Frozen Assets (16 page)

‘Hey, Gunna.'

She looked up, said a word to the officer in the car and walked slowly over to him. ‘Yes, Matti?'

‘Well,' he muttered, embarrassed, ‘I was, y'know, sorry to hear about your bloke. Bit of a rough old time for you, I reckon.'

‘Thanks. You know. You get over it.'

‘Yeah. Look after yourself,' he grunted, sliding the big car into drive.

‘And you. Behave yourself, Matti.'

Gunna got into the squad car's passenger seat, shaking her head.

‘How'd it go?' Snorri asked, pulling out into the traffic and stopping at the first of many sets of lights before the open road over the heath to Hvalvík.

‘Well, my cousin has always had a problem telling the truth, and this time is no exception.'

Birna heard the screech as soon as the Minister put the phone to his ear. She felt briefly sorry for him but the feeling soon passed. Politicians are like pets, a senior official had told her in an expansive moment when she joined the civil service's fast-track scheme as an outstandingly bright but nonetheless raw graduate.

‘Think of them as cute little puppies, it makes it so much easier to deal with their tantrums,' the short of breath and soon-to-retire senior head of division had explained. ‘They come here keen and bright-eyed and wagging their little tails, anxious to please. Then they disappear to higher things or they just disappear. So there's no point getting fond of them.'

Since then, she had classed incoming and outgoing ministers as those destined to disappear upstairs or those destined to disappear back to their rural constituencies for good. Privately she felt that Bjarni Jón Bjarnason deserved to disappear into obscurity, but had a nagging feeling all the same that the future would bring him bigger, but not necessarily better, things.

Bjarni Jón waved hurriedly at Birna to leave the room, but she was already on her discreet way out before he had even raised his hand.

‘What is it now?' he grated into the phone and held it away from his ear to avoid premature deafness as Sigurjóna yelled with all the force of her considerable lungs into his ear.

‘Have you seen that fucking Skandalblogger? Have you? Have you seen what that fucking arsehole has said about my sister? Have you?'

‘No . . . Should I? It sounds like he's been rude again, or am I getting mixed signals here?'

This time Bjarni Jón grimaced and held the earpiece even further away as a tirade erupted from it.

‘Jóna . . . Jóna, Sugarplum . . .'

‘How dare you? Call yourself a fucking minister? You're a fucking useless piece of shit who can't even shut up some lying bastard scumbag . . .'

‘Jóna. Calm down, please. Talk to me, will you?'

On the other end of the phone there was a respite as Sigurjóna's sobs could be heard down the line and Bjarni Jón took a deep breath, relieved that she had at least shut up.

‘Jóna, my love? Are you listening to me?'

‘I'm here.' She was back, steely again with her bout of tears quickly over.

‘I keep telling you, I'm doing everything I can. I've had meetings with the National Commissioner, the Minister of Justice, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, you name it, I've badgered them about it. I've had briefings from the head of the computer crime division, our own techno-nerd department and everyone apart from the receptionist downstairs. And I can't get any further.'

‘This has to stop.' Sigurjóna's voice had gone as cold as a winter's night.

‘I agree, but I can't see how.'

‘Offer the bastard money.'

‘What?'

‘You heard what I said. Buy the bastard off.'

‘How? If nobody can find him, how?'

‘Find a way.'

Bjarni Jón groaned. ‘Jóna, my love. Leave it. Let it ride. Ignore it. It'll stop sooner or later. It isn't as if we haven't heard gossip before.'

‘Find a way, Bjarni.'

The phone went dead in his hand. Bjarni Jón took a deep breath and typed the Skandalblogger's URL into his web browser. He gasped when he finished reading the latest entry, then a smile galloped around his face and he laughed out loud.

‘Bloody hell. How do they find out this stuff?' he asked himself, pressing the buzzer for Birna's desk.

‘Minister?'

‘Birna, would you make me an appointment with the National Commissioner, please?'

‘Again, Minister?'

‘Yes, again. And as soon as is convenient,' he said, wondering if Birna and the rest of the department would also be logging on to the Skandalblogger's page to read the latest titbit that had upset the Minister's wife.

21

Friday, 19 September

19-09-2008, 0223

Skandalblogger writes:

You do the hokey-cokey and . . .

And now for the sexual aberration of the week. Which well-known and highly exclusive city hairdresser to the rich, especially to the rich, has a penchant for back door fun with a difference? What is it with these sisters and their arses? Anyway, this lady likes it rough and Skandalblogger is reliably informed that she asks her gentlemen friends to use the following recipe.

Step 1. Roll on heavily ribbed condom, any flavour.

