‘The first two visits are always behind glass,’ Agla explained. Not that she needed to; this man was hardly likely to become a regular visitor.
‘As we don’t have a great deal of time, I’ll get straight to the point,’ he said. ‘I represent a major drinks manufacturer and I have an offer to make.’
He stood up and held his business card up to the glass. She could see a little picture of him in one corner, under the company’s logo. Agla raised an eyebrow. International companies didn’t make a habit of searching out convicts in Icelandic prisons to offer them work. She pointed to her throat under her roll-neck sweater.
‘I’m sorry, but I have a sore throat. Could you explain?’
‘Of course,’ George laughed and sat down again. ‘This may sound strange, but we’re interested in certain connections that you may have.’ He took a slim plastic folder from the stack of papers and held it up to the glass as he had the card. ‘On this first page the graph shows the world market price for aluminium over the last few years.’
Agla glanced at it. The line showed a gradually increasing price.
‘The next page shows what my company has had to pay for aluminium for its cans over the same period.’
He pressed this against the glass and Agla compared the two graphs.
‘You’re paying way over the market price,’ she said.
‘That’s right,’ George agreed. ‘The problem is that there’s no aluminium to be had at the world market price, but there’s plenty on the open market, which is where we’ve had to buy it these last few years. We’ve had no choice.’
‘I’m not familiar with the metals business, so you’ll have to tell me where this is going,’ she whispered, forgetting her surroundings for the first time in longer than she could remember, and without even thinking to ask what it was that this man wanted from her. George leaned forwards, lowering his voice, as if he thought they were having a confidential conversation here in the Hólmsheiði prison’s glass cage.
‘The situation is this,’ he said. ‘There are two aluminium markets; registered and unregistered. LME, the London Metals Exchange, handles all the business with registered aluminium worldwide, and it sets a market price based on production volumes. But they don’t register all aluminium production, as part of it is sold on the open market, outside the system. Normally large buyers, as we are, don’t buy on the open market as there’s enough available on the registered world market. But over the last three years there has been practically no registered aluminium available, so the price of aluminium on the unregistered, open market has been shooting up.’
‘I assume that you or your company have complained to LME?’ Agla said.
‘Frequently,’ George replied. ‘But they can’t do anything. They tell us that worldwide aluminium production is in balance, and that there’s more than enough produced. But they say they can’t interfere with who buys it.’
‘And who is buying all the registered aluminium?’
‘That’s what we don’t know. There’s a complete wall of silence around the whole thing,’ he said. ‘That’s where you come in.’
Agla lifted a questioning eyebrow and waited for him to continue.
‘We’re co-operating with several other major aluminium consumers and we want to offer you – what should we call it? – a consulting role. We’d like you to check things out for us and pull a few strings. Find out who is buying all the LME-registered production. You have links with a gentleman who has brokered deals for those purchasing this massively expensive, unregistered aluminium that we have also had to buy. He organises direct sales from aluminium producers in Iceland, Norway and Russia. So he ought to know what’s happening to all the LME-registered production from the same smelters.’
‘Ah.’
Agla knew instantly who he was referring to. There was only one man who could fit such a description. Ingimar.
14
‘Politicians, the media and police forces across Europe have closed their eyes to the fact that radical Muslim groups have been able to establish themselves here, and it’s a question of when and not if they take action,’ the voice on the radio said. ‘And what are we going to do about this? Are we just going to sit and wait until it’s too late?’ the voice demanded.
A meaningful look passed between Anton and Gunnar.
‘This guy’s a high-school teacher,’ Gunnar said.
‘And there was some lawyer on there yesterday being interviewed and saying the same thing,’ Anton replied. ‘He said that people need to wake up and do something.’ He could feel the return of the disquiet, the feeling that had plagued him ever since he had promised Júlía’s father that he would take care of her. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Someone’s got to take a stand against these bastards.’
‘Yep,’ Gunnar agreed, switching off the radio. ‘But how are we going to do it?’
Anton looked at the stack of dynamite they had placed in a black sack on the floor of the basement room his parents referred to as the boiler room. It had once housed a cylinder that had been part of some ancient heating system, but now it was just a storage space.
Gunnar was impatient. He didn’t want to spend time listening to Radio Edda or talking things over. He was desperate to try setting off some explosions. Anton was starting to doubt that he was part of this because of deeply held convictions, instead suspecting that for Gunnar it was more about the excitement.
‘We need to see what we can use as detonators,’ Anton said.
‘How about a little petrol bomb in the middle that sets the dynamite off?’
‘Hmm,’ Anton hummed, indicating that he was thinking seriously about it. ‘But then we can’t control the explosion,’ he added, and Gunnar stared at him with blank eyes. He clearly didn’t have any better ideas.
‘We could Google it?’ he suggested, and Anton had to agree that this was their best strategy. There had to be videos on the internet that would show them how to make real explosions – and not just in Minecraft. It was just a question of coming up with the right search terms.
