She toured a few of the taxi ranks at Grensás and Lækjargata, near the shopping centres and the big hotels, and cruised slowly down Raudarárstígur to the Hlemmur bus station and across past the police station to the main road into the town centre, looking out for Matti’s green Mercedes, wondering as she did so if this was the right thing to be doing.
She headed out of town, and stopped at the Höfdabakki traffic lights next to Nonni the Taxi’s yard, scanning the car park outside for the green Mercedes. Gunna wondered whether or not to go in and ask for Matti’s whereabouts, but decided against it, unwilling to send him a message that could be misunderstood if not delivered personally.
Gunna checked the time and decided to take a round trip through the Bakki district and Kópavogur before a final look through Matti’s normal haunts in the old western end of the city.
Lunchtime traffic thickened as she gunned the Volvo out of Kópavogur and on to Kringlumýrarbraut back towards the city. Passing the airport, she wondered idly how the billionaires with their little summer houses around Skildingarnes would be preparing for the invasion of their territory if the city were to have its way and close the airport to make way for more building south of the city centre.
‘It’ll happen. Money talks its own language, as Mum used to say,’ Gunna grunted to herself, pulling up at the lights at Lækjargata for the second time that day and seeing that the taxi rank there was empty.
‘Hell. Lunchtime, I suppose.’
She drove slowly past the slipways and the remnants of the old town, where rusting houses clad in corrugated iron were gradually being replaced with steel and glass, and past Kaffivagninn. She thought of stopping there, but since office types had discovered the old dockers’ eatery on the quay, it had gone upmarket and lost some of its attraction.
Further along and beyond walking distance from the office district, she pulled up on a patch of waste ground opposite Grandakaffi among a cluster of taxis, pickup trucks and a bus at the end of its route. For a moment she admired the trawlers in their blue-and-white Grandi livery at the quayside and listened as a group of men in paint-spattered overalls engaged in a friendly argument in some Eastern European language as they made their way from a half-painted ship over the waste ground towards the café. They fell silent as they noticed her uniform, nudging each other as they passed her. Gunna walked behind the men, trying not to look as if she was following them to the café, but she could sense their discomfort.
In the sunshine half a dozen men sat over large meals and newspapers around rickety tables and Gunna scanned the faces quickly, catching the eye of a thin-faced elderly man who looked as if a square meal coming his way was a rarity. He nodded imperceptibly as she passed, and carried on with his bowl of soup.
The group of workmen were at the counter, bargaining with a tiny Asian woman in broken English. As Gunna approached, the woman looked past them in relief. Gunna wondered what had brought her to Iceland.
‘What’re y’looking for?’ the woman asked in perfect Icelandic that marked her down as a second-generation immigrant.
‘Coffee and a ham sandwich,’ Gunna decided. There was a palpable relaxation of tension among the group of men as they realized that she was there to eat. The woman put a sandwich on a plate on the counter and pointed to the coffee urns.
‘Six hundred.’
Gunna fished in her pocket for coins and finally came up with a crumpled thousand krona note.
‘Have you seen a green Mercedes taxi around?’ she asked, handing over the money.
‘What? Big Matti?’
‘That’s the guy.’
‘Not for a day or two. Want me to take a message?’ the woman replied, handing back a handful of coins.
‘No. It’s all right. Nothing urgent.’
Gunna took her sandwich and coffee outside into the sunshine and looked around before planting herself down opposite the narrow-faced man.
‘Well then, Baddi. How’s life? Keeping yourself occupied?’
‘Little Dodda, isn’t it?’
Gunna nodded and bit into her sandwich. Hearing the Dodda name, only remembered by a handful of family from Vestureyri, took her home and back thirty years with a jolt. ‘Not so little these days.’
‘Not so bad, y’know. Keeping busy.’
‘Good to know,’ Gunna said. She understood the older generation and their need to be working all the time. ‘I thought you’d have been retired by now, Baddi.’
