Frozen Assets (13 page)

16

Sunday, 14 September

The site manager could hardly speak through his fury. The previous day's demonstration had cost a day's work, but at least it had been peaceful. He had been called out in the early hours to find that his fleet of vehicles was wrecked and the security guards had seen nothing. His first phone call had been to the agency that had supplied them and his second had been to Spearpointto demand a more reliable replacement.

Gunna arrived with Haddi from Hvalvík to find Bjössi already at work. A couple of uniformed officers were looking over the burnt-out vehicles and Haddi went to keep them company. Bjössi was sitting in the site manager's office interviewing the latest in a procession of the site staff.

‘Hi, Bjössi. How goes it?'

‘Ah, Gunna. At last,' Björn replied, turning away from the miserable-looking man sitting opposite him. ‘Make us some coffee, will you? And a few doughnuts wouldn't come amiss.'

‘You, dear friend, can kiss my arse and make your own coffee.'

‘No offence, Gunna. We few remaining male chauvinist pigs have to try and make a stand now and again.'

‘None taken. How are you getting on?'

‘Bloody terrible. They're all Polish or Portuguese, or some such foreigners. Their Icelandic is as good as my Swahili, so it's all in English.'

‘Your English is all right, isn't it?'

‘My English is fine, but theirs isn't,' Bjössi grumbled. ‘Anyway, any luck your side?'

‘Not a peep. Nobody saw a thing last night between here and Hvalvík. I've spoken to every farmer along the way and there's not a thing. Even that old nosy parker Jóhann at Fremribakki, who's up at five every single morning in case he misses out on something, says he hasn't seen or heard a soul since the march went past yesterday.'

Bjössi jerked a thumb at the door and the man sitting opposite him scuttled out without a backward glance.

‘So, what have we got, then?' Gunna asked, examining the office noticeboard.

‘Nothing, it seems, unless forensics find something around the wreckage. I reckon they just used good old-fashioned rags soaked in petrol, lit a fire under each one and then got out quick.'

‘So, no witnesses, because the security guards were playing poker in one of the sheds all night, and not a hope of finding footprints or anything that could be definitely linked to these guys, not after the number of people who were tramping around here yesterday.'

‘It's going to take a while, this one,' Bjössi said with satisfaction, leaning his bulk back on two legs of the site manager's chair so that it creaked in protest. ‘I expect we'll come across them sooner or later, but it won't be through anything we do here. Someone will blab or want to settle a score eventually.'

‘You know, I'm wondering how they got clear without being seen. The fires started around midnight, so it was pretty dark. It's a good long walk from here even into Hvalvík. If we can find out how they did that, we'd be a step or two closer.'

‘Hm. If you think so. Ach, some idiot'll have a drop too much to drink soon enough and spill the beans,' Bjössi said with conviction. ‘Anyway, I'd better carry on with these numbskulls who see and hear nothing and don't know anything either.'

14-09-2008, 2006

Skandalblogger writes:

What's that freedom thing about, Grandad?

The march was exciting, wasn't it just? The papers and the TV are telling us how peaceful it was, with Kolli Sverris doing his juggling and all the colourful people getting in tune with nature before they return to civilization in their 4
x
4s in time for the footie.

But a little bird whispers to the Skandalblogger that not everything went as sweetly as we're being told. Just how did the fire in the InterAlu compound start? You know, the fire that nobody's talking about that burned out every piece of heavy machinery on the site? What? You mean you didn't know about it? All the news guys were there, even our cousins the Norwegians were good enough to send a TV crew, but unfortunately they'd all gone back to their hotels by the time the real business started.

And what happened to the overseas activists who were quietly herded off to one side at Keflavík, kept for a couple of hours and just as quietly deported without even leaving the terminal?

Well, damn me for a cranky old liberal with some strange ideas about freedom of speech and the right to protest, but I'd have thought that there might be a bit more to this than meets the eye.

Keep taking the pills, and watch this space!

Bæjó!

Vilhjálmur Traustason hesitated, sparking Gunna's curiosity. In spite of what she saw as his numerous failings, the man could generally be relied on to get straight to the point.

‘I, er, wanted to mention to you the investigation into the young man who was found outside Hvalvík.'

Gunna could imagine him twisting his fingers into knots as he spoke.

‘And? What? The lad was identified quite quickly and we're making progress. At the moment it's all about finding out how he got there from a bar in Reykjavík, even though Sævaldur reckons he has a suspect.'

‘Yes, of course. Precisely. You don't agree with him?'

‘Nope. Gústi the Gob may be a nasty piece of work, but he's not going to kill someone for a few credit cards. Why, what's your problem?'

