Quentin Bates - Chilled to the Bone

Ívar Laxdal double-clicked the fob of his car key and the black Volvo on the other side of the yard flashed its lights obediently.

“I’m not sure, to be honest with you, but we’re going to find out,” he said, his jaw set pugnaciously forward. “Get in,” he instructed as the engine whispered into life and Gunna felt herself sink deep into the soft leather of the seats as Ívar Laxdal accelerated out of the yard and into the street.

She wondered why they had driven the few hundred meters to the ministry when walking would have been quicker, but Ívar Laxdal slotted the car into a space marked clearly for the minister’s personal use and was halfway up the steps before Gunna was even out of the car.

A pale-faced Már Einarsson was in the lobby, in earnest conversation with a buxom young woman. He looked up as they came through the main entrance, bypassing the reception desk. He hurried over and shook Ívar Laxdal’s hand.

“This way, please. Ægir’s waiting for us upstairs,” he said, ushering them into the lift. Gunna wondered if the drama was being overdone for their benefit, and as the lift closed, she wondered why the plump girl Már had been speaking to so intently a few moments earlier appeared to be so tearful.

Ægir Lárusson didn’t keep them waiting. In his own office rather than a meeting room, he glared at Ívar Laxdal, who outstared him back until Ægir’s gaze dropped to the desk in front of him.

“I hardly think your missing young man is our problem,” Ívar Laxdal said. “Has he done anything illegal that we should know about?”

Ægir’s voice was a rasp that almost struck sparks off the stylish steel-framed furniture. “You knew this was important. We requested the highest priority weeks ago, and you did nothing.”

“I take it you’re referring to this hopeless idea that we might be able to retrieve a computer that some overpaid clown mislaid? It hardly helped that you wouldn’t tell us what was so remarkable about this laptop, and it helps even less that the clown who lost it lied about how and where he last saw it.”

Ægir’s eyes bulged for a moment and he took several deep breaths.

“You need to understand that there has been a considerable escalation in the urgency of the situation,” Már said in a businesslike voice that he clearly hoped would defuse the explosive atmosphere. “We appreciate that you have a heavy workload and that you have devoted resources to this, but the urgency of the situation has become an extremely serious issue, and there have been some rather sudden developments.”

Ívar Laxdal leaned back in the fashionable chair, causing the brushed steel tubing to flex alarmingly as his bulk was rearranged.

“Explain,” he ordered. “What’s gone wrong to make things so urgent? The whole affair is as clear as mud anyway.”

Már looked sideways at Ægir, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

“My colleague Jóel Ingi Bragason has disappeared.”

“We know that. Has he been reported as a missing person? Or do you mean that you just don’t know where he is?”

Már sighed. “Unfortunately we have a very good idea where he is. He’s in France, as far as we’re aware. At least, he boarded a flight to Paris late last night.”

“You couldn’t have stopped him?”

“He left without any notice. As he’s traveling on a service passport, French immigration had no reason to ask any questions.”

“And we didn’t know he’d left the country until this morning,” Ægir Lárusson said, speaking for the first time and with an expression on his ugly face sour enough to curdle milk at a hundred paces.

“How come?” Gunna broke in, deciding to get between Ívar Laxdal and the two ministry men in their identical suits.

“How come what?”

“I’m wondering why it took you so long to figure out he’d left the country. Why didn’t you know last night when he boarded his flight? And how come he was able to travel on a service passport?”

“To start with, the ministry doesn’t keep tabs on its staff outside of working hours,” Ægir said in an acid voice. “In the second place, Jóel Ingi Bragason was part of the minister’s entourage several times last year and as such he was issued with a service passport.”

“This story about Jóel Ingi’s computer being stolen by a pair of kids,” Gunna said. “That’s bullshit, right?”

“I couldn’t comment,” Ægir said, startled at her bluntness, while behind him Már’s face told her everything she needed to know.

“So how did he lose it?” Gunna continued. “Did he leave it in a taxi or a bar somewhere? Staked it at cards? Come on, tell me, will you? That way we might be able to find it for you.”

Ægir simply shook his head and said nothing. Már opened his mouth to speak and then closed it.

“All right,” Gunna went on, watching the pair of them for reactions. “This morning we picked up a lowlife who it seems your precious Jóel Ingi used as a go-between to commission an old friend of ours to track down guess what? A mislaid MacBook and the person who stole it from him, more than likely under some rather startling circumstances. We also have two deaths on our hands that this character is responsible for so far. Am I making myself clear?”

“Abundantly so, Gunnhildur,” Ívar Laxdal rumbled. “Maybe now it would be worth your while explaining what’s behind all this, and just why the disappearance of a clapped-out laptop has so far resulted in two corpses. Just so you’re aware, neither of them went happily.”

Ægir opened his mouth but no sound came out, apart from a belated cough, while his face had begun to change from its usual ruddy complexion to something approaching beetroot.

“I think what my colleague is trying to say is that we are not at liberty to tell you any more than we already have, but this is a very serious matter and one that could cause the government a great deal of embarrassment internationally,” Már said in a diplomatic tone, graced with a smile that conveyed apology, but no flexibility.

His face stung as he stepped out into the cold air and loped down the slope toward the solitary house along the tracks left by the Land Rover. It was still half dark and there was a single light to be seen in one window. He thought about knocking on the door, but decided against it. This would have to be quick and it would have to be brutal if necessary.

A strip of plastic was enough to deal with the worn lock on the back door, after which he found himself in a workshop with his feet swishing through wood shavings as he made for an outline of light leaking through an ill-fitting door. The moment he opened it, he felt his eyes itch and he swore quietly to himself as he stepped into the hall and went toward the sound of a radio and clattering dishes.

The woman’s back was to him as she stood at the sink. Baddó looked at the tall figure with the spiky hair and surveyed the old house’s kitchen. He leaned across one of the worktops and clicked a switch, shutting off the radio.

“ Æi , Sif, what did you do that for?” The woman said in irritation without looking around.

“Hello, Sonja,” Baddó said quietly. “We meet at last.”

Hekla spun around and her mouth dropped open. Baddó looked her up and down, appreciating what he saw, a strong young woman with long legs hidden in baggy tracksuit bottoms and a man’s white shirt covering plenty in the chest department. A shame to slap her about, he thought. But it has to be done, he reflected with a pang of regret. Business is business.

“Who-?”

He stepped forward rapidly, taking her by surprise, delivering a swift punch to the stomach that knocked the breath out of her and made her gasp for air, while a slap with the back of his hand left her dazed. As she doubled up in shock, he buried a hand in her thick, short hair, pulled her head back and growled.