‘Sure, Mum. I’m not a kid, you know.’
28
Friday, 26 September
Clean Iceland’s offices were two rooms between an artist’s studio and a health food shop a street back from Mýrargata and the slipways of Reykjavík harbour. Looking out of the window behind Kolbeinn Sverrisson’s head, Gunna could see the masts of the whaling boats that had been there for a decade without putting to sea.
Bára stood by the door while Gunna took the only other chair in Kolbeinn’s cramped and crowded cubbyhole of an office. Every surface was covered with snowdrifts of paperwork, folders, books and papers. The floor could only be seen in the shape of a corridor threading its way between boxes of more files.
‘It’s a mess,’ Kolbeinn sighed. ‘We only moved in here last week and there hasn’t been time to sort anything out yet. We don’t even have phones connected yet.’
‘How many of you are there here?’ Gunna asked.
‘Just two of us. Me and Ásta full time, then there’s loads of people who donate a few hours a week to the cause.’
Kolbeinn Sverrison was a raw-boned man with cropped dark hair and an open, engaging face cross-hatched with several days’ worth of stubble. Gunna had seen him in the distance at the march and wondered if the anger and passion he had shown then were far below the surface. He looked different, more vulnerable than the clown-like figure she had seen in his outsize green hat at the head of the march and later addressing the crowd with a fury that had left him drained.
‘Are you here to donate a few hours to Clean Iceland?’ he asked wryly, pouring coffee from a thermos into three cracked cups on the edge of his desk.
‘No, sorry. Do you have the pictures, Bára?’ Gunna asked, swivelling in her seat. Bára passed forward a folder and Gunna extracted pictures of Egill Grímsson and Einar Eyjólfur Einarsson. She placed them one by one alongside the row of cups.
‘Anyone here you recognize?’
‘Could be.’
‘And?’
Kolbeinn’s brows knitted in a frown as he lifted a cup and sipped.
‘Why do you need to know?’ he asked finally.
‘Because, as you must be aware, these two people are dead and we’d like to know why and who’s responsible.’
‘InterAlu is responsible,’ he said flatly.
‘Would you care to explain?’
‘Both of these men were close to us here at Clean Iceland. Egill was one of the founders of the movement and one of our most energetic campaigners. He poured a huge amount of energy into lobbying politicians and government departments, highlighting illegal acts, generally making himself a nuisance to InterAlu and all the other aluminium manufacturers who want to set up shop here.’
‘But particularly InterAlu? Why?’
‘Because it’s just so fucking blatant. The environmental survey was a sham to begin with. Then there was the issue of power, when the National Power Authority refused to supply them. So they went ahead and started building their own hydro-electric plant in a nature reserve, after they had bribed or bamboozled the government into declassifying the reserve and allowing the power station to be built. The pollution will be horrendous when it’s finished. It’s crooked government. It’s worse than that. It’s stupid government being diddled by a pack of crooks.’
Gunna felt that she was seeing a burst of the same passion: the man’s presence had gone from quiet to electrifying in a matter of seconds. ‘And Einar Eyjólfur?’
The passion vanished as soon as it had appeared. ‘Ach. Einar. He was a great guy.’
‘You knew he worked at Spearpoint and that Spearpoint is involved with the power plant?’
‘Involved? Don’t you know that the owners of Spearpoint also own fifty per cent of ESC, the company that’s building the power station? They’re more than just involved and it’s even more of a fucking scandal if you remember that one of these people is a government minister,’ Kolbeinn spat. ‘But yes, we were fully aware that Einar Eyjólfur was working at Spearpoint and he was an invaluable source of inside information. I have no doubt this is why he was killed.’
‘Why haven’t you contacted the police about this?’
Kolbeinn laughed. ‘What? And you think anyone would believe us? Come on.’
Gunna picked up the pictures from the desk and replaced them with one of Gunnar Hårde. ‘Recognize this guy?’
‘Nope. Who is he?’
‘OK. And this one?’
This time she placed a picture of Arngrímur Örn Arnarson on the table.
‘I know this one. He’s a computer programmer who did some work for us years ago. In fact, he set up our first website in the nineties. Haven’t seen him for a long time. I thought he’d moved away?’