‘Ágúst Ásgeirsson has been bailed. No murder charge has been made, only theft and fraud.'

‘Aha. I told you he wouldn't get it to stick.'

Vilhjálmur sighed. ‘I don't want you to allocate too many resources to this case. I have asked Reykjavík to leave Sævaldur in overall charge of the case and to liaise with you as and when.'

Gunna stopped her jaw from dropping. ‘Are you telling me to drop this?'

‘This isn't a murder inquiry. The man drowned while drunk.'

‘He was pushed.'

Vilhjálmur continued as if Gunna had said nothing. ‘I'm instructing you not to put any effort into this. The city force will follow it up. You're going to have enough to do with the InterAlu work going on in your area.'

‘So Reykjavík are going to be looking after this?'

‘Yes. That's it.'

The phone clicked as the connection closed.

Matti was about to call it a night and go home to get some sleep when the door opened and a florid young man slumped into the passenger seat.

‘Where to, mate?'

‘Kópavogur.'

The young man slumped back in the seat and fumbled with his glasses. Matti caught the whiff of alcohol and the urge for a drink swept over him.

‘Women, they're rubbish,' the young man slurred. ‘You married?'

‘No. Not any more.'

‘Good for you, mate, good for you. They're just . . .' He floundered for words. ‘They're just, rubbish. You know?'

‘Know what you mean. Girlfriend chucked you out, has she?'

‘Fuck, no. Worse.'

The taxi hummed past the lights at orange on to Sæbraut.

‘Who d'you work for?

‘Himself? Nonni the Taxi.'

‘Well, mate. Just you be glad you work for a bloke. That's all I'm saying,' he said with bitterness in his voice, rooting through the pockets of his jacket and bringing out a half bottle of vodka from an inside pocket.

‘Not in the taxi, please,' Matti mumbled, every fibre of his body aching for a drink as the man spun off the top and swigged.

‘What? Oh, sorry. But, yeah. Bloody women, specially when your boss is a woman. Nothing worse, specially a bloody ball-breaker like mine. Evil cow.'

‘Where d'you work, then?'

‘Spearpoint.'

‘What's that?'

‘Never heard of it? What planet have you been on? PR and stuff, consultancy, project management.'

‘Right.'

‘I've got two weeks' holiday. Flights to Florida booked and paid for. Scuba diving by day and pina coladas by night, and then the evil old bitch tells me today that I'm needed next week, and that's that, no arguments.'

‘Must be something big to take your holiday off you.'

‘Ach. It's those fucking bunny-hugging do-gooders. They set fire to those trucks and stuff out at Hvalvík and we have to try and clear up the mess, set up press jaunts, show people around, sort out new agencies, all that shit.'

The desire for a drink subsided as Matti took better notice of what his passenger was saying.

‘So. Who's this ball-breaker you work for?'

‘The Minister's Lady,' the man replied through even greater depths of bitterness. ‘The lovely Mrs Sigurjóna Huldudóttir, CEO of Spearpoint, evil, nasty bitch woman,' he slurred.

Normally he would have kept drunks like this one at arm's length, but now Matti pricked up his ears.

‘Couldn't say. Never met the lady.'

‘She's bloody everywhere, going on about her house in the country or some fucking charity gig she's organized to collect a few quid for orphans in Africa and make herself look like some kind of a fucking saint.'

‘I know who she is. I've just never met her, so I couldn't say. All right?'

‘Well, all I'm saying is she's a cow and even though her husband's a twat he doesn't deserve her, running his life for him and then shagging her staff as well.'

Although Matti was getting tired of the man, he paid attention all the same.

‘What's that? Bit frisky, is she?'

‘Ach. Shit. Never mind. Better keep quiet.'

Drops of spit were beginning to collect on the dashboard as the man sat forward in his seat and snarled to himself.

‘Bloody woman,' he slurred. ‘We all ought to get together and sue the arse off her for harassment. Y'know, if she was a man, she'd never get away with all the shit she gets up to.'

‘Yeah?'

Matti's pulse was set racing by anything even mildly salacious, but he struggled to mask his curiosity, hoping that a show of indifference would bring out more details.

‘Yeah. Sigurjóna and her studs. Every trip she takes an assistant.' He spat out the last word with more venom than Matti would have thought possible.

‘Assistant?'

‘Yeah. Personal assistant. Bloody woman. Very personal assistant.'

‘What? Taking notes? Carrying bags?'

‘And the rest. And she changes assistants more often than she changes her knickers. Hell, I'd better keep my gob shut. Said too much already.'

