A Place To Bury Strangers, page 4
For the equivalent of around £300, a glass or two of champagne and some discreet cash tips you would get yourself a conversation you wouldn’t forget in a big hurry. The girls were foreign, desperate and poorly-advised about what was legal or even a good idea in their new country. He had thought about asking if Lise was working tonight but that plan was fraught with all sorts of pitfalls. They would want to know how a face they had never seen before knew her name and chances were good that she worked under an alias anyway. Too many questions in a place like this made everyone nervous and that wasn’t what he wanted. Not yet anyway.
If he couldn’t find Lise through this place then his attention would turn to the odd-looking building in one of the other photos she’d sent him. It looked like a black tin can that had been cut in half and turned on its side. The windows had been boarded up and there was a chain and padlock on the door. It seemed to be an old army barracks hut that had been used by the either the American or British forces during the Second World War. Chances were that it was near one of the airports. Either near Keflavík where the international airport was or Reykjavík Airport, the much smaller facility beside the city centre that serviced Iceland’s domestic routes as well as Greenland. What she should have sent him a picture of, or rather who, was the guy that had driven her down there to have sex with her. The guy who had threatened to kill her if she didn’t behave herself. That was who he really wanted to talk to right now.
Either way it wouldn’t take Knut long to find this character, it was what he did for a living. If anyone was going to know the whereabouts of Lise Sponheim it was this Janko guy she had spoken of in less than glowing terms. With a name like that he was bound to be from the former Yugoslav Republic. With any luck he would be wandering around his club at some point but there were only so many beers Knut could drink to kill time before his eyes would start wandering over the flesh that was on parade in front of him. That was the last thing he needed. To be caught with his pants down on the hunt for an ex-girlfriend.
He would struggle to explain that one to the wife back home that was for sure. No, he would finish this beer and then call it a night. In theory he could always come back another time. He downed the rest of his pint, thought about it for a moment and then ordered another. One more couldn’t hurt and it was good beer. All the way from Akureyri in the north of the country so his new Polish friend had informed him.
‘I was told that Janko might be in tonight at some point. Do you know if that’s right?’ he asked the smiling beauty behind the bar.
‘He might be. Do you have a name handsome stranger?’ she answered.
She was chuckling to herself as she poured another two glasses of champagne for one of the waitresses. When she was done she looked up at him and waited. Without taking her eyes off his she grabbed a wine glass and started polishing it.
‘I’ve got all night you know,’ she said.
The smile lingered but there was a steely air about her now. Maybe people coming looking for her boss made her nervous. Maybe she’d had a few bad experiences in the past with strangers asking for him. Knut certainly wasn’t going to tell this girl what his name was but at the same time he wanted Janko to know that someone was looking for him. Someone who meant business and wanted answers.
He met her gaze and stared her down. He wasn’t just another customer and now she knew it.
‘I’m what you might call a friend of a friend. I know someone who was working here recently and she still owes me money. Janko probably knows where she is and it would really help me out if he could share that information with me.’
The Polish girl squinted ever so slightly as she put the polished wine glass back down on the bar.
‘Why don’t you leave your name and your number with me and I’ll see that he gets it next time he’s in,’ she said.
‘I can’t do that. In my line of work it’s just not a good idea,’ Knut said.
‘Well, how’s he going to get hold of you then?’
Knut finished his beer in one go and put the glass down on the bar.
‘He’s not. I’m going to get hold of him.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Friday 6th February
Ævar set his feet as firmly as he could on the icy surface and surveyed the hillside above and below him. The wind had picked up as soon as he’d arrived and was now as bitterly cold as he could ever remember. Friday the sixth of February was quickly becoming the worst day of his career with the Reykjavík Police Force. No sooner had the discovery of a badly burned corpse on one of the city’s many building sites been made than he’d received the one call he’d dreaded receiving more than any other. One of his officers had been shot and was being rushed to the Landspítali Hospital for surgery. When he’d been told who it was and where it had happened he’d thought there must have been some sort of mistake. There was no way Grímur could have been anywhere near Öskjuhlíð at that time of night. He had sent him to Lækjargata to visit a champagne club about six hours earlier and he’d been told to have a quick look around and nothing more. How the hell he’d managed to wind up shot and bleeding all over the footpath next to Bústaðavegur was completely beyond Ævar. Someone had called the emergency services and told them exactly where to find him but when the ambulance had arrived only minutes later whoever had made the call was long gone.
With a flashlight in his hand he joined the search for clues along the trails that led both north and south along the sides of the hill. A couple of officers were inspecting the paths that led down the western side of the Perlan building but it had already been deemed that they were far too dangerous to attempt to walk down in the dark. If anyone had escaped that way they were crazier than any person he’d ever met before. The pathways had frozen solid and had become rivers of ice that descended towards Nauthólsvík so steeply that to walk on them in the dark would be lunacy of the highest order.
