Quentin Bates - Winterlude

‘You reckon Borgar’s death might have something to do with one of the brothers?’

Helgi nodded. ‘Years ago Kjartan had a house that he couldn’t sell. Quite by chance it burned down while he was on holiday in Crete.’

‘Another perfect alibi?’

‘Absolutely. And it was lucky for him that as he was preparing to move anyway, he’d stored all his furniture in Össur’s barn. This was back when I was on the beat up there and it was the talk of the countryside how Kjartan had fiddled the insurance.’

‘Gossip or truth?’

Helgi thought for a moment. ‘A bit of both, I’d say, plus a healthy dollop of conjecture. But those brothers have always looked out for each other. If ever any of them has a problem, it magically gets sorted out while he’s unaccountably somewhere else. Kjartan’s unsellable house burns down while he’s on holiday. Össur’s daughter got herself tied up with some low-life who smacked her around, who amazingly enough found himself in casualty with a bunch of broken bones just when Össur happened to be at a winter celebration in Skagafjördur. You get the idea.’

‘So you think that Borgar was murdered by one of the brothers?’

Helgi shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Kjartan made very specific threats. He was at sea when Borgar was murdered. It adds up. On the other hand, there are plenty more people who had reason to hold a grudge against Borgar.’

‘You reckon the brothers would go as far as murder? You said Kjartan could kill, didn’t you?’

‘Kjartan, yes,’ Helgi said without hesitation. ‘Kjartan could kill if he needed to or wanted to. But he couldn’t have done it. Össur, I don’t know. I don’t think so. He comes across as a headcase but he doesn’t have that inbuilt mean streak that Kjartan has. Reynir’s anyone’s guess. He’s always been a nutcase, getting into fights he could never win. I’m amazed he hasn’t been sorted out good and proper before now. Although Ingi’s the one I know best, I’m not sure about him. He’s the most normal of the four of them, and he has a family now so he doesn’t live at the farm any more like Össur and Reynir. I’d say that barring Kjartan, Reynir’s the most likely candidate.’

‘Then you’d best go and find out, hadn’t you? Take one of the Daihatsus from the car pool and drive up there.’

‘Tomorrow?’ Helgi asked in surprise.

‘No. Go this afternoon if you can get away. If there’s a problem getting a car, then let me know and I’ll make sure it happens, even if we have to hire you a 4x4 for a few days.’

‘And you?’

‘I’ll look after things here and I’ll see if I can get an extra body to help us out while you’re up north,’ Gunna told him. ‘But now I have to go and see Kjartan’s former wife. That’s going to be fun.’

Gunna left a slightly bemused Helgi at the station on Hverfisgata to organize a car and she could only laugh to herself at his surprise at being sent north to the home town he had long left behind. He had called his wife on the way back into town and the news of his being away for a few days had been greeted with little enthusiasm. Gunna could imagine Halla’s tight-lipped look of disapproval and Helgi made sure to blame Gunna, while Gunna sat and nodded her agreement in the driving seat.

She headed out of town through the sparse afternoon traffic with the sun already low behind her in a gunmetal sky and watched the road as it unfolded ahead of her across the Hellisheidi heath, where bursts of steam erupted at intervals at the sides of the road before it dropped back down to ground level and the lowland towns on the far side.

She left Hveragerdi behind and looked around for signs as she drove into Selfoss, before locating the right road that snaked out of the little town and into the flat lands beyond. The church was the landmark. Gunna eyed its gaunt tower as she approached and took the turnoff before it to a quartet of low-slung wooden houses in a ring, like wagons in a circle, each with a car or two in the drive.

The front door opened before Gunna had left the car and dark eyes followed her as she crunched up the drive, the gravel beneath her feet frozen together and only unwillingly giving way.

‘Katla?’ Gunna asked, knowing the answer and getting a nod in reply.

She looked older than Gunna had expected. The fresh but grief-stricken face she had seen in the news reports following the accident that had killed Aron Kjartansson and put Borgar Jónsson in prison had grown lines in the meantime.

‘Gunnhildur Gísladóttir,’ she said, extending a hand to be shaken. ‘I called this morning.’

‘About that man’s death?’ asked Katla, clearly not willing to even speak the name. ‘Come in.’

The living room of the wooden house was a mess of what Gunna thought of as toys for teenagers, with the controllers of a PlayStation snaking from the television across a coffee table piled with debris to a sofa. In contrast, there was not a thing out of place in the spotless kitchen.

‘The boys use the front room most of the time,’ she explained, half apologetically. ‘I use the kitchen. They keep out of here and I leave their crap where it is.’

‘Boys?’

‘My sons,’ Katla said. ‘Elmar and Einar.’

‘I didn’t realize. .’

‘That I had other children? But after Aron. .’ She shook her head.

‘You came to live out here?’

‘It all fell apart after. .’ she said, hesitating, and took a deep breath. ‘Kjartan retreated into himself. I was brought up around here, so I came back.’

‘I’m investigating Borgar Jónsson’s murder.’

Katla laughed briefly and humourlessly. ‘Great. When you find the killer, please let me know. I’ll buy him a drink before you lock him up.’

‘Where were you on Sunday?’

‘Me? I was here in the morning. I had coffee with a friend in Selfoss in the afternoon and called in at work for a couple of hours after that.’

‘Where’s work?’

‘I work for a builder’s merchant in Selfoss. We were stocktaking on Sunday,’ Katla said with disbelief in her voice. ‘What is this? You think I killed that bastard? You are joking?’

‘Right now I don’t think anything. But if you were at work and that can be confirmed, then I can rule you out and that means I can cross you off a list that’s getting steadily longer.’

Mollified, Katla leaned against the kitchen cupboard and rooted through a drawer for a packet of cigarettes. ‘Fair enough. That sounds reasonable.’ She lit up, sent out a long plume of smoke and nodded sagely, then scribbled a number on a piece of paper that she tore from a calendar on the wall. ‘Grétar is the manager. I was there from three until about six. Before that I was at Bakkakaffi in Selfoss.’

She looked up as the door banged, bringing with it a blast of air that swept around their ankles. A lanky young man slouched into the doorway, looked Gunna up and down and departed wordlessly. Gunna raised an eyebrow.

‘That’s Elmar,’ Katla said.

‘How old is he?’

‘Twenty?’

‘And Einar?’

‘Two years older. Why?’

‘I’ll need to know where they were on Sunday as well.’

Tight-lipped, Katla went to the doorway and put her head into the living room. ‘Elmar, come in here, would you?’ Gunna heard a grunt from the next room and Katla snapped back a retort: ‘Because I asked you to, that’s why.’

Elmar towered over his mother. He seemed ill at ease, as if he had yet to grow into those long limbs.

‘This lady is from the police and she has a few questions,’ Katla said nervously, as if she was wondering herself where the boy had been that day.

‘Elmar, my name’s Gunnhildur Gísladóttir and I’m a detective with the serious crime unit. I’m investigating the death of Borgar Jónsson. Can you tell me where you were on Sunday?’