‘Where are you going?' Matti asked, slowing down as he passed a speed camera.

‘Scaramanga.'

‘Righto. Still doing the business there, are they? Or have all the strippers gone now?'

‘Dunno. Gonna find out. It's been a fucking shit day with that old witch and I've got to do something to make it a bit better.'

‘I can, er, help you out with that. If you're looking for some company,' Matti ventured.

‘What?'

‘If you're looking for a lady to look after you for an hour or two.'

‘OK,' the man said slowly. ‘Tell you what, give me your number and I'll give you a call if I don't get lucky.'

‘Sorry, mate. One time offer only. Not an offer to be passed up.'

‘How much?'

‘Negotiable. Depends what you're looking for.'

‘No, hell. I'll sort myself out. I can always go and jump on the bloody boss if I get really desperate.'

Matti slowed, hauled the car off the main road and past the sprawling Smáralind shopping complex, slowing for lights and taking several more turns before pulling up in front of a nondescript building with only a single bright light over its door, where a thickset man in black stood guard.

‘Here we are. That'll be six thousand five hundred.'

The man dropped a handful of notes on the seat as he struggled to stand up and get out of the car.

‘Want me to wait for you? In case they don't let you in?'

Matti shrugged as the man found his feet and set his course for the door without answering.

‘Not my problem if you've got to walk back to town,' he muttered to himself as he scooped up the notes and trousered them. It was just as well he hadn't bothered to set the meter running.

17

Monday, 15 September

‘Snorri?'

‘Yup.'

‘Hi. Busy?'

‘You know,' Snorri replied guardedly.

‘Listen. You remember the car that was in the dock at Sandeyri?'

‘Blue one, yup.'

‘Stop saying yup, will you? You sound like a teenager.'

‘Sorry.'

‘Look, I have something I'd like you to look into. I have to go out to the InterAlu place again now and I don't have time, otherwise I'd be doing it myself.'

‘All right?' Snorri said dubiously.

‘Now, remember what I told you about cultivating a suspicious mind? This Egill Grímsson character was run down on the ninth of March. If this car is the one that was responsible, I'd bet anything you like it was in the dock at Sandeyri within a few hours.'

‘Go on,' Snorri said.

‘I'm sure it went from Grafarvogur out to Sandeyri and someone must have had a sight of it.'

‘All right. So what do you want me to do?'

‘Just a bit of digging through traffic records. See if there's a speed camera that may have caught it, anything like that. Shouldn't take you long.'

‘That's a bit of a while ago now.'

‘I know. I'm not expecting miracles, but do what you can.'

‘Fair enough.'

‘I might knock off once I've been to the compound, so you can drop in and see me when you're done. If I'm not here I'll be at home. OK?'

Snorri grunted in agreement and Gunna jingled the second-best Volvo's keys as she left him to get back to his computer. Egill Grímsson irritated her. But what irritated her even more was that the case had been mothballed and that it had taken place where the Reykjavík force would hardly welcome interference from outside.

15-09-2008, 1448

Skandalblogger writes:

Cosy Moments will not be muzzled!

Things are getting serious, boys and girls. It's just like the movies, only this is real life. Real life, people, just to remind you, is what happens right after you select Shut Down.

We understand that there's a price on the Skandalblogger's head. We hear there's corruption and skulduggery afoot. We hear that there's (whisper it!) money in the kitty to get our fingers broken one by one. We hear that there are respectable people in high places who want us shut down, so obviously we've been doing something right, especially if our hit stats for the last month are anything to go by. Maybe we should start selling advertising space?

But seriously, folks, who's the tough guy who visited a computer communications consultant Skandalblogger has never met or heard of, on the same day that the poor man had a fatal heart attack and unaccountably broke his own arm in the process? Is it the same hardnut who may or may not have driven a dead-drunk Einar Eyjólfur Einarsson off to an out-of-the-way harbour and rolled him into the water to drown quietly? Isn't it time we had a few answers?

But just so as you sad people can have your fill of filth and revel in the misfortunes of your elders and betters . . . Excuse us, did we say elders and betters? Of course we didn't mean that, what we meant to say was the rich and morally bankrupt, maybe even genuinely bankrupt if the tales of panic we hear from our financial friends have a grain of truth . . .

Anyway, beware, ladies, and especially gentlemen. If you go for the little blue pills that help with a certain problem down below, then watch out, as Skandalblogger is reliably informed that there's a duff batch on the streets. Right size, right shape, right colour, right price. But no trade. You pay your way, pop your pill, and the lady's still looking at a night with Mr Floppy.