‘Yeah. Good idea,’ he said, getting to his feet.
‘Let’s go upstairs and look it up on your computer. But first we need to take a look at Big Boob Babes on Pornhub,’ Gunnar said.
Anton laughed.
‘Not now. I’m going to the cinema with Júlía.’
‘Shit, you’re so pussy-whipped,’ Gunnar said.
Anton punched his shoulder.
‘Shut the fuck up,’ he said with a grin.
He knew that Gunnar was jealous and that he would give anything for the opportunity to go to the movies with Júlía.
15
They were offering a ridiculous amount of money for her to check things out for them. For that price, they could have employed an army of private investigators to find out far more easily what was happening to all the aluminium. She was well aware, however, what the term consulting, as the man had put it, meant for a company like this. They intended her to become involved. For the same reason, she would be paid by a sub-contractor to a sub-contractor to the big drinks company – making the trail harder for any interested party to follow.
She accepted the offer instantly. She snatched at it as if it were a lifeline thrown to a drowning man, because she could feel her interest spark as she thought how she would get to grips with this. Behind such a situation there had to be a tangle of threads, and at the back of such a tangle there was always a big bank; and if anyone could see past the surface of the banking business, it was her. That was exactly why she was right here, sitting out a sentence for financial crimes. It wasn’t because she had made mistakes. Just the opposite: she had done extremely well. She had actually admitted to a few minor misdemeanours so as to distract the prosecutor from other, much larger ones. Her former partners from the bank were sitting out much longer sentences at the white-collar prison at Kvíabryggja, whereas she seemed to have landed on her feet, like a cat. Taking into consideration her unsuccessful suicide a
ttempt, it looked as if she might have a few extra lives as well.
An unusual aroma was coming from the kitchen. Agla frowned in surprise; she was expecting the mince Vigdís usually cooked when it was her turn.
‘I swapped with Vigdís,’ announced the new girl, Elísa, as Agla made her appearance in the kitchen. ‘I just felt like cooking for everyone.’
Vigdís, Gunna and Bogga were sitting at the dining table, staring at Elísa as if mesmerised. Agla sat with them and looked her up and down. Elísa had now encountered a hairbrush, parting her dark hair on one side and tucking it behind her ear. She wore dark make-up around her eyes and a pair of skull earrings. Agla had to admit that the girl had good looks, despite her peculiar style. She wore a singlet underneath the apron; Agla could see a screed of reading material tattooed on her slim arms.
‘There you go!’ she announced in triumph, placing the pan on the table next to a bowl of rice. ‘Pad-ped – genuine Thai street food.’
Vigdís left the room to fetch the bookkeeper, who had a habit of arriving for dinner on the dot of seven, while the time was now only just six-thirty. They all sat a little shyly around the table as Elísa heaped food onto their plates as if they were children.
‘Are you going to tell us the rest of the story?’ Vigdís asked as she took her seat. This humble request confirmed Agla’s feeling that they were just small children who had been placed in a home, and Elísa was the exciting new kid in the group.
‘Where was I? Sure, that’s right. Well, I was on another job before and I’d swallowed around fifty bags and I thought I was going to burst! It’s true, I looked down at my belly and thought I had to be pregnant. There was this massive bump there. Then I started retching and crying, and the Boss said I had to get down another ten. That was way too much for me. I suppose I’m too small to carry that much, cos some of it went right through me and ended up in the toilet on the plane. I couldn’t bring myself to hook it out, wash it off and swallow it again, like we’d been told to, so I just flushed it away. The Boss wasn’t impressed with that.’
‘Is this something we should be talking about at a meal time?’ Agla asked. Her voice was hoarse and low, but it was enough to stop Elísa’s tale.
‘Don’t ruin the story!’ Vigdís said.
‘No, don’t stop,’ Gunna echoed.
The bookkeeper and Bogga said nothing, but glared at Agla. She was well on the way to ruining the most excitement they had experienced for a long time.
‘Anyway,’ Elísa continued, ‘I reckon that was when they decided I could be sacrificed. At any rate, that last time they sent me with not very much, and with it packed really badly, from Panama to Holland.’
She fell silent and ate silently for a while, and Agla regretted having snapped at her.
‘I’ll wash up,’ Agla said, as a way of making amends.
Elísa looked up at her in surprise.
‘Thanks,’ she said with a smile, and somehow Agla found herself wincing at the sight of the smile and the look that accompanied it.
Long after Agla had finished washing up and was back in her cell, she still felt the heat in her face. It was either due to the food, which had been as spicy as proper Thai food should be, or because of the awkwardness with Elísa. The others had disappeared after dinner, leaving the two of them to clear up the kitchen. Elísa seemed almost in awe of her, while Agla cursed herself for criticising the girl.
‘What, are you some kind of bankster?’ she had asked as Agla dried the last of the plates.
‘You can call it what you like,’ she said, placidly. But then her temper caught up with her. ‘And you? What are you? A junkie?’
Elísa giggled quietly, almost apologetically.