Step 2. Sprinkle todger with finest organic marching powder.

Step 3. Get stuck in.

Word has it that if the fun dust does to her arse what we're told it's already doing to her nose, she's going to be crapping in a bag long before she gets shunted off to the old folks' home.

. . . and you shake it all about . . . !

‘Hi. Skúli.'

‘So I hear, young man. And just why are you calling at this time of night? Sorry, didn't have time to meet you in Reykjavík yesterday.' ‘That's all right. Didn't wake you up or anything, did I?' Gunna laughed hollowly. ‘It's all right. I've only just come in. Been round the village to make sure the local bad guys are all behaving themselves.'

‘OK. Have you got the TV on?'

‘Why?' Gunna asked curiously.

‘I think you ought to watch the news. And buy a paper in the morning.'

Something in Skúli's voice told her that he was serious and she rooted through the pile of old newspapers on the table for the TV remote control, jamming her phone between shoulder and ear while she did so. ‘Something important, is it?'

‘Yeah. Einar Eyjólfur Einarsson? I reckon you'll need to see this. It was on the 19.19 news, but I reckon it'll be on the ten o'clock news in a few minutes as well, and it's our front page tomorrow.'

Gunna looked at her watch. ‘Right. That gives me ten minutes to find the remote and when the news is over I'm going to get some sleep.'

‘Hope so. I'll see you next week, I expect.'

‘Goodnight, young man.'

‘G'night.'

Gunna put the phone down and finally found the remote on the floor under the table. The TV flickered into life and she sat back to watch the news, easing her boots off and putting them neatly by the side of the armchair. She wondered briefly why Skúli had said he would see her next week.

As the news bulletin began, the screen filled with a blurred picture of Einar Eyjólfur Einarsson, wearing a colourful shirt and a goofy smile. He was the main story and as the newsreader switched to an item about forthcoming local elections, she heard the phone start to ring again.

22

Saturday, 20 September

‘Gunnhildur, you're here because this is your area and your case,' began Vilhjálmur Traustason, still shaken from last night's TV report. Everyone in the room remained silent and waited for him to continue. A police station on a Saturday morning is no less busy than at any other time and phones could be heard ringing in other rooms and traffic hummed past outside the window.

‘What we have is a somewhat untrustworthy allegation that the death of this young man who was found unfortunately deceased in —' he peered at the report in front of him — ‘the harbour at Hvalvík, was deliberately perpetrated.'

Vilhjálmur Traustason spread his hands flat on the table in front of him and squared his shoulders. ‘Having gone over the reports in detail and read carefully through the information from forensics and pathology, to my mind it is absolutely clear that the young man suffered death by drowning while intoxicated.'

‘I don't disagree with that,' Gunna broke in. ‘But what we didn't manage to establish was how he managed to get, dead drunk, from Reykjavík to be found floating in the dock at Hvalvík, especially after our investigation came to an end and Sævaldur took it over.'

Vilhjálmur looked at Gunna as if she were a recalcitrant child and sighed audibly. ‘There are other factors involved, Gunnhildur. We have to tread a delicate path on occasions and we also have to allocate resources where they are most needed. I don't have to remind you that we are facing a very different enforcement environment to the one you might remember from before you took over in Hvalvík. Hm?'

‘That's as may be, but now we have to reallocate some resources to this matter,' broke in Ívar Laxdal, the National Commissioner's deputy, who had been silent until now with a sheaf of newspapers in front of him, topped by a front page bearing the same picture of Einar Eyjólfur Einarsson as had already been on every TV report. Gunna knew Ívar Laxdal, who had already been a senior officer when she joined the force, only by his reputation for blunt speaking. Now he voiced everyone's thoughts.

‘This Skandalblogger's allegations have been picked up by the media and splashed over the front pages. Regardless of the circumstances of the case, it hardly reflects well that this could have been investigated more thoroughly at the time,' he continued. Vilhjálmur Traustason looked hurt, as if he had been punched in the kidneys by a trusted colleague.

‘So what are we doing?' Bjössi asked with ill-concealed irritation. Gunna could see that he was desperate to go outside for a smoke and sympathized with him.

Ívar Laxdal stood up. ‘There will be a press announcement this afternoon and I need you there for that, Vilhjálmur. I expect to see progress by the end of the day. I need to have an evaluation this afternoon, please,' he said brusquely, putting on his gold-braided cap. ‘I'm sure I can leave you to organize everything and I'll see you at headquarters at one. Email it through to me when you're ready.'

He swept from the room, leaving Vilhjálmur pale with suppressed anger as he swiftly detailed three of his own officers to liaise with Gunna and CID, and followed his superior's example by sweeping from the room, after having called a further meeting for that afternoon.

