the girl confirmed. ‘Happy to have a visitor,’ she added with a smile that lit up her face.
‘He doesn’t get visitors often?’
‘Once a month his son comes to take him out for a few hours. Maybe twice. But not more.’
‘Right,’ Gunna said, straightening her back and already convinced she was wasting her time. ‘Take me to him, will you?’
They threaded their way through the room, which was dotted with chairs, each containing an elderly dozing person, while the radio boomed from a corner of the room.
‘Henning?’ the Polish girl asked, leaning over him. ‘Visit for you,’ she said softly and the old man’s face suddenly became animated. There was no lack of life behind the sharp blue eyes that looked her up and down.
‘Not often I get a visit from a pretty girl,’ he said, his eyes gleaming roguishly behind his glasses. ‘Not as pretty as you, obviously, Wioletta,’ he added with a sideways look at the girl. ‘Get us a flask of coffee, would you?’
Gunna extended a hand and the old man shook it.
‘Gunnhildur Gísladóttir.’
‘Henning Simonsen,’ he replied, his eyes on the Polish girl as she threaded her way back across the room. ‘Good grief,’ he said. ‘That bottom. Once upon a time . . . She’s a good girl, that one. A real worker.’
He grimaced and jerked a thumb behind him.
‘What do you mean?’ Gunna asked.
‘If you push, we can go to the dining room and get a bit of peace and quiet away from all these old women listening to the wireless.’
The dining room was quieter. The Polish girl brought them coffee and left, Henning once again admiring her rear as she departed. ‘I tell you . . .’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Now, what can I do for you? About that Borgar, I’ll wager? God rest his soul. But he was a thieving bastard. I used to tell people to count their fingers once they’d shaken his hand.’
‘Exactly. It’s Borgar’s death I’m investigating. I take it you were here on Sunday afternoon?’
The old man grinned and sucked coffee through a lump of rock-hard sugar. ‘If I’d killed Borgar, I’d admit it straight out,’ he said. ‘I’ll bet prison’s more comfortable than this place.’
‘But there’s no Wioletta in Litla-Hraun,’ Gunna pointed out.
‘Ah, but maybe they’d allow her to visit an old man.’
‘You worked for Borgar for a long time?’
‘I did. I started NesPlast back in the eighties and we built a lot of boats but never made much money.’
‘But Borgar owned NesPlast. You sold it to him?’
‘I owned 60 per cent of NesPlast and Borgar owned the rest, so that’s why he wasn’t able to screw it up like every other business he touched. But he owned the building and rented it to NesPlast.’
‘Paying himself rent?’
Henning shrugged. ‘It was a tax dodge of some kind. A way of making sure NesPlast never made enough of a profit on paper to have to pay tax.’
‘And it closed down after he went to prison?’
‘Well, the crash was around that time as well. There was no money about and nobody wanted boats. We were stuck with two expensive boats that customers defaulted on and there was no choice but to wind it up. My health wasn’t what it had been, and there was nobody to take over.’ He smiled to himself. ‘I was able to sell the two boats to a cousin of mine in the Faroes who came and sailed them home. Cash,’ he said, rubbing his hands at the memory. ‘Borgar wasn’t happy. Not happy at all. But by then he had other things to worry about.’
‘He had enemies, though, surely?’
Henning reached for the thermos on the table. ‘Would you?’
Gunna poured him another cup and he sipped it gratefully.
‘There were always problems. People were happy enough with the boats, but when it came to money Borgar would always screw customers somehow.’ He sighed and looked at Gunna steadily. ‘But to answer the question you haven’t asked, as far as I know there were dozens of people who would have been happy
‘He doesn’t get visitors often?’
‘Once a month his son comes to take him out for a few hours. Maybe twice. But not more.’
‘Right,’ Gunna said, straightening her back and already convinced she was wasting her time. ‘Take me to him, will you?’
They threaded their way through the room, which was dotted with chairs, each containing an elderly dozing person, while the radio boomed from a corner of the room.
‘Henning?’ the Polish girl asked, leaning over him. ‘Visit for you,’ she said softly and the old man’s face suddenly became animated. There was no lack of life behind the sharp blue eyes that looked her up and down.
‘Not often I get a visit from a pretty girl,’ he said, his eyes gleaming roguishly behind his glasses. ‘Not as pretty as you, obviously, Wioletta,’ he added with a sideways look at the girl. ‘Get us a flask of coffee, would you?’
Gunna extended a hand and the old man shook it.
‘Gunnhildur Gísladóttir.’
‘Henning Simonsen,’ he replied, his eyes on the Polish girl as she threaded her way back across the room. ‘Good grief,’ he said. ‘That bottom. Once upon a time . . . She’s a good girl, that one. A real worker.’
He grimaced and jerked a thumb behind him.
‘What do you mean?’ Gunna asked.
‘If you push, we can go to the dining room and get a bit of peace and quiet away from all these old women listening to the wireless.’
The dining room was quieter. The Polish girl brought them coffee and left, Henning once again admiring her rear as she departed. ‘I tell you . . .’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Now, what can I do for you? About that Borgar, I’ll wager? God rest his soul. But he was a thieving bastard. I used to tell people to count their fingers once they’d shaken his hand.’
‘Exactly. It’s Borgar’s death I’m investigating. I take it you were here on Sunday afternoon?’
The old man grinned and sucked coffee through a lump of rock-hard sugar. ‘If I’d killed Borgar, I’d admit it straight out,’ he said. ‘I’ll bet prison’s more comfortable than this place.’
‘But there’s no Wioletta in Litla-Hraun,’ Gunna pointed out.
‘Ah, but maybe they’d allow her to visit an old man.’
‘You worked for Borgar for a long time?’
‘I did. I started NesPlast back in the eighties and we built a lot of boats but never made much money.’
‘But Borgar owned NesPlast. You sold it to him?’
‘I owned 60 per cent of NesPlast and Borgar owned the rest, so that’s why he wasn’t able to screw it up like every other business he touched. But he owned the building and rented it to NesPlast.’
‘Paying himself rent?’
Henning shrugged. ‘It was a tax dodge of some kind. A way of making sure NesPlast never made enough of a profit on paper to have to pay tax.’
‘And it closed down after he went to prison?’
‘Well, the crash was around that time as well. There was no money about and nobody wanted boats. We were stuck with two expensive boats that customers defaulted on and there was no choice but to wind it up. My health wasn’t what it had been, and there was nobody to take over.’ He smiled to himself. ‘I was able to sell the two boats to a cousin of mine in the Faroes who came and sailed them home. Cash,’ he said, rubbing his hands at the memory. ‘Borgar wasn’t happy. Not happy at all. But by then he had other things to worry about.’
‘He had enemies, though, surely?’
Henning reached for the thermos on the table. ‘Would you?’
Gunna poured him another cup and he sipped it gratefully.
‘There were always problems. People were happy enough with the boats, but when it came to money Borgar would always screw customers somehow.’ He sighed and looked at Gunna steadily. ‘But to answer the question you haven’t asked, as far as I know there were dozens of people who would have been happy
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