‘Ach. You know. I tried for a while but my Magga didn’t like having me under her feet all day long, so I do three days a week now. Enough to keep out of the old woman’s way.’
Gunna nodded. ‘Working for Nonni?’
‘Yup. Just weekdays. Can’t be having with the drunks. There’s a young feller drives the cab nights and weekends. He makes a packet and works hard for it, and Nonni’s got his car working day and night. I do a few days, so we’re all happy. And how’s your mum these days?’
‘She’s the same as ever. Greyer. Still complaining. How about your boys?’
‘Nothing but trouble. Gummi’s still at sea, just. Beggi’s got himself married again. Fourth time, or maybe the fifth. I’ve given up counting. Filipina girl this time, half his age, at least. So, did you just happen to be passing?’
‘Sort of,’ Gunna admitted. ‘Looking around for our Matti.’
‘Ah,’ Baddi said with satisfaction. ‘Now there’s a lad who never got round to growing up.’
‘But have you seen him about? He’s driving a green Merc for Nonni.’
‘I knock off in an hour or two, so the young lad can get on with the evening shift. I recall seeing Matti last week, but not since.’
‘And I take it you’d normally see him about?’
‘Normally, yes. On the rank at Lækjargata, or around town. We Icelanders don’t like to think so, but our island’s only a goldfish bowl,’ he said gravely. ‘You see everyone sooner or later.’
‘That’s odd. I’ve been looking about for Matti, and I haven’t seen him.’
The old man frowned. ‘What’s the boy done this time? If you can tell me, that is?’
Gunna upended her mug and drained the last bitter drops of coffee while there was still a little warmth in them. ‘Y’know, Baddi? I’m not sure and I’d tell you if I did know. I have a nasty feeling he’s tangled up in something deeper than he’s used to this time …’
‘And you don’t want him getting into any real trouble again? Dodda, my girl, you’re soft.’
‘Ach. Family and all that. Matti’s a pain in the arse, but he’s a good sort at heart, and I did promise his mother years ago that I’d keep an eye out for him.’
‘Well, some days he’s not about at all. Our Matti always keeps busy, and from what I’ve heard, he’s been running some foreign business chap about. Cash in the back pocket and no questions asked.’
Gunna extracted a pen from her top pocket and scribbled her phone number on a napkin. ‘Will you give me a call if you hear anything?’
‘I’ll do that.’
Gunna stood up, ready to leave. Baddi looked at her squinting into the bright sunshine that lit up every crease and wrinkle in his lined face.
‘You might try where he lives.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Not sure. I think it’s one of those old houses in Flókagata that was split up into flats years ago. He rents a room from a couple who seem to rent out most of their flat, live in their own living room and drink the rent. Anyway, he’s always moaning about the landlady. Ugly Tóta, he calls her.’
‘Ah, thank you, Baddi. That rings a bell or two right away.’
‘Hope that helps. I’ll let you know if I hear something.’
‘Do that.’ Gunna straightened her cap and left Baddi as he lifted and opened that day’s DV, showing her the ‘BJB to step down?’ headline emblazoned across the front page over an unflattering picture of the Minister and Sigurjóna caught unawares by a photographer’s flash.
As far
as Dagga could see, Sigurjóna Huldudóttir was a model of sobriety, good nature and sparking health on a fresh Monday morning. Her hair fell in a shining blonde curtain to her shoulders in a way that was both fashionable and practical, her understatedly expensive suit said business, while showing just a hint of enhanced cleavage.
‘You’ve seen all this shit that Skandalblogger has been publishing? I mean, not just about my husband and myself, but about a whole host of other prominent people as well?’ she asked.
‘No, not all of it,’ Dagga lied, wishing she had dressed more smartly for this interview.
‘Then you’re not as well prepared as you ought to be,’ Sigurjóna said mildly.
‘Well, I am here at short notice, and personally I don’t spend time digging into other people’s dirty linen.’
