Chilled To The Bone Part 19

He put the picture of the blonde in front of her. 'And this one?'

'Yes,' Stella said. 'That's her.'

'In that case, that's all I need from you,' Eirikur said, putting the photographs away and standing up. 'I'll give you a crime reference number, as this was a stolen card so no doubt the insurance company will want to ask you a few questions as well.'

He had to admit to himself that there was something magnetic about the man. Gussi looked through the window of the cafe and saw the hard-faced man whose real name he still didn't know sitting with a cup and saucer in front of him as he sat back reading the cultural supplement of last weekend's newspaper.

Fl.u.s.tered, Gussi walked around the block, which was quiet at this time, between morning rush hour and the lunch break that saw people reappearing on the streets. He thought about Hekla and how many years it had been since he'd seen her last in person. A good ten, twelve years, he decided, although it could be more and he had seen her several times on television in bit parts and recognized that soft voice more than once in adverts and radio drama. As a senior player at the theatre, he had a room of his own and didn't notice many of the bit-part players, but Hekla had attracted so much attention. It wasn't just her looks, he recalled. She hadn't been beautiful in any cla.s.sical way, although the young men certainly appreciated those bouncing t.i.ts and long legs, judging by their crude jokes, he thought with distaste. There had been a quality to her bearing that simply clicked as she walked into and inhabited a part to become that person. The girl had a real, G.o.d-given talent, he admitted to himself, trying not to remind himself that his own skills had been the product of sweat and hard work, not something to be simply switched on and off at a whim.

Walking fast along the half-empty pavements that took him in a circle past the tourist shops and closed nightclubs and bars, Gussi wondered if Hekla had been aware of her own talent. It was a terrible shame that she hadn't been able to find work and had had to search elsewhere after such a promising start. But it's a tough business, he reminded himself bitterly. Upset someone high up in the cultural mafia and you're screwed; second chances are as rare as a blue moon, unless you have a foot in the door via someone with connections or a bit of clout.

He stopped outside the cafe, having walked a full circle; the fresh air had cleared his mind, or so he hoped. The man who called himself Jon spied him immediately over the top of his newspaper, closing and folding it with precision.

Gussi sat down and immediately felt uncomfortable under the steady gaze that was neither friendly nor hostile, but which made him feel that his innermost thoughts were being scanned.

'What can I get you?' A deferential voice asked and Gussi realized that Jon must have signalled to a waitress without his noticing.

'A coffee.'

'Ordinary?'

'Yes,' he said and looked at the man waiting for him. 'Please. And you?'

'The same as before, Alma, please. Could you bring us a few pastries as well?'

On first name terms with the staff here, Gussi thought. That doesn't happen too often.

'Good morning, er, Jon,' he finally greeted Baddo, extending a hand that was crushed for a second until the grip was released.

'So, you have something useful for me?'

'You don't waste time, do you?' Gussi grumbled and got a cruel smile in return.

'No. I a.s.sume you do, otherwise you wouldn't be here.'

'Well, yes,' Gussi allowed. 'And no.'

He raised an eyebrow and looked across the little table between them; Gussi had the feeling he was being played with.

'I, er . . . I would like to know just who it is you're working for, before I say too much,' he said quickly. 'I don't suppose you're a police officer, are you?'

The man smiled and his hard face lit up with a flash of humour this time. 'No, Gussi,' he said. 'I'm certainly not a policeman. I like to get things done quickly and discreetly, if you get my drift.'

He continued to smile in amus.e.m.e.nt as the waitress reappeared and loaded the table with crockery, a dish of pet.i.te Danish pastries and a coffee pot. Gussi waited with impatience for the girl to finish, noticing Jon, or whatever the h.e.l.l he called himself, checking out the curves of the girl's legs as they emerged, clad in sheer black, from the short skirt that hugged her behind.

'Enjoy,' she said, straightening up.

He's old enough to be her father, Gussi told himself crossly, as the girl simpered in a way that spoke volumes.

'I'm afraid I couldn't tell you who I'm working for.'

'You're not allowed?'

'I don't know myself. It's a rather delicate operation and I'm just a small player in a bigger machine here.'

'But you work in security?'

'I've been in secure operations for a long time now.'

Gussi looked away, needing a pretext to escape the keen eyes across the table, and put too much cream in his coffee.

'Let's just say that something sensitive has gone astray and there are people who want it back,' Baddo said smoothly, guessing that this was probably somewhere close to the truth and watching Gussi's broad forehead furrow.

'All right,' he said finally after he'd chewed his lip for a long moment. 'I can give you some information but there are two things first.'

'Fire away.'

Baddo lifted his coffee cup and sipped without taking his eyes off Gussi and his flushed cheeks.

'It's not enough money,' he said suddenly.

'A quarter of a million for a whisper of information. Sounds reasonable to me.'

'You're asking me to give someone away.'

Baddo laughed inside at the thought of this pompous fool trying to bargain with him, but merely nodded sagely. 'And your conscience is worth more than that?'

Gussi flushed even redder. 'It is,' he snapped, 'if you want to put it like that.'

'I find it's normally best to speak as I find instead of dressing things up. How much are you looking for?'

'Half a million,' Gussi said, surprised when the hard-faced man nodded again.

'And the other thing?'

'An a.s.surance that the person will come to no harm,' he said in a shaky voice, unnerved by the indifferent reception his demand had elicited. 'No violence.'

'I'll pa.s.s the message on and see what my clients say.'

'About the half million, or the no violence?'

'Both,' Baddo said with a return of the cold smile that Gussi found both chilling and exciting.

