Cold Comfort by Quentin Bates

shock and smoke inhalation. Could have been a lot worse.”
    “What happened, d’you reckon?”
    Röggi spread his hands. “No idea. Absolutely no idea.”
    “A massive fireball like that, could it have been an accident?”
    “I’d say not. There’s nothing sensible you can keep in an ordinary garage that will produce that kind of thing.”
    “Chemicals?”
    “Could be. Or just petrol, a lot of petrol.”
    Gunna nodded and thought. “I take it we can reckon this wasn’t an accident, unless it’s proved otherwise?”
    “Sounds reasonable,” Röggi admitted. “There’ll be an investigation, and with a casualty involved, they won’t give up until they know what caused it, especially in a posh place like this.”
    “Whose house is this?”
    “Bjartmar Arnarson. You know, the businessman. I reckon that’s his missus they’re taking off to hospital.”
    “Sounds interesting.” Gunna frowned, the name instantly setting off alarm bells in her head.
    “You have a suspicious mind, Gunna.”
    “It’s in the job description. What are you up to now?”
    “We’ll stand one of the appliances down and send it off home. I’ll be here with the other one until the site’s secure and nothing else is likely to go off pop.”
    “Good. I’d better marshal my forces, then,” Gunna decided, knowing that there would be no access to the scene itself for some time.
    She made her way back to her car, looking carefully at the faces lined up on the other side of the road and noticing lenses already trained on the house. She wondered if the press had been quick off the mark, or if these were more likely neighbours with cameras. When she had been a young police officer, anyone with a long lens would be a press photographer and she would have recognized most of them. But these days enthusiastic amateurs could have newer and more expensive kit than the professionals.
    Gunna sat in the driving seat and clicked her Tetra set on. “Zero-two-sixty, Ninety-five-fifty. You there, Helgi?”
    She waited for a reply, knowing that Helgi was one of the few CID officers who made a habit of using his communicator. After a minute she gave up, picked her phone up from the seat and dialled Helgi’s number.
    “Ah, so you are there,” she said accusingly as he answered.
    “Sorry. Been busy this afternoon. Anything serious?”
    “Just a bit—and don’t reckon on getting home for a good while yet. House fire, looks mighty like arson to me, one casualty and a burnt-out garage.”
    “Shit. And we had a babysitter lined up this evening as well.”
    “Sorry. Can’t be helped. This one really stinks,” Gunna said, trying to sound apologetic. “And here’s the fun bit of it: Bjartmar Arnarson’s house. One of Svana Geirs’ little band. Looks like his missus is the casualty.”
    “Whoo-hoo. That does sound like a load of fun.”
    Gunna spelled out the address to him. “I need you over here, but first I want you to find out where Bjartmar is.”
    “Yeah. Sure. D’you need Eiríkur as well?”
    Gunna thought, looking up and acknowledging with a wave the burly form of Sigmar from the technical department wading through the crowd at the roadside, bags slung over each shoulder.
    “No, we’ll let the lad off the hook if he’s already gone, but he’s going to have a tough day of it tomorrow. Got to go, Technical’s here.”
    She ended the call, quickly located another number and waited patiently while it rang.
    “Hæ, Sigrún. Yeah, it’s me. Is it OK if Laufey comes to you after school?”
    “Not a problem. Busy, are you?”
    Gunna wondered what to say.
    “Something serious has come up and we have to get on with it right away,” she replied eventually. “I expect you’ll see something about it on the news tonight. The TV crews are here already.”
    “All right. Tell me later, but will you send Laufey a text and let her know?”
    “Yup, will do. Thanks, Sigrún,” Gunna said gratefully, ending the call. She rapidly thumbed