Quentin Bates - Chilled to the Bone

She had picked up his trail easily enough, and now she watched Jóel Ingi disappear up the stairs and into departures with the woman on his arm. They were traveling light, hand baggage only. She shrugged. There was nothing more that she could do other than report back. Under the street lamps that lit the car park outside with their harsh glare, she keyed a message into her phone, looking pensively out of the window as the Renault’s heater whined and fought to disperse the thin film of frost on the windscreen.

She pulled off her ski hat, massaging her scalp, then prodded gently at the tender part of her face, relieved that it was no more painful than it was. It was close to midnight on a dark, cold night, and she asked herself yet again why she had given up a stable but frustrating job for this life of anti-social hours, awkward clients and unreliable payments. She wasn’t expecting a reply until the morning, but the phone on the seat flashed once and hummed briefly.

She read the message, nodded briefly and punched in a one-word reply before putting the car into gear. It was rolling forward when the phone flashed a second time and she stopped to look at the message. Her eyebrows rose as she read it, before heading for the main road back to Reykjavík.

Gunna slept badly and was on her feet long before the alarm started to buzz to the muffled sound of Drífa retching in the bathroom, the faint but unmistakable sound carrying along the corridor of the silent house. Her thoughts immediately went back to Gísli as she looked at the ceiling in the darkness, and how-or if-he would resolve things with his two expectant mothers when he came home in a few weeks’ time.

Laufey was asleep and Gunna decided to trust her to get up on time and head off to school. She listened for a second at the door of what had once been Gísli’s room, where Drífa had settled herself like a nesting hen.

She pulled on her coat and padded into the bedroom, where Steini lay on his side with one hand under his head and the other stretched out as if looking for her. Gunna sat on the edge of the bed and put out a hand to tickle his neck, her fingernail rasping briefly against his bristles. He muttered and shifted, his eyes still closed. She leaned forward and planted a gentle kiss on his cheek.

“Wakey, wakey, big boy,” she whispered.

Steini’s eyes opened wide in a flash. There was a brief look of disappointment as he took her in, sitting next to him fully dressed and with her coat on.

“You’re up early.”

“I know. Couldn’t sleep, so I decided to get up.”

“You could have given me a poke. I’d have told you stories until you fell asleep.” He yawned, sitting up and sliding one hand under her coat.

“But that would have ended up being more than a story, wouldn’t it? And then you wouldn’t have got much sleep either.”

“It’s a tough call, but I’d have done it for you.”

“You’re a saint.” Gunna grinned. “There’s fresh coffee. The girls are still asleep. All right?”

Steini nodded and flexed his shoulders. “Any idea how long Drífa’s going to be staying?”

“None at all. She’s a pain, but I don’t have the heart to send her home.”

“You’re all heart,” Steini grunted. “Beneath that tough exterior …”

“Hides a woman who eats broken glass for breakfast. Yeah, I know. Even Helgi and Eiríkur have started saying that now.”

“I’m doing a job in Keflavík today. Nothing difficult, but it’ll take a while and I’ll probably be back late. How about you?”

Gunna sighed and Hekla, Baddó and Jóel Ingi all came back to her. “No idea. This is a tough one and I’ve no idea how long it’ll take, not that there isn’t pressure to get it sorted out quickly. It doesn’t help that there’s a government department involved, but I shouldn’t have told you that.”

“I didn’t hear a word.” Steini swung his legs out of bed as Gunna stood up. “I’ll see you when I see you, then?”

“That’s about it.” She blew him a kiss from the doorway. “See you tonight.”

The cold north wind had strengthened overnight, bringing with it cold air that was almost painful to breathe and which stung her face as she hurried to the car. The car’s wheels jerked and initially refused to move, held in place by the ice that had formed around them as the ground froze overnight. A healthy foot on the pedal broke the grip with a crack, and the car crunched through puddles and pools that had formed overnight. Fortunately the road had already been gritted, as Gunna could feel the brittle hardness of the road surface instead of the slush of the past week.

Being early was a way of beating the rush hour and Gunna found the usual hour’s drive pleasantly shortened as she parked in the yard behind Hverfisgata police station, next to Ívar Laxdal’s hulking black Volvo. She wondered just how early she would have to be to get to work before the boss. The chance to ask the question came and went as she encountered him on the stairs.

“Were you planning to bring that insolent yuppie in for questioning today?” he asked.

“That was the plan, although there’s other stuff that’s closer to the top of the priority pile, like getting hold of Hróbjartur Bjarnthórsson before he does any more damage.”

“Just as well, because Jóel Ingi skipped the country last night.”

“What? Where did he go?”

“Initially, Paris. Where he’s gone from there, who knows?”

Gunna fumed. “Hell and damnation. I should have had him headed off.”

Ívar Laxdal dropped one of his rare smiles. “Don’t worry about that. He was traveling on a service passport, so it’s unlikely that anyone at Keflavík would have even checked someone like that. He’ll be in trouble if he tries to use it again, though. Jóel Ingi may be an abrasive young man, but he’s no fool. He’ll know better than to do that.”

“So what the hell can we do about him?”

Ívar Laxdal stopped on the top step and paused before heading along the passage to the office he rarely seemed to use. “Nothing for the moment, Gunnhildur. Nothing at all. He’s not our problem any more. I have a feeling he’ll show up sooner or later, and his absence may turn out to be for the best,” he said, turning and walking away with one finger in the air. “Keep me informed, would you?”

She was awake early, munching toast and looking out of the window to check the weather. The laptop open in front of her showed the old house at Kjalarnes that the man with the scarred face had been so interested in, and after a few false starts going between the online phone book, mapping websites and the national registry, she managed to tie the address to names.

“Pétur Steinar Albertsson. Who the hell are you?” she wondered. “Or Hekla Elín Hauksdóttir? Which one of you nice people has done something to warrant being watched by that nasty piece of work?”

A search engine drew a blank when presented with Pétur Steinar’s name. But Hekla Elín Hauksdóttir showed a handful of results and she trawled slowly through them. Amazed at what the internet could store by way of obscure information, from sources as far apart as a school reunion page to the TV and radio listings guide, she quickly built up a picture of Hekla Elín Hauksdóttir and her patchy career as an actress and more recently as a voice-over artist. The only photograph she could find of Hekla Elín was one showing a young actress as part of the cast of Othello , standing between a well-known actor made up for the title role and a short man in a doublet and hose.

“… as Othello, Gústav Freysteinn Bóasson as Iago and Hekla Elín Hauksdóttir played Desdemona in her first leading role,” the caption read.