‘Pleased to hear it. Well, what do you want to talk about, now that you’re here? You’re from Dagurinn, right?’
‘That’s right. I wanted your opinion on this blogger, and on blogging in general.’
Sigurjóna sat back behind her vast desk, empty but for a closed laptop, a neat pile of papers in a wire cage and a few tasteful trinkets, artfully distributed. Dagga could see a reflection of Sigurjóna in its highly polished surface and she concluded that the desk’s owner probably didn’t do a great deal of paperwork at it.
‘Blogging has become a huge part of the Icelandic way of life,’ she began. ‘I’m probably right in saying that there are now more blogs here than there are Icelanders, so there is certainly a measure of overkill.’
‘Blogs that nobody reads?’
‘Exactly. Plenty of blogs nobody reads, a lot that are dormant, and also plenty of blogs that have a limited set of readers. You know what I mean, ones that have plenty of traffic but within a small group of friends or classmates or work colleagues. Then there are some that become enormously busy, generally for a limited time before they disappear again.’
‘Like Skandalblogger?’
‘Yes,’ Sigurjóna said without a trace of the sour anger she felt at the mention of the name. ‘It’s something that isn’t going to go away. This is more than a passing fashion. Blogging has become enormously important, especially to the younger generation. Don’t you have a blog yourself?’
‘No, actually I don’t,’ Dagga lied again.
Sigurjóna looked quizzical.
‘But I know you have your own blog and I’ve read some of it,’ Dagga added hurriedly.
‘It’s rubbish,’ Sigurjóna said airily. ‘Only don’t quote that. It’s got to the point where everyone has a blog, even government ministers. It’s part of the PR machine. We advise our clients to have a blog and to update it regularly, and of course I’d prefer you to not mention that piece of information either.’
Dagga smothered her irritation. Surely someone so expert in dealing with the media would know better than to say something and then ask for it to be kept quiet?
‘But on the record – are you prepared to tell me about Skandalblogger?’
Sigurjóna looked pained. It was something that she had practised in front of a mirror along with the winning smile that made clients feel they could trust her with their children’s lives.
‘Of course. But there isn’t a lot to tell that isn’t already well known. This blog started up about a year and a half ago. It’s completely anonymous. Some of us who have been on the receiving end of this particular brand of poison have made a study of it and it’s our opinion that there’s one person who writes not all, but certainly much of it, and the information seems to come from several different sources.’
‘So this is a group effort?’
‘Certainly. One person would hardly have access to so much information – and misinformation, as a great deal of what appears on this blog is absolutely false. If you were to publish this kind of story in Dagurinn, I can assure you that you would be sued for every penny you have, and more.’
Dagga desperately wanted to ask if the story about the Heathrow sex marathon and Sugarplum were true, but didn’t want to be thrown out, at least not quite yet.
‘And have you tried to track down this person? Or persons?’
‘Naturally. The police computer crime division is also working on it and I’m sure that every newspaper in Iceland – yours included – has had a crack at finding whoever is responsible for this blog. Am I right?’
‘You’re right,’ Dagga admitted. ‘Our internet whizzes had a try but couldn’t get very far. It’s hosted in South America somewhere, isn’t it?’
‘It comes and goes. It’s on a server in some central Asian republic at the moment, as far as I’m aware.’
Dagga checked the red light on her recorder. ‘Returning to the personality actually behind this blog, do you have any ideas, any clues as to who it may be?’
Sigurjóna raised her hands, palms upwards, by way of reply.
‘Is there anything that can be done?’
‘Probably not. If the person or persons ever surface, there will be a good few people who will undoubtedly have grievances they will want to obtain damages over, but there could be huge problems in establishing proof,’ she said, flashing the smile again.
‘Is this an issue of free speech?’
A spasm of anger passed over Sigurjóna’s face and Dagga was sure that asking about boob jobs would probably mean the end of the interview.
