Cold As Hell, page 14
Omar had left for the gym but had made coffee for her before going out, so she poured herself a mugful and added cream. With any luck, the coffee would cheer her up. Omar had also fetched the newspaper; it was neatly folded for her on the table, just like in a hotel. Omar was certainly good to her, and she felt a shiver of trepidation, like being ducked in cold water, at the thought of giving him the bad news. She picked up the paper and read the front-page news. Not a lot was happening, as was usual in early summer, so the news items were more than usually positive. A group of middle-aged friends had decided to let their longstanding dream come true and had set off on a motorbike trip across America. There were indications that the Breiðafjörður osprey population was rising. This looked to be a record year for tourism.
Olga was startled when the doorbell rang. She got to her feet and limped the first couple of steps as her legs came back to life. She expected it to be Omar, having forgotten to take his key with him, so the sight of an older woman and a tall man holding a police warrant card took her by surprise. Police IDs were nothing new to her. Thanks to Jonni, she had become familiar with them. But the woman didn’t appear to be a police officer.
‘Yes?’ Olga said, one hand instinctively reaching for her head. She hadn’t brushed her hair, and now she stood there in her dressing gown, looking a mess. She would never have opened the door looking like this if she hadn’t been sure it was Omar. Omar! They had come to take Omar away … In her mind she searched like lightning through the flat, wondering where she had left her phone, and remembered it was on the kitchen table, probably under the newspaper. She quickly pushed the door closed in the faces of the pair, muttering an apology, that she would only be a moment. She rushed to the kitchen, the pain in her legs forgotten. Sometimes it was remarkable how the mind could be stronger than the body. For a while after Jonni’s death she hadn’t suffered from arthritis. The razor-sharp pain that afflicted her soul had taken over, and she had felt no other pain.
Her fingers trembled as she tapped in a message to Omar:
Don’t come home! Police here. Police!
Then she took a deep breath, went back to the door and opened it.
‘I’m sorry. Yes?’
They were still there on the landing, but had stepped back from her door as if they were wondering whether she was going to come back and open it for them or not. Normally people waited by a door with a set expression, facing it and ready with a greeting, but now the man and the woman faced each other, as if they had been whispering. Olga forced a smile and prayed that Omar would see the message as soon he had finished lifting weights, and wouldn’t come bursting in while the police were there.
‘Hello. I’m Ísafold’s mother, the one who lives opposite,’ the woman said in slow Icelandic, pointing at Ísafold’s and Björn’s door on the far side of the landing. Then she switched to English to continue her explanation, and Olga’s knees felt weak with relief, and she wanted to laugh. They weren’t here to take Omar away. He was still safe with her, and nothing had changed. The authorities still had no idea where he was.
She said the same to Ísafold’s mother as she had already told her sister: that she knew Ísafold well, and they sometimes chatted over tea or coffee. She didn’t mention that it was normally Omar who drank tea with Ísafold, as that didn’t make any difference. She said Björn had told her that Ísafold was visiting relatives in Britain, so it had been a surprise to see a picture on Facebook of her on holiday in Italy.
Once the conversation was over, she shut the door in what was almost a discourteous rush, as she had to let Omar know that he was safe. He picked up immediately, and she could hear the desperation in his voice.
‘Omar, it’s all right,’ she said. ‘It was just Ísafold-next-door’s mother looking for her, and the policeman with her is her cousin. I don’t know if they’re allowed to do that, waving a police ID when it’s personal business, but I was just so relieved it was nothing to do with you…’
Her relief evaporated as she heard Omar fighting back a sob.
‘Omar—’ she began, but he interrupted her, his voice shrill and wild, his gasping breaths roaring down the line like a storm.
‘Why do you always ask about Ísafold? Why you ask of her?’
Olga wasn’t able to work out if he was confused and frightened, or simply bursting with rage.