The tension relaxed as the door banged shut in his wake.

‘Right, then. So what the hell are we going to do?' Bjössi asked, looking at Gunna. ‘You're the man here with the experience, sweetheart.'

Gunna looked at Bjössi and Bára, the young woman Gunna had chosen Snorri over for secondment to Hvalvík.

‘How many people do we have to play with?'

‘Us,' Bjössi said. ‘As well as your guys from Hvalvík, plus whatever Reykjavík decides to help us out with. We've already set aside an incident room.'

‘We can call on a couple of the guys here when they're available for legwork,' Bára added.

‘OK. Let's start with Reykjavík, we need liaison straight away with the computer crime division to try and track this oddball down. What is it he calls himself?'

‘Skandalblogger.'

‘Ideally we need to contact the person behind it and find out what else he or she knows. We need to go through the records of the original investigation and find out more about Einar Eyjólfur's background. Bára, you can pull my reports off the system so you're not going over the same ground twice. We already know quite a lot, but we haven't gone as deep as we ought to. Anything on friends, colleagues, whatever. His girlfriend's name is Dísa and she lives in Vogar. No idea if she still works at Spearpoint; find out. I have her full name and address at the station in Hvalvík and I can email those to you later.'

Gunna drew breath. She was already enjoying the buzz of running a team, wondering how long it would be before someone more senior would be assigned to the case.

‘Bjössi, will you please do your thing as far as you can with what's available? Go through the pathology again and the forensics, then come back and tell me where the holes are. And if you feel like it, you can get on with that right now and go for a puff on the way.'

Bjössi needed no second invitation and was out of the room before Gunna had finished speaking.

‘Bára. Clean Iceland. Do we have any contact with these people? Do we have any intelligence on them? I'm sure there's something, but it's a question of which department is holding it. Einar Eyjólfur was involved with Clean Iceland, so we need to speak to them. Find out who to talk to and talk to them, who's driving that bunch and what exactly was our boy's role.'

Gunna's words came out in a torrent and she could not restrain a fizz of excitement at the activity she was kicking off.

‘You all have a couple of officers to make use of, so make use of them. Delegate. Ask questions. All right? Now let's get on with it. The trail's gone cold, but that shouldn't slow us down too much. You know what number to find me on and I'll be back this afternoon.'

Gunna clapped her hands once and found herself in an empty room. Outside, she ran into Bjössi sheltering from the stiff breeze in the lee of the building and grinding the butt of a cigarette under his heel.

‘Hi, Gunna. What d'you reckon on all this, then?'

‘That's better.'

‘What is?'

‘Less of the sweetheart for the moment.'

Bjössi laughed and coughed. ‘Ach, you know I don't say it to wind you up. Hey, what about Vilhjálmur, then?'

‘Got his bollocks in a vice.'

‘Well, let's hope they don't stay there. Because when the people at the top are suffering, they tend to squeeze the bollocks of the people underneath them. Not that you have bollocks, sweetheart, but you do, if you know what I mean.'

‘Point taken, and coming from you, I'll treat that as a compliment. But all the same, this wasn't investigated properly and that was Vilhjálmur's decision.'

‘Under pressure.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘What I mean is that Vilhjálmur was being pressured from higher up not to make it a priority. He's been expected to put as much effort as possible on narcotics, and that's what he's done.'

‘All right, so he's not such a bad guy, just misguided.'

‘He's always done everything by the book. Just following orders, is what he'd say, and rightly so. Hey, where are you off to?'

‘I feel like a day off,' Gunna shot back as she started the second-best Volvo.

Matti was worried, more worried than he had been the time he'd been stranded in Grimsby after failing to reach his ship just as the last Cod War broke out, more worried than the time his first — or second? — wife's brothers had threatened to pay him a visit when he'd staked and lost her parents' house on what should have been a cast-iron winning hand.

This could be serious. Although Matti had watched Hardy carefully on their various journeys together over the summer around the south-west, acting as a combination of guide, driver and interpreter when necessary, he was still wondering just what Hardy's business was about. He speculated that Hardy was American, disguised with a neutral enough accent to pass as a European. He felt sure that Hardy's business was something to do with the spate of heavy industry projects springing up around the country, but this hardly concerned him. He knew that while Hardy paid on the nail and treated him with the respect due to an equal, his passenger in the understatedly expensive clothes was not someone to tangle with lightly. The air of authority and the hidden menace were unmistakable to someone with a professional interest in gauging the desires or the gullibility of the person in the passenger seat.