‘Yeah, I suppose so. But I’ve been through rehab. Again. I think … or let’s say I hope I can stay straight this time. I’m free of the Boss and all that smuggling crowd now, and I hardly owe them anything anymore. I’m taking it a day at a time, and all that. But then I’m so easily tempted, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stay straight once I’m out of here.’
Her sincerity triggered Agla’s regret a second time, and she muttered something along the lines of, sure, things would work out for her this time, and then she left the kitchen.
She was back in her cell, her face flushed, when she realised that she had forgotten to thank Elísa for the meal. This young woman aroused some strange emotions in her, a longing to either hit her, or else crush her in her arms. It had been a few years since she had wanted to hug anyone. There had been nobody she had wanted to embrace since Sonja’s departure. She growled to herself over her own ineptness. Tomorrow she would make it up; she would make time to talk to her, thank her for the meal and apologise for calling her a junkie.
In the bathroom she splashed cold water on her hot face and as she peered at herself, she noticed her perfume. Chanel. She picked it up and dropped it in the bin; 1965 was indeed a long time ago.
16
Hunger forced María out of The Squirrel’s office as the normal working day was coming to an end. Marteinn hadn’t been seen all day, and she hoped that he had done as she had told him and gone to the clinic to make sure his prescription was correct.
The day had been spent prioritising the unpaid bills and calling a few companies, begging them to place advertisements with The Squirrel. After that she had got lost in the internet, feeling like she was in an aimless daze, which was maybe no bad thing. It was better than being miserable and thinking about Maggi all day long, and then being caught up in studying his Facebook page in fine detail, as she had done right after the divorce.
‘Just the person I wanted to see!’ announced the voice of Radio Edda’s producer, appearing in the corridor that separated their offices just as María was on her way out. ‘I read your last article about disability and I’d really like to get you on to the morning programme for an interview,’ he said, his voice slightly slurred.
‘I don’t do radio,’ María said. ‘The written word is my thing.’
That was her standard response to the man’s endless behests to join him for an interview. He seemed certain that, because she rented office space from them, she had to agree with their standpoint, despite the wealth of material published in The Squirrel that should have made the opposite plain.
‘We’re working towards a common aim,’ he said, moving closer, as if to corner her, so that she would be unable to escape his booze-laden breath as he blathered on about everything they had in common. María knew his tactics and made smartly for the door, holding it open for him with an amiable smile. This was not the time for listening to the old guy holding forth.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’d say that our social outlooks are polar opposites. You are on the far right and I’m on the far left.’
The producer navigated his way out through the doors, which were barely wide enough for a man of his generous build.
‘Left and right are obsolete concepts,’ he gasped as he set off towards the door of the shop next door. ‘These days it’s all about north and south.’
María had been on the way to the same shop to pick up a ready meal, but when she saw the old boy go in there, she decided she had no desire to stand in a queue, listening to him going on about how the government was stealing from the disabled so that it could provide luxuries for Islamic immigrants instead.
She got in her car and was about to start the engine when her phone pinged an alert. She had received an email. She had to read the message a couple of times to make sure that Agla was genuinely asking her to pay her a visit.
I have important business to discuss with you, the message read.
María opened a new message to the visits co-ordinator to confirm the date and time.
17
Júlía stood up when their number was called and went to fetch their kebabs, while Anton worked his way through the process of buying cinema tickets on his phone. She had wanted to see a romantic comedy, which he wasn’t excited about, but he said nothing. She
had gone with him to see action movies that he knew she didn’t much enjoy, so naturally he should show her the same consideration.
With the tickets paid for, he looked up to see what was keeping Júlía, and his heart lurched. She was standing in conversation with the cook, who was still holding their food. What was so special about a kebab that it called for a discussion? Júlía had her back to him, but he saw the long hair hanging down her back shiver as she laughed. What could this burger-flipping cook in a stained apron have to say that was so funny? The man had black hair and there was a dark, Arab look about him, something that applied to practically all the staff in this place. He had to be a Muslim.
Anton felt the anger swell inside him and rush to his head as he marched over to the counter.
‘Are we going to eat this before it gets cold?’ he demanded, snatching the baskets from the man’s hands and turning to bang them down on the table.
Júlía followed and took her time sitting down, taking off her coat and hanging it over the back of her chair.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked, giving him a searching look.
Anton stuffed a handful of chips into his mouth, chewed but then struggled to swallow as his throat had suddenly gone dry. He took a gulp of his drink to help it down, almost choked, and finally managed to swallow, by which time she had been waiting for an answer for a while.
‘What’s the matter, Anton?’
‘Why were you talking to the cook?’ he demanded.
‘Because I know him a bit.’
Júlía pulled her basket closer and began salting her food. She always salted before tasting.
‘And how do you know him?’ he asked.
‘He’s a friend of a friend,’ she said and smiled.
Anton was in no mood to smile back.
‘And what was so funny?’
‘What?’
‘What was so funny that he made you laugh so much?’
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