66
Daníel wondered about the woman whose door they had knocked at first – Olga. There was no doubt that seeing them had taken her by surprise, and there had been an odd look on her face as she shut the door, and then came back a moment later, and had been perfectly sweet. She must have rushed to flush a stash of grass down the toilet, he decided. He had noticed over the last few years that more and more older people smoked dope, either because it was something they had done in their younger years, or because of the debate about how effective it was for pain relief. It wasn’t like in the old days, when hard liquor and snuff were what the older generation preferred. His grandmother had taken snuff, and he remembered how much fun it had been when he was a child to sneak a few grains from her, which would result in a colossal sneeze that they would both laugh over.
There wasn’t a lot to be gained from talking to Olga. She said the last time she had seen Ísafold had been more than three weeks ago, not that she was sure exactly when, but she had asked Björn about her and had been told she was away visiting relatives in Britain.
He saw Violet take a deep breath as they knocked at Björn’s door. Daníel had felt this wasn’t a sensible thing to do. If the conclusion was that Ísafold’s disappearance was suspicious, then Björn would naturally be at the top of the list of suspects, so it would be better to leave him be. The police could deal with him – which meant the police who were on duty, not one who was on holiday. But Violet had been adamant that they should approach all the neighbours, including Björn, and that there was nothing unusual in the man’s mother-in-law wanting a word with him. Daníel saw his role as providing support for Violet, and holding up his police ID in Björn’s face wouldn’t do any harm, and might give him something to worry about.
Björn came to the door exactly as Daníel had expected, surly and sulky. His appearance was a long way from the one he conjured up in the Facebook pictures of himself with Ísafold, where his white teeth were pearly white, his dark, dreamy eyes sparkling with fun. The man in person was pale and dishevelled, his face puffy.
‘Aren’t you going to invite your mother-in-law in?’ Violet asked, the peculiarly British disgust clear in her voice.
‘Not if you’re bringing that with you,’ Björn said, and jerked a thumb in Daníel’s direction. ‘I might have asked you in if you hadn’t brought the cop with you, and if you were still my kind-of mother-in-law.’
‘What do you mean, Björn?’ Violet asked. ‘I haven’t heard anything about you and Ísafold not being together any longer. The last I heard from her was a few weeks ago, and then she was happy and said that everything was fine between you.’
Björn shrugged.
‘Well. It was a surprise to me as well when I came home one day and found she had packed her stuff and left. I haven’t heard a word from her since. I reckoned she’d gone home to you in Newcastle. That’s what I thought. Where else would she go?’
‘Italy, maybe?’ Daníel suggested.
Björn stared at him in astonishment.
‘What?’
‘She posted a picture on Facebook yesterday, saying she’s in Italy,’ Violet said. ‘Does she know anyone in Italy?’
Björn shook his head with vehemence, and for a moment he reminded Daníel of a cornered animal. There was a fury in his eyes, even a hint of fear. The pulsing in his own head was stronger, Daníel could practically feel the beat of it. It was clear that Björn was upset, either taken by surprise or infuriated.
‘How the hell should I know?’
‘Why did you tell the neighbours that she was on holiday, visiting relatives in Britain, if she’s in Italy?’ Daníel asked, taking a step closer and placing a hand on the door to prevent Björn from slamming it shut, which was what he seemed keen to do.
‘I don’t know,’ he snapped. ‘Maybe because it’s not much fun having to tell people that your girlfriend left you, eh? I just guessed that she’d gone back home.’ His puffy face had turned red, and the tension in his body made the veins pulsing in his neck stand out. ‘And I don’t want to see the cops around here,’ he said, his voice lower, as if he was struggling to keep control of his temper.
Daníel withdrew his hand and the door banged shut. Daníel would have liked to have asked Björn a few more questions, adding a little more pressure, but this wasn’t the time or the place.
‘He seems surprised to hear that Ísafold’s in Italy,’ Violet muttered, and Daníel wondered if she hadn’t fully understood when he had explained it to her. Maybe she was living in the hope that the picture wasn’t faked and that Ísafold was genuinely in Italy.