At the time he had thought nothing of the trip to pick Hardy up on the dockside at Sandeyri in March. The man had wanted to go to many unlikely places at odd times and had been dropped off and collected from several unfamiliar places that Matti had been forced to search for when the time came.

But he had to admit to himself that he was intrigued when the TV news had shown a short item about a car being recovered from the dock at Sandeyri. He wondered idly about it and put it from his mind. But now he had something to be concerned about — the possible loss of a valued client and an excellent source of tax-free, back pocket earnings.

Sitting in the morning rush hour traffic waiting for the lights to change at the Miklabraut junction, Matti turned down the radio, abruptly silencing yet another round of Channel 2's celebrity gossip, and drummed the wheel with his thumbs. After weeks of driving Hardy back and forth across the south of Iceland, he still had only a hazy idea of what the man's business was. The only point of contact was an anonymous mobile number, and Hardy rarely asked to be collected or dropped off at the same place more than once. This time their meeting place was on the Grensás taxi rank where Matti bullied the big car into a space on the end. He was starting to feel uncomfortable in the Mercedes since Gunna had questioned him. Normally he wasn't inclined to worry too much about the law, but this time he felt as if everything on the road was watching him.

As usual, Hardy appeared within a few seconds, dropping into the passenger seat with the nearest he came to a smile.

‘Where to, boss?' Matti asked.

‘Out of town today.'

‘OK. East? South? Which way?'

‘Hvalvík.'

Matti's heart almost missed a beat and he was sure that Hardy immediately sensed it.

‘Hvalvík it is, then,' he grunted, coaxing the car out into the road and scraping the bumper of the car double-parked in front.

They sailed through Reykjavík's sunshine. It was a warm day and the dust rose thickly in the heat. Hardy was dressed as usual in spite of the temperature, the pale leather jacket making him look slimmer across the shoulders than he really was.

‘Everything all right, big man? You're quiet today,' Hardy said pleasantly as they left the city behind and began to climb the heath.

‘That guy. The one you went to talk to near Borgarnes. He's dead.'

Hardy lifted an eyebrow. ‘How do you know?'

‘It was on the radio. Heart attack, they said.'

‘So? You didn't see anything, did you?'

‘Not a thing,' Matti assured him.

‘Then there's nothing for you to worry about, is there?'

Hardy looked relaxed as he admired the landscape around him. His hands lay idle in his lap with fingers twined together.

‘You know, Matti,' he said eventually. ‘The guy you work for?'

‘Nonni?'

‘No, big man. Not the taxi man. The other guy you work for, the one you need to be particularly discreet about.'

‘You, you mean?'

Irritation flashed over Hardy's face. ‘No. The one with the establishment.'

‘Him? Why? I don't do much for Mundi Grétars these days.'

‘Ah, but I'm sure you do. I have a little word of advice for you.'

‘Like what?' Matti demanded.

‘It might be an idea to distance yourself from those activities for a little while.'

Matti did his best not to be angry. With the police already snooping into his business, he found it hard to accept that Hardy was also aware of his other sideline.

‘What's this about, eh?'

‘I just thought you ought to know that your friend may have some problems in the next few weeks and that it might be useful if you're not too closely involved with him and his ladies for a while.'

Bloody hell, Matti thought. The bloody man seems to know everything there is to know.

‘Especially the lady that you're such good friends with. We wouldn't want her to be in any trouble, would we?' Hardy asked with an unmistakable note of iron in his tone.

Matti drove in shock and silence while Hardy examined his fingernails. Neither of them spoke until Hvalvík could be seen as a bundle of houses clustered around the shallow curve of its bay in the paler sunshine of the south coast.

‘Where to now?' Matti asked gruffly, butterflies fluttering under his belt at the thought of Gunna or that other cop noticing his taxi going though the village.

‘This time we're going out to the Lagoon site,' Hardy said and Matti sighed with relief as this meant at least going straight through the village and out the other side without needing to stop. But his peace of mind was cut short as the fuel gauge light blinked red as they passed the ‘Hvalvík welcomes careful drivers' sign.

‘Shit. Bastard.'

‘What's up?' Hardy asked quietly.

‘Ach, nothing. Just got to diesel up.'

The car rolled to a halt in front of the pumps outside Hafnarkaffi. Matti hurriedly pumped fuel, cursing the slow pace of the machine and staring out over the roof of the car to scan for anyone who might recognize him.

‘Shit. Fuck,' he continued to mutter to himself as the pump clanged to a halt and he hurried inside to pay at the counter where there was nobody to take his money. For a moment he was tempted to jump back in the car and leave, but thought better of it. In a one-horse dump full of nosy parkers, somebody would be bound to notice.