but his eyes remained expressionless. “You mean apart from the carton of yoghurt that she slung at me? No, don’t think so. I heard it hit the door as I shut it behind me and I suppose she left it for the Thai girl to clean up.”
“You mean you and your wife aren’t on good terms?”
“My wife and I haven’t been on any kind of terms for the last few months. We have been leading pretty much separate lives, except when we meet, and then that’s generally to argue about something or for her to demand more cash to prop her restaurant up a little longer. Apart from that, everything’s been just wonderful,” he said with the first traces of bitterness in his voice. “Look, officer, I don’t know if you’re married or what. But it has run its course. We’ve been together for almost ten years and it’s got to the point where we just don’t like each other any more. It happens.”
“It does,” Gunna agreed in a neutral voice, making quick notes on the pad in front of her.
“And are you?” Bjartmar drawled.
“What?”
“Married? Shacked up?”
“Not any more,” Gunna replied after a pause.
Bjartmar leaned back and picked up his iPhone again.
“Like I said, it happens,” he said in triumph. “Walk out, did you? Or did he? Or maybe she?” he leered.
“He died,” Gunna said sharply. “Now, if you don’t mind, can we continue?”
H RAFN K RISTJÁNSSON SAID nothing as he drove into town with a silent and fearful Diddi at his side. There was plenty he wanted to say, but he refrained from commenting, certain that he would be unable to contain his fury at the people who had led his son astray.
Diddi stared out of the window at the street lights flashing past and knew deep inside that from now on nothing would be the same again. The people he had thought were his friends had let him down disastrously. He had both feared and admired people like Long Ómar Magnússon, men who went their own way and did what they liked without bothering too much about tiresome rules and regulations.
Ommi had just taken the bag of money and grinned at him. There had been no pat on the back, no “Well done, Diddi,” nothing to say he had lived up to expectations. Diddi had just sat in the corner as Ommi and the man who had driven the car split the cash between them and ignored him, not even noticing as he left and went home to find his father sitting there waiting for him, his face like thunder.
Even at a few minutes to midnight, the place was busy when Hrafn pulled up outside the police station on Hverfisgata and turned to his son as he switched off the engine.
“Come on then,” was all he could find to say, and Diddi stepped out of the car into the cold evening air.
The old man took his son’s arm as they went up the steps and into the building, where he opened the door and made sure the boy went inside first.
The desk officer looked up and smiled.
“Haven’t seen you for a while, mate,” he began, until he saw the morose figures father and son made.
He picked up the phone and dialled.
“Sævaldur? Yes, Sigvaldi on the front desk. You might want to come down here. The lad you’ve been looking for all day has just walked in the door.”
Tuesday 16th
G UNNA TYPED B JARTMAR Arnarson’s name into the police computer network, waited for results to show up and drummed her fingers on the desktop when nothing appeared other than the man’s date of birth and records of a few speeding and parking tickets.
Frustrated, she went to an internet search engine instead and typed in the same name. A second later a list appeared and she set about reading the reports from newspapers, websites and gossip magazines. In ten minutes she had learned that Bjartmar Arnarson had made himself into one of Reykjavík’s lowest-profile millionaires with a fortune amassed from property speculation. It appeared that he had no expensive hobbies apart from a penchant for cars that did not extend to anything flashy, had only
“You mean you and your wife aren’t on good terms?”
“My wife and I haven’t been on any kind of terms for the last few months. We have been leading pretty much separate lives, except when we meet, and then that’s generally to argue about something or for her to demand more cash to prop her restaurant up a little longer. Apart from that, everything’s been just wonderful,” he said with the first traces of bitterness in his voice. “Look, officer, I don’t know if you’re married or what. But it has run its course. We’ve been together for almost ten years and it’s got to the point where we just don’t like each other any more. It happens.”
“It does,” Gunna agreed in a neutral voice, making quick notes on the pad in front of her.
“And are you?” Bjartmar drawled.
“What?”
“Married? Shacked up?”
“Not any more,” Gunna replied after a pause.
Bjartmar leaned back and picked up his iPhone again.
“Like I said, it happens,” he said in triumph. “Walk out, did you? Or did he? Or maybe she?” he leered.
“He died,” Gunna said sharply. “Now, if you don’t mind, can we continue?”
H RAFN K RISTJÁNSSON SAID nothing as he drove into town with a silent and fearful Diddi at his side. There was plenty he wanted to say, but he refrained from commenting, certain that he would be unable to contain his fury at the people who had led his son astray.
Diddi stared out of the window at the street lights flashing past and knew deep inside that from now on nothing would be the same again. The people he had thought were his friends had let him down disastrously. He had both feared and admired people like Long Ómar Magnússon, men who went their own way and did what they liked without bothering too much about tiresome rules and regulations.
Ommi had just taken the bag of money and grinned at him. There had been no pat on the back, no “Well done, Diddi,” nothing to say he had lived up to expectations. Diddi had just sat in the corner as Ommi and the man who had driven the car split the cash between them and ignored him, not even noticing as he left and went home to find his father sitting there waiting for him, his face like thunder.
Even at a few minutes to midnight, the place was busy when Hrafn pulled up outside the police station on Hverfisgata and turned to his son as he switched off the engine.
“Come on then,” was all he could find to say, and Diddi stepped out of the car into the cold evening air.
The old man took his son’s arm as they went up the steps and into the building, where he opened the door and made sure the boy went inside first.
The desk officer looked up and smiled.
“Haven’t seen you for a while, mate,” he began, until he saw the morose figures father and son made.
He picked up the phone and dialled.
“Sævaldur? Yes, Sigvaldi on the front desk. You might want to come down here. The lad you’ve been looking for all day has just walked in the door.”
Tuesday 16th
G UNNA TYPED B JARTMAR Arnarson’s name into the police computer network, waited for results to show up and drummed her fingers on the desktop when nothing appeared other than the man’s date of birth and records of a few speeding and parking tickets.
Frustrated, she went to an internet search engine instead and typed in the same name. A second later a list appeared and she set about reading the reports from newspapers, websites and gossip magazines. In ten minutes she had learned that Bjartmar Arnarson had made himself into one of Reykjavík’s lowest-profile millionaires with a fortune amassed from property speculation. It appeared that he had no expensive hobbies apart from a penchant for cars that did not extend to anything flashy, had only
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