Free Cold Steal by Quentin Bates

century. This stuff doesn’t grow on trees.’
    ‘I need to take this as well,’ Eiríkur said and watched Svandís open her mouth to protest as he pocketed the receipt book. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll get it back. I don’t suppose that’s his real name, so what did this guy look like?’
    Svandís immediately looked blank. ‘Just average, I suppose.’
    ‘You don’t have CCTV in here, do you?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Then when was he here?’
    ‘Look at the receipt. The date’s on it.’
    ‘Saturday? Two days ago? What time of day was it?’
    ‘I’m not sure.’
    ‘Right. So what did he look like? Tall? Short? Hair colour? Facial hair?’
    ‘Oh, I don’t know. Taller than me but shorter than you.’
    ‘That applies to probably just about everyone in Iceland,’ Eiríkur said, putting a finger to his shoulder. ‘This tall?’ He asked, moving it up. ‘Or up here?’
    ‘That’s closer.’
    ‘Just under two metres, then? Hair?’
    ‘Ordinary. Brownish. Quite short.’
    ‘Beard? Moustache?’
    ‘Stubble.’
    ‘Anything special you noticed about him? Any distinguishing marks?’
    ‘Like what?’
    ‘Scars, tattoos. That sort of thing.’
    No. Nothing. Just a nice, ordinary young man. He said it was his mother’s and that she’d died a few years ago and now he needed to stop his house being repossessed, so he had to sell it.’
    Eiríkur sniffed. ‘I’m sure. What was he wearing?’
    ‘I’m not sure. I always look at the eyes, you know.’
    ‘Well, was he wearing a suit?’
    ‘No. A coat of some kind. I think it was green.’
    ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. Dark green? Light green? A long coat or a short one?’
    ‘Short. It was one of those ones all the young people wear these days. Like the one you’re wearing, only dark green.’
    ‘A fleece?’
    ‘If that’s what they’re called. And it had some yellow letters on it.’
    ‘I don’t suppose you remember what?’
    Svandís put a hand to her forehead. ‘No. It’s gone,’ she said, as if remembering was something painful.
    ‘So we have a brown-haired man with stubble, roughly one metre eighty tall, wearing a dark green fleece with yellow lettering on it. Age?’
    ‘I don’t know. Under forty?’
    ‘All right. How much under forty?’
    ‘Thirty, maybe,’ she decided with an effort.
    ‘Thank you. That all helps,’ Eiríkur said, zipping up his own fleece.
    ‘When will I get that back?’
     
    Gunna rang the bell, then hammered on the door that swung open in front of her to reveal a dark lobby.
    ‘Who are you?’
    She was confronted by a startled woman in a dressing gown that had clearly been hastily pulled on.
    ‘Gunnhildur Gísladóttir, city CID. I’m looking for Sunna María Voss or Jóhann Hjálmarsson, or preferably both of them,’ she said, flicking open her wallet.
    ‘CID? What’s it about?’
    ‘Are you Sunna María?’
    ‘I am.’ She crossed her arms and cocked her head on one side. ‘Look, this really isn’t convenient.’
    ‘Maybe not, but it is urgent.’
    ‘So urgent it can’t wait until the morning? It’s half-past seven and I’m about to go out.’
    ‘If it wasn’t urgent, I’d be at home myself by now. Can I come in? This really is important.’
    ‘Tomorrow, please.’
    ‘You know Vilhelm Thorleifsson?’ Gunna asked.
    ‘Villi? Of course. Why?’
    ‘He’s been murdered.’
    ‘Murdered?’ Sunna María asked. ‘You’re sure?’
    ‘I’m absolutely sure, which is why I’m here on your doorstep at seven thirty in the evening and not at home with my feet up. So are you going to let me in?’
    ‘Æi, it’s not exactly convenient . . .’ She looked quickly over one shoulder and then back at Gunna.
    ‘And it’s not exactly convenient to be stood here in the dark,’ Gunna said with determination and took a step inside as Sunna María backed away.
    ‘Wait here.’
    Sunna María disappeared into the darkened house, leaving the door open while Gunna pulled the outside door shut behind her. She