Unnar and Sigurdís had been assigned to interview Guðmundur Kaldal Brjánsson, who had been the owner of one of the companies on Elín’s list. After numerous failed attempts to reach him by phone, they decided to visit his home. He was registered as living on Auðbrekka in Kópavogur, an old industrial street that had seen better days, with service companies and small industries leaving the area for more suitable premises on the outskirts of the capital. His building turned out to be a dilapidated two-storey industrial unit. There was no indication that any activity was taking place there, nor that anyone might be living in the building. In fact it looked derelict. They decided to walk around it to see if there were any signs of life. An old rusty van, held together by hope alone, was parked at the back.
‘Wow. Can anything get passed as roadworthy these days? This one’s rusting away,’ Unnar said with a grin.
‘Why so superficial, Unnar? Maybe it purrs like a cat the moment you turn the key? Looks aren’t everything.’
Unnar looked across at her in mock admiration and placed a hand over his heart. ‘Oh, such wisdom and depth.’
Sigurdís laughed. ‘We should check if there’s someone here,’ she said. ‘Let’s knock on the door or pull the handle to see if it’s open, there might be a flat upstairs.’
They knocked on a glass door at the back of the building and peered through it to see a floor space inside covered with junk. There was no movement to be seen. Sigurdís took hold of the door handle. The door wasn’t locked. It opened onto a hallway with three doors that led to the ground floor area and the stairs leading up to the next level.
‘Who’s there?’ a hoarse voice called from above, and they heard heavy footsteps approaching the top of the staircase.
‘We’re from the police. We’re looking for Guðmundur Kaldal Brjánsson,’ Unnar called out in a stern voice.
A man appeared at the top of the stairs and came lurching down towards them, holding the handrail to support himself. He was so unsteady that Sigurdís half expected him to tumble forwards down the stairs. He was heavily built, dressed in a shirt and tie that had once been stylish but now looked shabby and creased. His shirt was untucked and was unbuttoned from halfway down his chest, so that his protruding belly seemed ready to escape and find itself somewhere else to live. It was clear he was very drunk and confused.
‘What the fuck do you want?’ he rasped.
‘Are you Guðmundur Kaldal?’ Unnar asked.
‘Didn’t I just say so, boy?’
‘We have some questions to ask you.’
Guðmundur sighed and sank down onto the bottom step, leaning against the hand rail. ‘About what?’
‘Óttar Karlsson. You know him?’
‘That bastard. He stole my company – my family legacy. Since then I’ve had to make do here, flat broke in a freezing-cold building that’s infested with rats while my Núll … my Núll makes a fortune for those thieves.’
He was gasping for breath and Sigurdís was concerned that they might have to take him to hospital. She sat down next to him to try and keep the conversation calm and easy.
‘Did you know that he was the real buyer – the one who bought Núll from you?’
‘It came as no surprise that that fool Daði was a straw man. I ran into him once and tried to talk to him, but he just scuttled off like a cockroach.’
‘So when did you find about Óttar’s involvement – in the papers these last couple of days?’
‘No. Listen, I’m no idiot. There was a journalist who came here, started asking me about all this. When I’d told him the whole story, he mentioned Daði by name and he asked if I thought he might be a pawn – a front for someone else, as there were rumours going around to that effect. I told him that I hadn’t heard anything like that. And I pushed him to tell me what he knew about these rumours. He wouldn’t say. But then he asked if I had brought in a consultant to work with me on the company’s situation just before we’d had to sell it. And that’s when it hit me. That journalist couldn’t get away fast enough when I tried to get more out of him…’
His breathing seemed to be made heavier by this long speech, and Sigurdís could see sweat breaking out on his forehead.
‘I trusted that wretched man.’ These last words came out in a rush and he punched the wall as he spoke.
Sigurdís caught Unnar’s eye. She wasn’t sure if Guðmundur was in any state to give them a clear answer as to when exactly he had spoken to the journalist. She also wasn’t sure that the journalist had indicated Óttar’s involvement directly. It was more Guðmundur putting two and two together.
‘What happened to your hand?’ Sigurdís asked. ‘It looks bad. Maybe you ought to get that looked at.’
‘That’s no fucking business of yours. Now piss off out of here. I’ve nothing more to say.’
Guðmundur’s face was bright red and now sweat was starting to trickle down his cheeks. They decided to leave it at that and thanked him for his time, leaving him sitting on the steps, watching them as they walked away.
‘Ugh. He stinks like a brewery, poor old chap,’ Unnar said when they were back in the car.
‘And more than that – I don’t suppose he has a place to wash properly in there. I thought he was going to have a heart attack, poor guy. He’s in no physical condition to kill anyone, let alone a fit, healthy man like Óttar.’
‘Yeah, you’re probably right,’ Unnar said, and started the engine.