Free Summerchill by Quentin Bates Page B

damned hard to do that kind of damage with a stick.’
    ‘We’ll have a better idea when the post mortem’s been done.’
    ‘What next, Gunna?’
    ‘Relatives.’
    ‘Shit. I was afraid you were going to say exactly that.’
    ‘That’s it. Everyone’s least favourite job, but it has to be done. Come on, I’ll hold your hand,’ she said, nodding towards a barrel-chested figure approaching across the grass with a seaman’s rolling gait. ‘The Laxdal’s here. I’ll brief him and then we can go and start asking questions.’
    ‘Gunnhildur, g’day,’ Ívar Laxdal said curtly. ‘Helgi,’ he nodded. ‘What’s the situation?’
    ‘Deceased in the back of the Outlander. It’s the deceased’s own vehicle, name of Axel Rútur Karlsson, reported missing on Friday. Helgi’s been investigating. The car was parked here late Thursday night and the alarm went off this morning, so traffic came to see what the problem was. Sigursteinn called me because we had an alert out for the vehicle. That’s about it so far.’
    ‘Violence?’
    ‘No question.’
    Ívar Laxdal made the same journey as Helgi had done a few minutes earlier and came back with his eyebrows clenched into a tight bar across his forehead.
    ‘I’ll bet you anything you like that’s been done with a hammer,’ he said. ‘What do I need to know about this character?’
    ‘We believe he’s been doing some freelance enforcement, debt collecting.’
    ‘A disgruntled punter? Gunnhildur, what’s your next move?’
    ‘We break the news to his grieving girlfriend to start with and find out what we can about the man’s movements.’
    ‘And then we lean on his business partner,’ Helgi broke in. ‘I’m certain the two of them were working together, and if anyone knows where he was going on Thursday night, it’ll be him.’
    ‘Fine. Go. I’ll keep an eye on what’s happening here.’
    They took the Polo Gunna had taken from the car pool that morning to drive through the sunshine along with the hundreds of people out for a Sunday morning drive. The bank holiday weekend was behind them and people were acutely aware that the vagaries of Iceland’s weather meant that any weekend now could be the last one of summer.
    ‘I wonder if Eiríkur’s in this lot somewhere,’ Helgi said. ‘Off for a Sunday drive to Thingvellir with the family.’
    ‘Could be. Mind you, he’s a city boy and sometimes I reckon he thinks there’s a passport control at the Hvalfjördur tunnel.’
    ‘There ought to be. Keep these city types out of the country and on the tarmac where they belong.’
    ‘And keep us country bumpkins away from the bright lights, you mean?’
    ‘Well, there is that,’ Helgi admitted. ‘Could you live in Vestureyri again?’
    ‘Hell, no. There are far too many relatives up there. Hvalvík’s good enough for me, and being a stranger means I don’t have to get involved in anything awkward.’
    ‘And at least you’re only spitting distance from the city.’
    ‘Commuting has its advantages.’
    ‘Come off up here,’ Helgi said, pointing to the approaching turnoff. ‘Go right and then the first left, I think. I keep badgering Halla to move out to somewhere quieter. Selfoss or somewhere, but she won’t have it. Reykjavík born and bred, you see. Can’t imagine life beyond Breidholt.’
    ‘Like Eiríkur,’ Gunna said. ‘Is that the place there?’
    ‘That’s it.’
    Gunna parked and they got out. Helgi led the way, and as the outside door had been hooked back, they went straight up the stairs. Helgi knocked on the door. A plastic sign made to look like brass proclaimed that ‘Aníta Sól and Axel Rútur live here’ below the door peeper, where a blue eye flashed for a moment before the door swung open.
    ‘Good morning,’ Helgi offered and Aníta Sól’s hand went to her mouth. ‘Could we come in? This is my colleague Gunnhildur Gísladóttir.’
    Aníta Sól stood in the hall with her eyes blank. She was wrapped in a pure white