‘Of course it’s not about bloody free speech,’ she said with irritation. ‘It’s about the right of ordinary, honest people to live their lives without being slandered in a hideous and hurtful way, without being able to refute all kinds of awful, untrue allegations.’
‘I take it there’s no truth in any of the allegations that Skandalblogger has put forward?’
Sigurjóna’s voice rose in pitch and volume. ‘Certainly not. It’s all spiteful fabrication, pure lies.’
‘As for your husband and the allegations about his relationship with ESC and InterAlu—’
‘As I said, it’s all lies and fabrication.’
Although she was keeping her famous temper in check, Dagga was sure that Sigurjóna was about to explode. Dagga saw her eyes flicker over the desk and settle for a moment on the tiny recorder with its red light. She suddenly calmed and returned to her normal manner.
‘I’m terribly sorry. You must forgive me, but you have to understand that the last few weeks and months have been … stressful, shall we say?’
‘I understand that it’s been difficult for you and for quite a few other people. Your husband—’
‘Isn’t here,’ Sigurjóna interrupted. ‘He will have to speak on his own behalf and I’m sure he’ll be happy to do so. But I can say that he is deeply disturbed and hurt by allegations that he has behaved less than entirely honestly.’
‘And InterAlu? They have been portrayed very unfavourably. As Spearpoint is InterAlu’s public relations agency, surely you can comment for them?’
‘I’ll have one of my staff email you a statement this afternoon,’ Sigurjóna replied with an icy dismissiveness in her voice that Dagga realized indicated the interview was almost at an end.
‘Before we finish, I’d like to ask about the young man Skandalblogger alleges was murdered a few weeks ago?’
‘An extremely unfortunate matter. The police investigation, as far as I’m aware, has found nothing to indicate any kind of foul play.’
‘You don’t believe he was killed deliberately?’
‘Of course not. I’d like to know how he found his way out there to that place in wherever-it-was …’
‘Hvalvík,’ Dagga supplied.
‘Wherever. But that’s all the mystery there is. Look, the internet and the blog world are full of all kinds of conspiracy theories and lunatic ideas. It’s not a great source for a journalist from a serious newspaper to be using for research.’
Well, meow, Dagga thought. ‘And Skandalblogger’s comment that he was ‘‘very much one of us’’? He was a Spearpoint employee, wasn’t he?’ she asked, imagi
ning that she could hear the enamel on Sigurjóna’s perfect teeth being ground to dust.
‘I’m sorry,’ Sigurjóna said, barely controlling the urge to let fly. ‘That’s something that has already been commented on, and out of respect for Einar Eyjólfur Einarsson’s family I would prefer not to comment further. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m very busy.’
Dagga picked up her recorder and they both stood up. Sigurjóna came around the desk, fury gone, smiling again.
‘Thank you so much. By the way, are you happy at Dagurinn? Hm? You know, I started at the ground floor in journalism as well, and it’s a great way to begin.’
‘I know.’
‘Of course, I can see you’ve done more research than you wanted to let on. Let me know when you feel like moving on from Dagurinn, won’t you?’ Sigurjóna added archly, shaking Dagga’s hand. ‘And you’ll send me a draft of your article? Just to check. I’m sure you understand.’
It was only when Spearpoint’s door closed behind her that Dagga checked her recorder and saw with relief that it was still running.
Gunna looked the old house up and down. With three storeys clad in corrugated iron and perched on a concrete basement, it was typical for the area, which was gradually becoming fashionable once again. Doubtless it would be sold sooner or later to an entrepreneur who would tear it down and replace it or else fill the old house with pine and dimmed lights.
But today Gunna was interested in the list of names on the array of doorbells and doubted that any of them would work. One of the fading slips of paper had been altered in the not too distant past, with the occupant’s real name scratched out and ‘Ugly Tóta’ scrawled across instead.
Gunna guessed that the flat the bell belonged to would be in the upper part of the house. She pressed the button, heard nothing and shoved the door, which, unsurprisingly when she saw the smashed lock hanging by a single screw, opened in front of her.
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