The search on the eastern side of the hill had originally concentrated on the area where Grímur had been found unconscious on the footpath alongside Bústaðavegur and had then worked its way slowly upwards in ever increasing circles. The pathway on which Ævar now stood had been disturbed at some point by someone walking or running along it. There were deep footprints and skid marks in the dark volcanic gravel where someone had slid or fallen. Some of the footprints seemed to suggest that the person who had left them must have weighed a fair bit. The impressions were deeper than one might have expected but there were a lot of them and they seemed to head in all directions. It was hard to tell exactly where anyone would have been going but they had made a real mess of the path as though there had been a scuffle of some sort. Perhaps even a fight to seize control of the gun that had been used to shoot Grímur. It would take some time to figure out exactly what had occurred and until then Ævar had to accept that almost anything was possible.
Ævar rubbed his hands together to try to get some warmth back into them as he tried to piece together the final moments before the shooting that had almost cost Grímur his life. The ageing detective was in a medically-assisted coma at the moment and the doctors weren’t giving any information about his prognosis. From what Ævar could tell Grímur had answered his phone call but as soon as he’d said something he had heard the shot ring out. Then the phone went dead and none of his attempts to get through to it since had been successful. There had been no phone on him when they’d found him lying on the footpath and there was no sign of it anywhere on Öskjuhlíð yet either. At some point there must have been a struggle or a chase on or around the path he was now standing on and then Grímur had been shot somewhere near the base of the hill. That seemed the most likely scenario but there were still plenty of things that needed explaining before he could believe any one version of events. What he wouldn’t give right now for his detective to regain consciousness and tell him exactly what had happened and why he’d been there in the first place.
Exactly one week ago a troublesome Norwegian had entered the country at Keflavík airport. Knut Vigeland was his name. He and Ævar’s paths had crossed before and now all hell had broken loose in the space of less than eight hours. There was no way in the world it could be a coincidence. Trouble followed this guy everywhere he went the way bad days followed good ones. As soon as they could ascertain where he was staying he would be arrested and they would put an end to this ridiculous crime spree of his. If Ævar could have his way he would have never been allowed to enter the country. They could ban every single Norwegian biker ever born and he still wouldn’t be happy. People like that were nothing but trouble and this had only served to reinforce his opinion of them.
Ævar shook his head and wondered what had led Grímur all the way from Lækjargata to where he was standing now. His instructions could not have been any clearer. Go down to the club and have a look around. That was all he had to do. Just a little visit to let them know they were keeping an eye on them and nothing else. They just needed to be able to say that an inspection of the premises had been made and they would be in the clear. Case closed. All he’d had to do was get in and get out again without getting himself in any sort of bother but now they had another set of headaches altogether and they had a distinctly Norwegian flavour to them. One was a murder victim with burns to ninety-eight per cent of his body. Somehow the soles of his feet had survived the ordeal but the rest of him resembled a barbecued chicken wing and now a police officer was in critical condition in hospital with a near-fatal gunshot wound. It was days like this that defined careers and Ævar felt as if his was on the edge of a cliff and about to topple off should the slightest breeze come along at his back. On top of that he had a sore neck and his hands were frozen stiff. The phone he so badly needed was nowhere to be found and was not about to show up of its own accord so it was time to call it quits and get on with the task of finding Knut Vigeland. Ævar was hoping that once that arrest had been made then everything else would fall into place and life could slowly return to normal.
With so many hotels and serviced apartments in the city not to mention the vast number of privately-rented properties that tourists had to choose from these days it could take them the rest of the day to find him if not longer. And speed was of the essence. Another murder or attempted murder in the next twenty-four hours and Ævar’s resignation would be waiting for him on his desk ready to be signed. They had to find Knut Vigeland before someone else was shot or burned alive. With an armed threat like him on the loose the Viking Squad had already been put on standby.
