiríkur elaborated. “Fingers in all sorts of pies.”

“Fair enough. Arna, it might be easiest if you could go through these and mark the people you recognize.”

The idea seemed to confuse her for a moment. “What, and you’ll come back later and get them, you mean?”

“No, I meant you could go through them now,” Gunna said patiently. “That way we can ask you any questions while you do it.” Arna seemed to be thinking through the idea. “OK. Do you have a pen?”

“Eiríkur? Would you?”

Eiríkur stood up and took charge.

“Could I ask you to put the magazines over here where we can both look?” he asked sweetly, patting the dining table.

Gunna gratefully left Eiríkur to it, accepting that his patient manner would be far more effective than the irritable brusqueness she was having difficulty suppressing. Every few moments there was a giggle from the table as Eiríkur’s and Arna’s heads became steadily closer over the pile of magazines.

“Arna? Do you live here alone?” Gunna asked suddenly when there was a lull.

“No, of course not. My husband lives here as well.”

“And he’s at work at the moment, I suppose?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Nothing special. I was just wondering if he might have noticed anything. When do you expect him home?”

Gunna could see that the pink tip of Arna’s tongue was protruding from a corner of her mouth as she concentrated on the magazine pages in front of her.

“Him?” Eiríkur prompted.

“Yeah. I’ve seen him. What? Tolli’s back tomorrow night. He’s in London this week,” she added proudly.