Something didn't feel right. Hekla cleaned the kitchen more thoroughly than usual, glancing out of the windows at the sporadic snowfall from a grey sky that was filling the footprints at the back of the house, gradually wiping them out as if they'd never existed. The red Toyota outside had grown a white layer a hand's breadth deep as the snow fell evenly in the still, heavy air; it felt like the lull before a storm.

She tried to a.s.suage her own tension by attacking the burned-on stains at the back of the oven with a scouring pad and increased vigour, hoping the activity would push the unease from her mind. An hour later the kitchen was spotless. The muted whine of Petur's lathe could be heard from the workshop as she decided the bathroom was next. She opened the bathroom window to let in a blast of cold, fresh air and used the opportunity to spy on the outside world, all the while telling herself that there was no need.

By the time she had finished, the newly mopped kitchen floor was dry. She made coffee and stood staring out of the window at the greyness beyond as the horizon merged seamlessly into sky. The thickness of the weather that masked Reykjavik across the bay also m.u.f.fled any sound from outside, rendering the noise of the traffic on the main road little more than a distant mutter.

She took two mugs of coffee with her to the workshop where Petur stood half-perched on a stool on his bad side in front of the lathe. Strips of curled wood shavings lay like a deep carpet around his ankles and Hekla breathed in the sharp aroma of newly turned wood.

She put one mug on the bench where Petur could reach it and cradled the other in her hands. 'How's it going?' she asked, nodding at the stack of newly turned bowls on the bench.

'Not bad.' He smiled. 'A dozen so far and I'll do a few more before I start polishing them up.'

Hekla picked up a bowl and admired the pattern of grain that swept across its broad base, lost in the twists and whorls.

'They're lovely, Petur.'

'I like to think so.'

'It's just a shame that you can't get more for them.'

'I know,' he sighed. 'But there's only so much people will pay for these things.'

'I still reckon that wholesaler's ripping you off.'

Petur shrugged. 'Probably. But he has overheads to pay as well.'

'Come on. He pays you twelve hundred for each of these bowls or cups and he sells them for at least eight thousand. I've seen his website. We should be selling these ourselves, not giving them to someone else to make all the money on them.'

'I know. But what can I do? I can either make these things or I can stand behind a counter and wait for someone to buy them. I can't do both.'

'You could get a stall at the flea market.'

'We could get a stall there, maybe.'

Hekla decided to let it drop. The idea of standing behind a stall at the Kolaport flea market with half of Reykjavik walking past was not an idea that appealed to her, not that any of her former customers would be likely to recognize her without one or other of her wigs. Then the face of the corpulent man from the swimming pool came rushing back to her. He must have recognized her, or else made a mistake and thought she was someone else.

'We could get a stall, I said,' Petur repeated. 'You're daydreaming again.'

'Sorry. Yeah, I suppose we could try it and see what happens,' she said dubiously. 'I'll see if I can find out how much it costs.'

'Even if we only sell a few ourselves, it would make a difference, I expect. Especially if we can charge gift-shop prices for them.'

Hekla scanned the s.p.a.ce under the bench on the far side of the workshop and wondered what was missing.

'Where's that laptop bag that was over there?'

'What laptop?'

'The one I picked up cheap before Christmas. I left it under the bench.'

'I don't know,' Petur shrugged, his mind already on the lathe again as he clamped a section of wood into it. 'You're sure it was there?'

'Gunnhildur,' ivar Laxdal told her, appearing in the doorway. 'A word, if you don't mind.'

Gunna wanted to laugh at the 'if you don't mind' that was an instruction rather than a suggestion. Not sorry to leave the clutter on her desk, she joined him in the corridor, wondering why the man always liked to walk when he was talking.

'It's the ministry again,' he said. 'It's about this laptop they've managed to lose somewhere.'

'They really think we're going to find a laptop that someone left in a taxi?' Gunna asked and was rewarded with a scowl.

'There's more to this than meets the eye, Gunnhildur, and I don't know what they're playing at either.'

Gunna wondered if the scowl had been directed at her remark or at the ministry. 'What do they expect, then?'

'They expect us to find the d.a.m.ned thing, that's what. I have the serial numbers and a description.'

'That's something, I suppose. But who lost this computer, and where?'

ivar Laxdal grimaced. 'That's just what they don't want to tell me.'

'This really is a needle in a haystack, in that case?'

'Exactly.'

'Can I ask how this request came to you?'

'You can ask, but I'm not supposed to tell you. Between ourselves, it comes through a ministry official called Mar Einarsson. I've checked him out as far as I can and he has, naturally, a clean record. He deals with foreign relations, apparently. He's listed simply as an adviser, whatever that means.'

'And I can speak to him?'

'h.e.l.l, I don't know. Leave it with me for the moment and I'll have another word. I'll see if I can get these jokers to agree to a meeting this afternoon. The whole thing sounds fishy to me.'

Gussi's head whirled. He was trying to work out how he had managed to end up with the hard-faced man who both frightened and fascinated him sitting in the only chair in his flat looking quizzically at him.

He looked around appreciatively. 'Nice place.'

'It'll do. It's a bolt-hole really.'

'How come?'

Gussi didn't want to be reminded, but he had to come up with an answer. 'I had a larger place. I still own it, actually, but I can't afford to live there and it's rented out.'

'Came out of the crash badly, did you?'

'I did.'

Gussi poured a little brandy into a tumbler and handed it across to his guest, the only guest the little apartment had ever seen.

'Sorry to hear that. I missed out on all that stuff.'

'You were abroad?'

He nodded and smiled in a way that set Gussi's stomach doing somersaults. 'Back to business. Four hundred thousand is on the table for the information I'm after. Cash, no comebacks, no questions. No reason to see me ever again as long as your information is accurate.'

Gussi grimaced and started to shake his head as he sat down on the three-legged stool that belonged in the tiny kitchen.