You pays your money and takes your choice!

Bæjó!

Gunna returned from what she felt was an entirely wasted trip to the InterAlu compound, cursing the waste of an afternoon on what was little more than assuring the site manager that there would be no more demonstrations outside his gates.

She emptied the Co-op shopping bags into the fridge and the cupboards, hummed as she swept the kitchen floor for the first time in days, cleared the debris from the fridge and bagged it ready to go in the bin before deciding that the bathroom could wait for its birthday. Something to grapple with put Gunna into a detached frame of mind that allowed her to do mundane chores she would normally put off, leaving her free to turn things over in her mind while cleaning the flat on autopilot.

She recognized her own symptoms and resigned herself to the fact that she would have no peace until she found some kind of conclusions. She brewed coffee and sat down at the kitchen table to read through her notes, as well as the printouts she had made of Clean Iceland's web pages that included a lengthy obituary of Egill Grímsson.

She was startled when the doorbell buzzed. At the door she looked through the frosted glass to see Snorri still in uniform outside, looking a little uncomfortable.

‘Come in,' Gunna said with an unaccustomed cheerfulness, swinging the door aside.

Snorri grunted a greeting, bent down to pull off his shoes, padded behind her into the kitchen and sat down in the chair against the window without needing to be asked. Scanning the papers scattered across the table, he picked a mug from the window sill and automatically held it out to be filled.

‘I stopped off at the station, but Haddi said you'd gone home. So here I am.'

‘Laufey's supposed to be home from her trip today, so I ought to be here for her.

‘Another trip?'

‘Work experience, which she managed to wangle at a stable near Ólafsvík, the cheeky thing. Her grandmother lives up that way so she's been there for the weekend and she should be back any minute. Now, young man, there's something I wanted to talk over with you without any curious ears listening in.'

‘You're not up to anything dodgy, are you?'

‘Don't talk like a daft old woman.'

‘All right, I just don't have long before my lesson.'

‘What lesson?'

‘Jói Ben's daughter.'

‘Silla Sjöfn or the other one?'

‘Silla Sjöfn.'

‘And what's she supposed to be teaching you?' Gunna asked, mystified for a moment before she remembered that Snorri had begun to supplement his modest police salary by giving driving lessons. The tips of Snorri's ears glowed pink.

‘I'm teaching her,' he said lamely. ‘To drive.'

‘Sorry. Slipped my mind.'

‘And you were about to say something unladylike as well.'

‘Me? Come on.'

Snorri slurped coffee and looked at the papers on the table with curiosity. ‘And?'

Gunna took a deep breath. ‘I'm convinced there's more to all this than meets the eye.'

‘I thought that the moment we saw the film of that bloke stealing the jeep,' Snorri admitted. ‘Very professional, only took a couple of seconds. But if you're going to steal a car, why nick an old crate like that?'

‘An old heap is unobtrusive. I'm sure there's a link between the jeep and Egill Grímsson and I wouldn't be even slightly surprised if our body in the dock wasn't part of the story as well.'

‘I know it's unusual and suspicious, but what makes you think there's a connection?'

‘What it boils down to is that Egill Grímsson was the motivator behind getting this Clean Iceland Campaign off the ground to start with. Clean Iceland organized that march up at the InterAlu compound. My guess is that Einar Eyjólfur was feeding information to Egill, and Einar Eyjólfur was working for Spearpoint.'

‘Which is that bunch who are bringing in all these Poles and Portuguese to work up at the Lagoon?'

‘Right first time, young man. There's certainly a bit more to this can of worms than meets the eye.'

She decided not to mention that Spearpoint was owned by a minister's wife, while Snorri rolled the empty mug between his hands.

‘So, have you found anything out?' Gunna asked. But the front door opened before Snorri could answer, banged against the wall and brought a gust of cool air with it before slamming shut again.

‘Mum? You home?'

‘In here, sweetheart.'

Laufey swung a backpack on to the floor. Her face was drawn with fatigue, but shone with excitement.

‘Have a good time, did you?'

‘It was brilliant, Mum, brilliant. We went riding every day. Who's this?' she asked, staring straight at Snorri.

‘This is Snorri, one of the policemen from the station. Snorri, this is my darling daughter, Laufey Oddbjörg.'

Laufey wrinkled her nose. ‘Laufey Obba,' she said with decision. ‘I don't like Oddbjörg. Mum, can I have a horse?'

Snorri snorted as he stopped himself from laughing.

‘What's so funny?' Laufey demanded, nose in the air.

‘Sorry. Nothing.'

