Cold Comfort

“There’ve been rumours about that fitness club she owned part of up in Ármúli going into administration. No idea if it’s true.”

“Do you know who else owns it?”

Skúli thought for a moment and sipped his coffee-coloured concoction delicately. “Agnar Arnalds. You know, the footballer? They were an item at one point and I know for a fact he’s a shareholder in the club, or was. Apart from him, I couldn’t say.”

Gunna knocked back the rest of her coffee.

“You can get a free refill,” Skúli said.

“Not this early. Otherwise I’ll be peeing every five minutes for the rest of the day,” Gunna replied and watched the tips of Skúli’s ears glow. “And I really need to get back to work. You’ll let me know if you come up with something other than the stuff everyone knows already?”

Skúli nodded. “I’ll ask around.”

“Good man. See you later, and thanks for the coffee,” Gunna said and shoved the door open against the stiff wind that did its best to slam it shut again.

Eiríkur was downstairs by the door to the car park, in no great hurry to get back from a quick smoke break outside.

“They’re here.”

“Who’s here?” Gunna asked, trotting up the stairs with Eiríkur two steps behind.

“Svana Geirs’ family.”

“Family? Already?”

“The whole crowd. Dad, Mum, little brother.”

Gunna put her shoulder to the door to heave it aside as Eiríkur hurried to keep up.

“How are they?” she asked.

“Angry, distraught. I thought they were getting a flight, but it seems they drove.”

“From Höfn? They must have been on the road five, six hours?” Gunna speculated, imagining the five-hundred-kilometre journey through the night along the south coast.

“The old man probably did it in four, I reckon, and I don’t suppose he even stopped at Vík for a pee and a sandwich.”

“Where are they now?”

“In the interview room. Not looking forward to this one,” Eiríkur admitted.

Gunna picked up the file of notes from her desk and strode towards the interview room.

“Hey, you too, if you don’t mind, Eiríkur,” she called out as he sat at his desk. She could see a look of pain on his face and knew exactly how he felt. Dealing with shocked and grieving relatives was one of the things she would never get used to.

Three people were clustered around the table. A corpulent older man glowered, his face red. A small woman sat with pinched face and pursed lips, her coat still buttoned to the neck, while a younger man slouched with a deep frown on his face and his legs stretched out in front of him.

“Good morning,” Gunna greeted them, trying for a blend of formality that would mix sympathy and business. “My name’s Gunnhildur Gísladóttir and I’m the officer in charge of this unit.”

“G’day,” the older man said in a voice so deep that it seemed to Gunna to emanate from somewhere near his boots, scraping the chair back as he rose to his feet and extending a meaty hand. “Sigurgeir Sigurjónsson. This is my wife Margrét and our son Högni.”

Gunna extracted her hand from Sigurgeir’s grip and sat down opposite the family group, back straight and eyes to the front, the thin folder on the desk in front of her. With all of the chairs in use, Eiríkur stood behind her.

“This is Eiríkur Thór Jónsson, one of my investigating officers who is also working on this case. First I’d like to offer you my deepest sympathy on your loss. I know this is an extremely hard time for you, but we have a great many questions, so we must ask you to bear with us while we-”

“Shit. Who the hell did this?” Högni had half risen from his seat. “You tell me and I’ll go and fucking sort this out properly,” he snarled, a fist no less impressive than his father’s curled and ready for use.

“We don’t have any suspects yet. The investigation is at a very early stage. It’s vital that-”

“What the hell do you mean, you don’t know?” Högni accused. “Quiet, boy,” Sigurgeir growled. “The girl’s doing her job. Sit down and shut your mouth, will you?”

Högni deflated back into his seat, lips moving but no sound emerging. Beads of perspiration had started to form on his forehead.

“Did you have much contact with Svana?” Gunna asked, determined to bring things back to a businesslike level.

“She called sometimes. Not often,” Sigurgeir replied.

“Was there any indication that she was uneasy or that she felt she was being threatened?”

Sigurgeir shrugged and Margrét spoke for the first time, her voice as dry as dead leaves.

“Svanhildur Mjöll left home when she was seventeen and she’s not been back more than half a dozen times since. We didn’t see much of her,” she whispered, and Gunna noticed the use of the unwieldy Christian names that Svana had abandoned along with her distant home town. “Högni saw more of his sister than we did.”

“When did you last hear from her?”

“Christmas. She called from a hotel in Spain or somewhere,” Sigurgeir said through a cough that shook him from head to toe. “Högni?” Gunna asked, looking over at him.

“I saw her last week. Seemed all right.”

“Was there anything unusual about her?”