‘Not far. He moved to Borgarnes. We believe he was murdered a couple of weeks ago and that he could be linked to Egill and Einar Eyjólfur. Do you know anything of Arngrímur’s activities?’
‘Shit. No.’
‘When did you last see him or have any contact with him?’
Kolbeinn looked briefly at the ceiling. ‘I’m not sure. Probably six, seven years ago. To be honest, I wasn’t too comfortable around him, always got the feeling there was something dodgy he was up to. Know what I mean?’
Gunna nodded. ‘Perfectly. It’s part of the job description. But can you be more precise? What was it made you uncomfortable?’
‘It’s hard to say. He was a highly competent systems guy and a very clever programmer. But he was one of those people who would do any kind of work for the right price. I don’t think he had much in the way of principles. He made our website and kept it secure, as we certainly had a good few hacking attempts that Arngrímur did his best to trace. But we had to pay him the going rate, even though this isn’t a rich organization and it’s supposed to be on a non-profit basis.’
‘So what happened?’
‘He was too expensive for us after a while. That was that.’
‘Who took over his work?’
‘Egill, mostly, to begin with. Actually my little sister is our webmaster now but we have a much simpler site that’s easy to maintain and we have a series of blogs and a Facebook presence instead.’
‘When did you see Einar Eyjólfur last?’
‘Months ago. Not long after Egill died. I could tell he was worried then, but he wouldn’t talk about it. Who’s this guy?’ Kolbeinn asked, tapping Hårde’s picture with a forefinger. ‘A suspect, maybe?’
‘He’s someone we want to trace. That’s all I can tell you. How come Einar Eyjólfur was working at Spearpoint? Did you plant him there?’
‘Not at all. He applied and got the job on his own merits. It wasn’t until he had been there some time that he got in touch with us. We’d been friends since we were at university. Drifted apart when he went off to the US to do his master’s. He called one day and suggested we meet, about two years ago. That’s when he told me all about the Hvalvík smelter plans and he essentially became our mole.’
‘So do you think his employers were aware of what he was doing?’
‘Eventually, yes. I’m certain of it and I think that got him murdered. Not the people at Spearpoint – the ones who manage InterAlu. They are absolutely ruthless.’
Kolbeinn waved a hand at the mass of papers. ‘Somewhere in here I have a file on their business activities in Central America and in the Philippines. Breaks your heart, some of it.’
‘So who do you believe is responsible?’
‘For Einar Eyjólfur’s death? You’re the detective. You tell me.’
‘I’m asking you as an expert in your field.’
Kolbeinn looked Gunna directly in the eye. ‘Ultimately, global capitalism. But immediately, I’d say it was one of InterAlu’s people, a man called Horst. I have no doubt he was the one who gave the instructions. But who actually did the deed, I have no idea. Maybe this guy here?’ And he looked sideways through narrowed eyes at the picture of Hårde on the desk.
* * *
&
nbsp; Everyone watched as Gunna brooded. She wondered briefly if Bjössi or any of the other older officers had mentioned anything about her background to these young police officers who had started their careers well after her return from extended sick leave to take over the quiet backwater of Hvalvík.
‘Any sightings of Matti Kristjáns?’ she demanded, brushing aside irrelevant thoughts.
‘Nothing so far,’ Snorri said. ‘According to Nonni the Taxi, Matti has two phones, one of his own and one that he uses for taxi work. Both are switched off. There have been no sightings that we’re aware of, except that the taxi went through the Hvalfjördur tunnel last Sunday and hasn’t been logged coming back.’
Gunna breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Our Matti has a long history of taking to his heels when it comes to trouble. We can assume that he’s at least still alive and is somewhere outside the city,’ she replied, aware that the others would now be wondering how she knew so much about a taxi driver’s personal habits. ‘I might even hazard a guess as to where he’s gone. Bára, Borgarnes?’
‘Nothing yet. The Borgarnes force is still knocking on doors in the area, but unfortunately they’re a bit stretched right now.’
‘Just like every bloody force,’ Bjössi said sombrely.
‘Yeah, but they’ve also just found a dope farm and investigating that is taking a good bit of their time right now.’
‘Now,’ Gunna continued. ‘Progress on our man, the elusive Mr Hårde. What do we have? Snorri?’