‘Laufey, my love,' Gunna said patiently. ‘Look, I'm a bit busy right now. Can you put all the clothes that need washing in the basket? I'll get dinner soon.'

‘We had great food at the farm, meat soup like Grandma makes only not the same and all sorts, and there were pancakes—'

‘Laufey, please. Ten minutes, OK?'

‘All right,' she conceded, dragging her rucksack by the shoulder straps to her room and shutting the door behind her.

‘Enough to put you off having kids, isn't it?'

‘She can come out to the stables and ride one of my horses if she wants,' Snorri said shyly.

‘You're one of these horsey types as well? I'd never have guessed you had a screw loose, young man.'

‘I'm afraid so. My brother farms near Eyrarbakki and he keeps some horses. It's in the blood, I suppose.'

‘That would be fun for her and Eyrarbakki's not that far,' Gunna mused. ‘Now, what have you found?'

Snorri grinned. ‘Nothing from traffic. No speeding, no running red lights, nothing at all.'

‘Oh well, it was a long shot,' Gunna conceded.

‘Ah, but there's more. You know the big filling station by the roundabout has CCTV over its forecourt? They even have a webcam outside that shows everything that goes round the roundabout. So I went and asked nicely if they had records of everything, and there it all was. There's only one road out to Sandeyri, so it had to go past there, and I have to say, you were absolutely right.'

‘Of course, young man. You don't get to be sergeant by being wrong,' Gunna said warmly. ‘Now, what does this tell us?'

Snorri scratched his head and thought. ‘Well, not a lot really, nothing that could stand up as evidence. Can't see any registration numbers or the colour of the jeep, can't make out the driver. All we can see is that a jeep of that model went out to Sandeyri at 22.18 on the ninth of March and there's no sign of it coming back.'

‘Are there any gaps in this webcam?'

‘Only in the winter when it can freeze up, the guy at the filling station said, but there wasn't a frost then. So it's all there.'

‘So that jeep couldn't have come back along the same road after the ninth and we wouldn't know about it?'

‘That would mean sitting through hours of recordings to be sure.'

‘OK. So what we have here helps, but it's never going to be evidence. Still, excellent work, young man.'

‘But that's not all.'

‘Oh?'

‘I watched the whole sequence from that evening. There's only a few dozen houses at Sandeyri, hardly anyone lives there. There's practically no traffic at all out there in the evenings. But that night there was this.'

Snorri dropped another printout on the table. It showed a large car leaving the roundabout along the exit leading to Sandeyri. Gunna picked it up and looked at it carefully.

‘Time 22.44. Can't make out the registration number,' she said dubiously.

‘Have a closer look.'

‘At what?'

Snorri pointed. ‘There. A taxi plate. And there's this.'

He placed a second printout on top, showing an identical vehicle entering the roundabout from the same turnoff.

‘He comes back at 23.31. That would fit nicely. Our man drives out to Sandeyri when it's quiet. You can't see the dock from any of the houses because it's behind the sea wall, and nobody's likely to be looking out of the window at that time of night anyway. He rolls his car off the dock, calls a taxi and waits to be picked up.'

‘Very neat,' Gunna decided. ‘Right. Can we trace the taxi?'

‘Easy enough. It's a Mercedes, dark colour, and if you look at that picture of it coming off the roundabout, you'll see that the front wing is dented as well.'

‘Snorri, my boy, I think you can imagine what I'm going to ask you to do next.'

‘As it happens, I've already done it.'

‘And?'

‘The taxi is owned by a company called Radio Taxis, which is in turn owned by a gentleman called Jón Gunnsteinn Hannesson.'

‘Otherwise known as Nonni the Taxi and old friend of the police, as they say in the cop shows,' Gunna said grimly. ‘Know him of old, I'm afraid. That's excellent, Snorri, much more than I'd hoped you'd come up with. But, there's one thing.'

‘Hm?'

‘I'd prefer this to be kept very discreet.'

‘Riiiight?' he said slowly, both his tone and eyebrows rising as he said it.

‘Look, it's not secret, but I don't want it all over the place yet. If we dig into the Egill Grímsson case, we're in danger of stepping on the city force's toes to begin with, and . . .'

‘And?'

Gunna felt awkward but steeled herself to admit what she had been hoping was not the case. ‘I get the feeling this is all being sidelined. I'm sure it's being quietly dropped.'

‘Shit. Who?'

‘Couldn't say. I'm being leaned on by Vilhjálmur not to put too much effort into this.'

‘What? The Emperor?'

‘Excuse me? Why do you call the chief inspector the Emperor?'