Cold Comfort

“It’s a contract phone, all paid up to date, and it’s registered to Fit Club. I asked for a warrant to track the phone, and according to the phone company it’s still switched on. It’s in the vicinity of the flat and hasn’t been far. At least, the connection has been through the same mast the whole time. And no, there’s no answer.”

“That’s quick work. Well done. So what do you reckon?”

“No idea,” Helgi said after a moment’s silence. “It could still be in the flat, but the place has been searched thoroughly. Or else it’s somewhere close by. Picked up by the killer and dumped in a bin, something like that?”

“Or been put somewhere we’re never likely to find it, more like,” Gunna said grimly.

“I don’t know. I’d have thought that someone who wanted to get rid of it would have switched it off first, or just taken the SIM card out and destroyed that, rather than leaving the phone lying about switched on.”

“Unless it’s some kind of false trail?” Gunna wondered.

Fit club was less than its website had indicated, but managed to be everything Gunna found uncomfortable. Sandwiched between a residential area of 1960s blocks and the business district of Ármúli, the short street of which Fit Club was the main feature was full of cars parked badly across the club’s glass frontage. Gunna peered in and saw that a few of the running machines were in use. Rather than the bright young things that Fit Club’s advertising indicated, these were being pounded by middle-aged women and a few men, all on a mission to get into something slightly smaller.

“Agnar Arnalds about?” Gunna asked the waif-like blonde at the front desk.

“Er, like, who are you?” the girl demanded in return, and Gunna wondered if she really was thinner than the sad yucca plant in a pot next to the desk, of if she simply looked that way. “Police.” Gunna flashed her wallet quickly in front of the girl.

“Sorry. We get a lot of older ladies asking for him,” the girl apologized. She pressed a button on an intercom system that blared an error tone back at her. “It’s not working. Wait a moment, I’ll check. He’s not always here this early on a Sunday.”

“Older?” Gunna mouthed to herself as the girl disappeared through a door behind her desk, and she took the opportunity to look over into the reception desk. There was little to be seen other than a battered phone. An open notebook showed scribbled numbers, and packets of chewing gum and cigarettes were stacked out of sight of prying eyes.

“Good morning. You’re not here to join us, are you?”

The man had appeared silently behind her as the girl returned to her desk.

“No, far from it,” Gunna said. “Agnar?”

“That’s me.”

A beefy hand was extended, with a discreet hint of smile that indicated its wearer knew why she was there.

“Gunnhildur Gísladóttir, Serious Crime Unit. It’s about Svana Geirs, but I reckon you’d guessed that already.”

“Thought so. Come with me.”

Agnar Arnalds stood over two metres tall, waves of brown hair falling to his shoulders, and Gunna looked appreciatively at the expanse of the man’s muscular back as he took the stairs three at a time. Fit Club’s office provided a remarkable contrast to the hardwood floor and floor-to-ceiling mirror walls downstairs. The decor in here was cheap chipboard, and Gunna guessed that it had been years since the place had seen a paintbrush. Agnar waved her to a seat, but sat himself on his own desk, feet on a chair. Gunna decided to stay standing rather than have the man towering over her.

“I’m here about Svana,” she repeated. Agnar’s face became melancholy as if a switch had been turned inside him. His shoulders dropped and the smile disappeared.

“Poor Svana,” he sighed. “She was a wonderful person. So full of life.”

“Right now I’m working on building up a picture of her movements over her last few days-who she spoke to, who she met, places she went to, that sort of thing. When did you last see her?”

“The day she died. She was here, took an early class in the morning for her foldies-”

“Foldies?” Gunna asked.

“Fat oldies. Sorry, I mean older ladies. When was she … killed?” Agnar gulped out the last word.

“In the afternoon. What time did she leave here?”

Agnar thought for a moment with his chin in one hand, a pose that Gunna was sure he must have practised frequently.

“She normally had three classes here between eight and eleven. But that day she had just one and someone else took the other classes. I remember she showered here and left. I think she had a meeting somewhere,” he said carefully. “No, I don’t know who with,” he added as soon as he saw Gunna about to ask.

“All right. What’s the nature of her involvement with this business?”

“How do you mean?”

“Svana was one of the three owners, or so I understand?”

“You’ve been doing your homework, haven’t you?” Agnar asked with a winning smile.

“That’s the nature of the job,” Gunna replied coldly.

“There are … were,” he corrected himself, “three partners in the company that owns this place. Me, Svana and an investment company.”

“Which is?”