Quentin Bates - Cold Steal

‘The names ring a bell,’ Björgvin said thoughtfully. ‘A company called Sólfell Investment, which went bankrupt a while ago for quite a few million and with no assets. I’ve encountered Vilhelm Thorleifsson and Elvar Pálsson before. Not recently, but their names have cropped up. This is the character who was murdered in Borgarfjördur, right?’

‘That was Vilhelm.’

‘He had been involved in some investments, but I gather his business isn’t in Iceland these days. You know the kind of thing with companies owning shares of other companies and the trail going dead in Cyprus or Tortola? He had been a shipbroker a few years ago and did some deals in West Africa, something to do with landing illegal fish outside the EU and getting it repacked with all the right certificates. There was an EU investigator enquiring about him not long ago, but I don’t think it came to anything.’

‘But are he and Elvar Pálsson working together?’

‘Probably.’ He smiled wryly. ‘It’s not a big country, you know. Iceland’s business community isn’t that large, so you can keep tabs on who’s doing what even when it’s nothing we need to take a direct interest in. The hard part is when we do have to take an interest because it gets so complex.’

‘Why does all this stuff have to be so complicated?’ Gunna asked, knowing that the question was a stupid one but still determined to ask.

Björgvin shrugged and smiled weakly. ‘It’s hard to tell,’ he said finally. ‘I suppose it’s fashionable to tie things up in knots, and it keeps the accountants and lawyers in business. Let’s say that if there are many entities involved, then ownership can get very complex, with percentages of this owned by one company and a share of something else held by another, and so on. That’s one reason,’ he said and paused.

‘And the other?’

‘It’s the obvious one. It’s to discourage people like you and me from figuring out what’s really going on. The more complex the ownership, especially when foreign subsidiaries are involved, then generally the more reason there is to dig into what somebody wants to keep quiet.’ He sighed and leaned back. ‘And it’s worth keeping in mind that much of this is aimed solely at avoiding paying tax. It’s when it becomes evasion rather than avoidance that it gets sticky.’

‘Rather you than me, Björgvin. But could you have a look at these people, or have a trawl through the archives?’

He rocked gently back and forth in his chair, chin in hand. ‘I’ve heard these names before, Jóhann Hjálmarsson and Sunna María Voss. Any relation to Jón Vilberg Voss, by any chance?’

‘I’m not sure yet, but it sounds likely.’

‘Ah.’ Björgvin’s face lit up. ‘I know him, slightly. He’s practically a relative, actually. His ex-wife is my cousin.’

‘Small world.’

‘In the rest of the world there are supposed to be six degrees of separation between any two individuals. That’s the theory. In Iceland, it’s something like two degrees at most. Like I said.’ He grinned. ‘It’s a small country. What’s your theory on all this?’

Gunna splayed her palms wide. ‘The murder says payback to me. Very professional and no traces, no leads. I’m wondering if he did a deal that went sour and someone is settling a score, maybe to maintain face. If it’s anything to do with the companies that these four people owned, or still own jointly, then I really don’t want the others to be blasted on my patch.’

Orri found he was sweating by the time he reached the van. His breath gradually slowed and his heart stopped racing as he wondered if almost being seen had given him the shock, or if it had been the unexpected sight of the dentist’s statuesque wife in the mirror that had given him a turn.

He switched on the engine and listened to it hum as he conjured up the sight again in his mind; he shivered as he realized what could have been if he had been a few minutes earlier or later. He could have walked straight into the woman, or else her boyfriend could have found him on those metal stairs with nowhere to go. Orri felt slightly sick at the thought. He had been inside countless people’s houses and never took chances. His visits were careful and he made sure people were at work or on holiday when he arrived to relieve them discreetly of their valuables.

Orri felt he had let himself down and couldn’t understand why he had gone against his instincts by breaking his own rules twice in quick succession. He slipped the van into gear and headed back to town. Shaken, he drove more slowly than usual. By the time he pulled up outside his flat at the less fashionable far end of Kópavogur his growling stomach insisted it was lunchtime.

His heart sank as he noticed Lísa’s tired Ford parked in his space. He tried to remember if she had mentioned she was coming over today, and he was tempted to drive away and have an hour or two to himself, but the thought of another spell in heavy traffic without anywhere particular to go wasn’t appealing and he got out of the car. He liked the girl, and she clearly liked him a lot. How they had become a couple was something he didn’t quite understand. It had been a rare one-night stand for each of them, as they both felt they had long grown out of spontaneous Friday night couplings with virtual strangers. But Lísa hadn’t gone home the next morning, and within a week it was as if they had been married longer than Orri’s grandparents.

He took the flights of steps at a run, wondering if Lísa had come to cook, if a take-away was more likely, or if she expected him to take her out. Orri had no desire to go out and a takeaway would be his preferred option, he decided. A meal, an afternoon in front of the TV and an uncomplicated screw, either in bed or on the carpet if Lísa were feeling adventurous. But the smell of spices hit him before he had even reached his front door and he knew that he would have to be complimentary about something experimental.

Lísa was hunched over a pan on the stove, her glasses teetering on the end of her nose as she pushed onions and peppers around in the sizzling oil.

‘Hæ, sweetheart.’ She smiled. ‘All right, are you?’

‘Not so bad,’ he allowed, dropping his jacket onto the back of a chair and disappearing into the spare room that he had used to accumulate junk of various kinds, although it was all ordered and he could put his hand on anything he wanted. He put the torch, his phone-jamming device and the lightweight backpack that folded down into a package the size of a wallet into a drawer and went back to the kitchen. Normally he would have stashed his burglary gear in the storeroom in the basement, but by now there was meat sizzling in the pan and the smell was making him hungry.

He wondered if Lísa suspected what he did on odd afternoons and weekends, and why when he wasn’t at work he was so often out of touch. He poured a glass of the red wine that Lísa had brought with her.

‘Skál.’

‘Skál, honey,’ she replied, pouring the onions back into the pan with the chopped meat and adding a little water and a big squeeze of tomato paste. ‘Hot, or very hot?’

‘What?’

‘One chilli or two?’

‘Two,’ he decided. ‘Good day?’

‘Breakfast shift, so I’ve been up since five.’

‘Early night, then?’

She pushed her glasses up and smiled invitingly. ‘If you say so. How was your day?’

‘Y’know,’ he said, sipping wine and thinking of the dentist’s wife and her voluptuous figure, which contrasted with Lísa’s spare frame. Still thinking of the figure in the shower, he gave Lísa a hug from behind, easily cupping her breasts in his hands.

‘You smell of swimming pool,’ he said, his nose in her still damp hair.