‘Yes’ he said. ‘He was surprised to hear that Ísafold appears to have posted a picture from Italy,’ he said, emphasising the ‘appears’.
It was correct that Björn had seemed caught off-guard when Violet mentioned the picture. Maybe he was surprised that Ísafold was posting pictures of herself at all, Daníel thought, and he could feel a weight on his heart, and the flash in his head, his instinct, pulsed faster, like the flashing of a blue light on a squad car in hot pursuit. Maybe Björn was just surprised that Ísafold had shown a sign of life.
67
The chambermaid’s reaction that morning had irritated Áróra all day, and her intuition about it was confirmed when Hákon leaned forward over their starter and whispered, just loud enough to be heard over the chatter in the smart downtown restaurant: ‘I hear you were asking my staff about their rates of pay. I suppose that’s because of the stuff in the papers saying I pay below the minimum wage…’
‘What stuff was that?’ Áróra asked. This was a surprise, as she had seen no coverage of the topic, despite having spent some time scouring the internet for information about Hákon and his hotel business.
‘Well, there was some newshound who got hold of someone’s pay slip and published it, without knowing the full story, of course, and as I can’t publicly say what the facts are, it looked bad for me.’
Áróra gazed at him. He was agitated and apologetic, and the flush that he was prone to had appeared, as tiny droplets of sweat gathered on his upper lip.
‘So what are the facts?’ she asked. She was aware how pushy she sounded, so it was unexpected when he appeared to reply candidly.
‘Between ourselves, I’ll admit that I sometimes pay a small part of people’s wages as cash in hand, so they don’t have to pay so much tax as it isn’t high-paid work. It goes without saying that I know it’s against the rules, and I know that as an accountant you don’t approve of that kind of thing…’
‘Exactly. But I wasn’t wondering about that,’ Áróra said. ‘Your business affairs are no concern of mine. I just wanted to be sure you weren’t one of those creeps you hear about in the travel business here who run something that’s only just short of slavery, making people work all hours and paying them peanuts, if anything.’
He smiled in relief, obviously taking her explanation at face value.
‘I’m not a creep,’ he said, raising his glass as she did the same, but hers was empty so they didn’t manage to clink glasses before the waiter arrived bearing their main courses. ‘I think I can say with pride that my staff are happy to work for me. And everyone benefits when a few krónur escape the tax system.’
Áróra studied his face with interest. There was a childlike simplicity to his argument, and she wondered if he genuinely believed it, or if he had fashioned some slightly shallower version of integrity that allowed him to live with himself.
Hákon ordered more wine for her, and they set to work on their steaks. Out of habit, she pushed the potatoes aside and started on the salad. She made a habit of starting with the green stuff, then the meat or fish, keeping the carbohydrates to last. Keeping slim was a matter of accounting, just the same as finance. And she was smart enough to know that a company can’t pay wages on the black unless there’s undeclared cash somewhere behind it.
68
Hákon led Áróra towards the restaurant’s door; the support was welcome as she was wearing heels and wasn’t as steady on her feet as usual. She had lost count of the glasses of wine she had drunk over dinner. There had been white wine with the seafood starter, then red with the lamb main course and finally a dessert wine so sweet that she had no appetite for the dessert itself, in spite of the waiter’s long speech in praise of it.
‘Hi there, Hákon!’
The greeting cut clearly through the chatter, and Hákon raised a hand and waved. Áróra took a moment to focus properly and figure out where the call had come from. As Hákon steered her to the table where the woman who had called was sitting, along with her friend, she wished she hadn’t drunk so much. The friend was younger, stick-thin and at first Áróra thought she was wearing a shirt with intricately patterned sleeves, before she realised that she was wearing a sleeveless top showing heavily tattooed arms. Hákon kissed both women, and before Áróra could protest, he and the women had decided they would join them for one more drink.
‘Áróra, this is my business partner Agla, and Elísa, her wife. Elísa and Agla, this is Áróra.’
