Quentin Bates - Chilled to the Bone

“I wouldn’t call him that, exactly.”

“Maybe not, but if you could sound him out discreetly, it wouldn’t go amiss.”

“It’ll have to wait. I can’t put off a visit to Sonja any longer.”

The place seemed deserted. She watched and waited. The mud-brown Hyundai, its sides caked with snow that the driver had barely bothered to brush from the windows, squatted unhappily a hundred meters from the solitary house.

She patted her pockets for her phone and took a can of pepper spray from the glove compartment before walking cautiously down toward the house. She listened for the slightest sound that would tell her that the man with the scarred face was on the move. She gently eased open the back door, the spray can held out in front of her, then slowly dropped it down as she took in Pétur’s wrecked workshop.

Sif and Hekla were collapsed against the bench by the wall, while the big man was sitting with his back to the other workbench that filled the middle of the workshop, legs splayed out in front of him and his eyes staring, focused on nothing as a rivulet of saliva leaked down his chin. He was still hugging the laptop case, and it was only when she stepped closer and squatted down in front of him to tug it out of his grasp that she took in the rusty end of the narrow file protruding from the man’s temple an inch behind his left eye. A ring of red surrounded it, gradually seeping along the tiny grooves in its surface and staining the metal dull red.

She instinctively put out a hand to touch it, then drew back before looking first from one shocked face to the other, and then to the bench where an assortment of files and chisels with and without their wooden handles had been scattered as Sif had snatched one up in panic.

“Are either of you hurt?”

“I don’t think so,” Hekla said, shakily getting to her feet. “Sif, are you all right, sweetheart?” She asked, stroking the girl’s face.

“Is the man dead?”

“I don’t know. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

She put out her hands and pulled Sif to her feet, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as she supported her out of the workshop and back into the house. Back in the workshop she knelt in front of the man with the cut face and felt for a pulse in his neck. Satisfied, she pulled out her phone and dialed 112.

“Police and ambulance. I’m at Strandargrund thirty in Kjalarnes,” she said in a measured voice. “It’s an old house on its own at the far end of the street. There’s one casualty with a serious head injury and two people in shock,” she said, answering the police operator’s questions.

“And your name?”

“Bára Kristinsdóttir,” she answered and listened to the moment’s pause.

“Bára who used to be in the force at Keflavík?”

She smiled grimly. “Yes, Siggi. That’s me.”

“All right. In that case you know what to do, don’t you? There’s an ambulance on its way, but it’ll be a while before it gets there.”

“I reckon you might need to get the air ambulance out for this one. It’s not pretty.”

“Fair enough. I’ll alert them, but it’s the ambulance crew’s decision when they get there.”

“Okay, thanks. I’d best get back to the casualties. You can reach me on this number if you need to between now and the cavalry getting here.”

“Fine. Thanks, Bára. It’s an F-two, so fifteen minutes.”

Helgi’s communicator buzzed and he looked over at Gunna, his finger on the earpiece.

“You’d better step on it, chief,” he said. “F-two, and guess where?”

“Kjalarnes? Hell and damnation. I knew I should have got out there last night.”

“And there’s no siren on this thing, is there?”

“Nope,” Gunna said. “You’d better tell them we’ll be there in ten.”

“Control, zero-two-sixty. Heading for Kjalarnes, estimated five minutes.”

“Thank you, zero-two-sixty. There’s a patrol car from the Krókháls station five minutes behind you and ambulance is right behind that.”

Gunna pushed the pedal to the floor, flashed the headlights on and off high beam and left drivers tapping their heads in disgust as they trailed in her wake. She could sense the tension in Helgi’s voice: “Any idea what the problem is, control?”

“One serious head injury, two in shock. The helicopter’s alerted and the local rescue squad should be there ahead of you.”

“Thanks, control. We’ll keep you informed,” Helgi said, pretending not to be scared as Gunna slowed hard for the turnoff to Kjalarnes, the car’s brakes complaining and its rear wheels struggling to grip the icy road.

They bumped down the road to the solitary house, where they found a diminutive blonde woman speaking to an animated figure next to a blue Land Rover. Gunna walked smartly across just as the wail of sirens on the main road was heard in the distance. A heavy 4×4 was already parked by the door.

“Afternoon, Pétur,” Gunna said smartly. “Looks like the rescue squad’s here. Helgi, check inside, would you? Bára, good to see you. You can tell me later just why you’re here. What’s happened?”

“One man in the workshop with a stab wound to the left side of the head; two women in shock. They’re both in the main bedroom. Looks like one of them grabbed a file and lashed out with it.”

“A file?”

“You know. A metalwork file.”

“And nobody else has been in or out?”

“No, chief,” Bára said, instinctively falling back on habit.

“Will somebody tell me what the hell’s been happening?” Pétur said, his frustration boiling over. “I’ve just come home and been told by this person that I can’t go into my own house.”

“Well, you heard what the lady said, didn’t you?”

Pétur leaned on his crutch and limped toward the door. “I won’t be kept out of my own home, damn it,” he roared.

“Gunna, the action’s at the back of the place. Just get him to go in through the front door and he’ll be clear of the crime scene,” Bára said quickly as Gunna trotted to catch up with Pétur, taking his arm to steer him toward the front door.

“We’ll go in this way, if you don’t mind,” she said.

Pétur grunted an answer that was neither one thing nor another and pushed his way through the front door, his crutch clattering to the floor.

“Sif! Hekla! Where are you?” he yelled and there was a call in reply from the bedroom. Gunna followed him and watched as he enveloped the girl in his arms, while the woman who was with her clung to him. The puffy, tear-streaked face was unmistakably that of the woman on the Gullfoss Hotel’s CCTV, and Gunna felt a surge of relief at having finally found her.

A patrol car bumped down the road and two officers stepped out. Behind them the blue lights of an ambulance flashed and were reflected from the windows of houses further up as doors began to open and people stared at the sudden flurry of activity in the normally quiet village.

“Chopper job, this is,” the paramedic said, shaking his head as his colleague monitored Baddó’s pulse and breathing. “We need a doctor here before we even try to move this character. What the hell happened, anyway? I’ve never seen an injury like this,” he muttered to Gunna out of the casualty’s earshot. “I’m amazed the bastard’s even alive.”

“That’s what I’m hoping to find out,” Gunna told him. “It’s a first for me as well.”

The paramedic muttered into his communicator, looking anxiously at Baddó, whose expression had remained unchanged, his unfocused eyes staring into the distance. Gunna took in the livid cut down his cheek, some of the sutures having come adrift, leaving bloodless gaps in the line of ragged skin.

Gunna cornered Bára outside. “I’m not saying it isn’t good to see you, but what the hell’s happened? You’ve got quite a bit of explaining to do. Start by telling me how come you’re here, will you?”