Cold Comfort

“No,” he said eventually, looking Gunna in the face. She guessed him to be in his mid-twenties, which would have made him a child of around ten when his big sister had left home.

“Was she her normal self? Did she appear concerned about anything?”

“She was all right.”

“Do you know how long she had lived in the flat?”

Högni shrugged in exactly the same way as his father. “A while.”

“A month? A year?”

“Since before Christmas sometime, I guess.”

Gunna decided that this line was going nowhere. “We’re doing what we can to track Svana’s movements, but with no diary, mobile phone or anything like that, we don’t have a lot to go on. It would be a great help if you could point out any particular friends she had.”

Sigurgeir and Margrét looked blank.

“Svanhildur Mjöll never bothered to contact any of her childhood friends after she moved south,” Margrét explained. “She cut home off completely. If we didn’t live there, she’d have never set foot in the place again. She came home occasionally for Christmas or family funerals. That’s it.”

Margrét’s face was composed, in contrast to those of her husband and son, both of which radiated anger and loss. Gunna guessed that the woman had long ago done her grieving for her lost child.

“Do you have any knowledge of her finances? We know she owned a stake in a fitness club, but are there any other businesses she was involved in?”

“She seemed to be doing well for herself,” Sigurgeir said. “Bought a nice flat and everything.”

Gunna wondered whether to mention that the flat and car were owned by a company, but decided against it. “Friends, acquaintances, business partners?”

“Don’t know,” Högni said, dropping his gaze.

“Svana had been married, hadn’t she?”

“Twice,” Margrét said through pursed lips. “The first one was a nice enough boy, but that only lasted five minutes. We never met the second one. That didn’t last long either.”

“We may need to interview both of them. Do you have their names?”

“The first was Sigmundur Björnsson. The second we only heard of as Bjarni; he’s a sportsman, or so we were told.”

“Bjarni Örn Árnason, the weightlifter,” Högni broke in.

Behind her, Gunna could hear Eiríkur writing the names down. “When will you release the, er … When can we have her back, I mean?” Sigurgeir asked uncertainly. “Where is she now?”

“At the National Hospital. I can’t say yet how long it will take to release Svanhildur to you,” Gunna said apologetically. “I’ll find out later today what the situation is and let you know. Where are you staying?”

“With my aunt in Kópavogur,” Margrét said quietly. “Álfhólsvegur 202.”

“Thank you for your co-operation,” Gunna said, rising from her seat as the three on the other side of the table did the same. “We appreciate you coming to us so promptly. If you could give my colleague a contact number, he’ll show you out. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can with any information we can share, and I expect there will be a few more questions as well.”

Sigurgeir nodded his head, shoulders rounded as if with a great weight, while Margrét held herself proudly upright and Högni carried himself like a clone of his father. Gunna left Eiríkur to lead them out to the car park behind the building and made her way back to her office, reflecting on how little the parents knew of their daughter’s life once she had cut herself off from her own roots. But the young man was a different matter. The way he had dropped his eyes told her that Högni knew or suspected more than he was prepared to let on, at least in front of his parents.

It was late in the day when Gunna dropped herself into what had once been her office chair and put her folder of notes on the empty desk. “Haddi!”

She was answered with silence and cursed quietly to herself until the sound of a distant flush confirmed that she was not alone in Hvalvík’s police station. Haddi appeared with that morning’s Dagurinn folded under one arm.

“You called, ma’am? Decided to come back, have you?”

“Indeed. Park yourself down and tell me everything you know. But not until we have lubrication,” she instructed.

Haddi shuffled out, returned with two mugs, and made himself comfortable in the office’s other chair. Gunna opened the window and longed for an illicit Prince from the dwindling pack in what had been her desk, while Haddi fussed with a pipe in defiance of both law and regulations.

“Now. What do you want to know?”

“Óskar Pétur Óskarsson. Tell me about him.”

“Who?”

“The guy who had his jaw smashed up.”

“Oh, Skari Bubba. Not much to tell, really. He was a bit of a bad lad as a youngster. Seems to have settled down since he took up with whatshername.”

“Born in Keflavík fifteenth of April 1977,” Gunna read from the notes in front of her. “Parents are Óskar Kjartansson and Fanney Ágústsdóttir, couple of older siblings. He has convictions for breaking and entering, vehicle theft, assault, drugs, drunk and disorderly, the list goes on. Nothing after 2001. Why’s he called Skari Bubba?”