Ævar pulled his phone from his pocket and dialled Grímur’s number yet again. He was hoping he would hear it ring somewhere in the bushes nearby but deep down he knew he was kidding himself. Whoever had shot him probably had the stupid thing now. There was no phone ring to be heard anywhere on the frozen hillside and no one answered the detective’s phone it just rang and rang as it had every other time. He would soon have the phone company tell him which mobile phone mast in the city it was connected to and that would at least narrow their search area a little. For now it was time to get in out of the cold and make some other calls about tracking Knut down. As he trudged back down the hill something caught his eye near the base of one of the trees. A glint of something shiny in his flashlight’s beam. It was probably nothing more than a shard of broken glass but as he got closer to the tree he could see that it wasn’t a piece of glass at all. It was metallic and about the size of his hand. He bent down to get a better look. When he saw what it was he let out an involuntary groan. It was a small stainless steel hipflask. The very one he had given Grímur at a staff Christmas party several years ago long before he’d realised that Grímur had spent a significant part of his career hiding a drinking problem from them all. He picked it up, unscrewed the lid and inhaled the faint but unmistakeable scent of vodka. Making sure no one had seen him he slid the hipflask into his jacket pocket and said a quiet prayer that his decision to send Grímur to a bar in the line of duty wasn’t going to cost him his life.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Saturday 7th February
Knut Vigeland signed his bill at reception and paid the outstanding balance for the drinks bill he’d run up at the bar. He thanked the receptionist for her help during his stay and received a pleasant smile in return before walking out to the minivan that was waiting to take him to the BSÍ Bus Station. From there he would transfer onto a large coach and head out to the airport at Keflavík. Two and a half hours later he would be back in Oslo with his wife. He nodded to the driver and showed him the return part of his ticket before walking to the rear of the minivan and swinging his bag on top of the other luggage. His was the smallest in the pile by a long way. He had to smile at that. He prided himself on travelling light. It was an art form he had worked on over the years. It was only necessary to carry the bare minimum with you when you travelled. Any more than that was just stupid. People never used half the stuff they lugged around with them. Just as he let go of the straps he heard vehicles pulling up behind him and doors opening followed by loud urgent demands in English that he turn around and put his hands on his head. They used his full name when they addressed him that was the first bad sign. Knut turned slowly to face the voices and raised his hands above his head as he did so. He had to smile at what he saw in front of him. There were seven Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns pointed at him. That was the second bad sign. All around him hotel guests were screaming and dropping to the ground with their hands covering their faces. The Viking Squad officers kept their weapons trained on him as he was instructed to drop to his knees. Once he had complied two officers approached him with Glock 17s aimed at his head while another officer handcuffed his wrists behind his back. It was going to be a long day. He would not be getting to see Oslo this afternoon or any time soon for that matter.
Knut was pulled to his feet and dragged towards a black Dodge van with blacked-out windows. The back doors flew open as they approached and he was pushed into the back of the van and told to sit on a small bench seat that ran along the side of the vehicle. It was really tiny for a guy of his size but it wasn’t as if he had much choice in the matter.
Not all the Glocks had been put away. One was still pointed at him at eye-level as if he were about to make a break for it despite being handcuffed and locked in the back of a van. They had clearly been told not to take any chances with him and they were following those instructions to the letter. He had no idea how much they knew about what he’d been up to but until two minutes ago he hadn’t been aware that the cops in Reykjavík even knew he was in town. And now, instead of getting ready to catch his 12:40 p.m. Scandinavian Airlines flight back to Norway he was going to have the hospitality of the Icelandic police thrust upon him for the foreseeable future. His arrest would be on the evening news both in Reykjavík and Oslo. He would not be overly popular in either capital tonight. His wife would curse his name. Under her breath if their two daughters were within earshot or out loud if they weren’t. Her plans for their evening meal ruined by the zealous members of Iceland’s elite ‘Viking Squad’ as they liked to refer to themselves. He wondered if it would be appropriate to remind them just where the Vikings had come from in the first place at this point in time.
The drive to Hverfisgata took less than five minutes. His calves were soon sore from trying to keep himself upright against the wall of the van as the two guys in full battle gear stared at him from no more than a few feet away. He felt that if he’d lurched forward at them without warning it might just be the motivation they required to make him only the second ever man shot by the Icelandic police. It wasn’t something he was desperate to add to his resume. That really would give the wife something to get upset about. Within minutes of pulling into the car park at the rear of the police station he was unloaded and then ushered through the back doors of the building and into one of the holding cells.
Before he was left alone an officer removed his handcuffs and Knut was left staring at the walls wondering where it had all gone so wrong. They would leave him alone in the cell for a few hours now. The idea being that it would make him more talkative when they finally felt like questioning him. There wasn’t a hope in hell he was going to tell them anything but they had to try. It was nothing new to him. They would learn that soon enough. He had spent weeks and months staring at cell walls before. Three months once in Department B of Oslo Prison for nothing more than a misunderstanding over an idiot dealer who had refused to pay his bills on time. He should have never let the little twerp live but then it would have been much longer than three months that he would have spent waiting to get back in the game. He didn’t like being out of action for any extended period of time. It didn’t do you any good putting your feet up like that. You got out of practice and slow in the head if you weren’t careful. He couldn’t afford to spend too much time in Iceland. He had too many other things to attend to but they would have to be put on hold for now while he let this thing take care of itself. He belonged to them until such time as they could put him in Litla Hraun for a stretch or were forced to let him go. Considering his circumstances he wasn’t too worried about how things would play out. Things had a way of working themselves out. They always had before.
After what felt like about three or four hours his cell door opened and he was handcuffed once again. Knut was led through the cold silent corridors by two sombre officers and deposited in an interview room. Much to his relief he found Nína Andrésdóttir sitting at the table waiting for him. They had never met before but he recognised her face and knew her by reputation. Someone back home had already agreed to give her a substantial amount of money to look after him otherwise she wouldn’t have been there. She had heard of his troubles somehow. The ins and outs of exactly how that had happened didn’t concern him too much. She was the best criminal lawyer in Iceland, everyone knew it. A hard-ass among hard-asses. The cream of the crop.