Agla smiled as she extended a hand.
‘Business partner?’ was all Áróra could say as she sat in the chair that Hákon had chivalrously brought for her. She hadn’t been aware of a business partner. None of the media coverage she had found online had mentioned one – and certainly not this one. No deep insight into the workings of the Icelandic business community was needed to know that Agla Margeirsdóttir was one of the country’s best-known financial criminals.
Áróra felt her head swim; it was as though the restaurant was spinning around her. She was struggling to join the dots. Maybe her plan wasn’t worth the risk. Hákon’s business network seemed to be more complex than she had imagined.
‘That’s right,’ Hákon said. ‘Agla came to my rescue when I started building the hotel in Akureyri. She came up with the finance for the construction and for getting the place running, and she’s supported me all the way through.’
Hákon asked what she would like to drink, and she requested water, the questions multiplying in her mind.
Why had there been no mention in any of the online coverage that Agla had a share in Hákon’s hotel business? Áróra was close to getting the information she needed about his accounts, so it was frustrating not to know exactly what sort of business relationship he had with Agla.
She didn’t have to wait long for an opportunity to ask her question and a few others, as, while Hákon was at the bar, Elísa got to her feet, excused herself and headed to the toilet.
‘It’s too long and complicated a story to go into now,’ Agla said. ‘But Hákon can explain it all for you.’
‘No need for that,’ Áróra lied, aware that her question could be seen as suspicious. ‘I was just curious.’
The woman raised her glass and smiled to someone in the room. Áróra followed her eye, and saw the smile was intended for Hákon as he stood at the bar with a beer in one hand, which he raised in return. He seemed happy and contented, and Áróra felt a sudden surge of self-disgust at the thought she was betraying him.
‘I know who you are,’ Agla then said, with eyes that seemed to pierce Áróra to the core.
Áróra felt sick, and the restaurant again began to turn in circles around her. Hákon appeared, and handed her a glass of water, which she drank down in a single draught. It served to ease her nausea, but it returned as Agla leaned close, smiled icily and whispered, ‘And I have my own ideas about why you’re interested in Hákon.’
69
‘Are you all right?’ Hákon asked with concern, handing her a serviette. She mopped the perspiration from her face and got to her feet. The restaurant was still spinning around her, and she wasn’t sure whether she had been somewhere between a dream and wakefulness a second before, or whether Agla had really told her that she knew who she was and what she wanted from Hákon. How the hell could that have happened? Áróra didn’t know Agla at all, apart from what she had read about her in the papers, and was certain she had never met her before.
‘Ach. Just a bit drunk,’ she said, aware of how her voice slurred. ‘Can you take me back to the hotel?’
Hákon kissed both Agla and Elísa goodbye, but Áróra said nothing, certain that she would vomit if she tried to speak. As Hákon supported her on the way to the door, she noticed Agla checking her out with piercing eyes and a faint smile. Hákon’s arm was around her waist, keeping her upright, and she slipped her hand into his back pocket to give herself something to keep hold of. They made their way onto the pavement, holding each other tight, and walked straight into her mother and Daníel.
It wasn’t easy to tell if it was leaving the warmth of the restaurant for the cool evening air outside, or the razor-sharp dismay in her mother’s eyes that brought her to her senses. Her sight cleared, and she pushed Hákon away a little. It was an embarrassing moment, and Áróra longed to explain the whole story for everyone, but her mind wasn’t sharp enough to cope with the two worlds she’d inhabited over the past few days crashing together.
‘This is Hákon,’ she muttered. He responded courteously, offering a hand to her mother and then to Daníel, who ignored it and walked away. As he stepped past Áróra, he leaned close and whispered.
‘Looks like you’ve changed your mind about being ready for romance.’
Áróra clasped Hákon’s hand once her mother had set off after Daníel, but, after a few steps, it was all suddenly too much: the evening with all the drinks and Ísafold on her conscience, then Hákon and Daníel at the same time, and she leaned forward to throw up into the gutter.