‘His credit cards are all in order. He’s been here quite legally as an EU citizen and he seems to travel under his own name and on a valid passport. We have no idea where he is right now.’
‘What else?’ Gunna asked, seeing a smile forming at the corners of his mouth.
‘I was up at the Lagoon site yesterday to go through the traffic schedule and as I was talking to the foreman there, I thought I’d show him the picture of our man. And what do you think? He’s working there as some kind of security adviser. Turns up unexpectedly every day or three, makes a few phone calls and then disappears again.’
‘Right under our noses? Bloody hell.’
‘Yeah. Seems he’s pretty discreet about his movements. But the foreman reckons he’s British or American, calls himself Hardy with a Y on the end. Shouldn’t we put a full-scale search into action and see if he can be flushed out?’
Gunna tapped the table with her fingertips in an irregular rhythm. Only Bjössi smiled at the reminder of Gunna thinking hard that he hadn’t seen for a long time.
‘No. I don’t want to spook him, and it’s not as if we have the manpower to sustain a full-scale search for more than a couple of days. Great if it works, but a disaster if it doesn’t. The man knows what he’s doing and I’m concerned that if we put pressure on, he’ll vanish.’
‘How?’ Snorri asked. ‘There’s only one airport and we can keep watch on all the flights.’
‘There may only be one airport, but there are plenty of ways in and out of this country, particularly for someone with this man’s experience and links to a company like InterAlu. They’re the next people we need to have a word with. Snorri, would you investigate and set up a meeting?’
‘Actually, I already have,’ he said shyly. ‘Investigated, that is. InterAlu themselves aren’t part of the picture at all, except as shareholders. The smelter is owned by a company called Bay Metals, which they own forty-nine per cent of and possibly more under other guises as there are quite a few foreign shareholders. The biggest local shareholder is a trading company called Spear Investments, which is owned by—’
‘Sigurjóna Huldudóttir?’ Gunna asked.
‘Well, her and her husband. The same company’s also the largest single shareholder in ESC and the Hvalvík Lagoon power plant.’
‘You know, we keep coming back to this bloody woman all the time. I think it’s time we had another chat with her.’
‘Shall I arrange it?’ Bára asked.
‘No. I feel it might be better to just show up unannounced tomorrow morning. Snorri and Bára, I’d like to have both of you with me on this one.’
‘You know who her husband is?’ Bjössi asked dubiously.
‘I’m very much aware that she’s married to the Minister for Environmental Affairs, but I’ve dealt with more unpleasant people than him in the past,’ Gunna replied, to sharp intakes of breath from around the table. ‘But I’m also sure that if anyone has an idea where our Mr Hårde is, then she does.’
Sigurjóna stepped through the Gullfoss Hotel’s side door with her sister Erna unsteady on her feet at her side and Hardy padding silently behind.
He kept to one side as they were greeted with flurries of kisses. Hardy flinched as cameras flashed and he watched as liveried waiters brought trays of glasses, choosing fruit juice for himself while Sigurjóna and Erna made short work of successive deliveries.
Boredom was something Hardy handled well. Military training had taught him to keep quiet until something needed to be said, and in prison he had learned to keep within his own thoughts for as long as necessary. Hunting for prey of four-and two-legged varieties had given him patience greater than that of any prey he had outwaited. Sitting at Sigurjóna’s and Erna’s table at an awards ceremony was not quite the same thing, but he still was able to call on old skills as the people around him chattered in Icelandic interspersed with odd English words, occasionally breaking into shrill laughter.
The food was acceptable, although cold, and in a restaurant he would have sent it back. But prison and the military had taught him not to pass up a meal, so he ate the fragrant but rapidly cooling lamb and potatoes, sipped his drink and enjoyed the sight of Sigurjóna, Erna and the rest of their group becoming progressively more raucous as the bottles of wine on the table were systematically drained. He wondered how capable Jón Oddur, the sweating young man detailed to assist him, would be in the morning.
‘Are you enjoying yourself, darling?’ Erna yelled into his ear, draping an arm loosely around his neck and pummelling his shoulder with her free hand.
‘Of course,’ Hardy replied smoothly.
‘You’re not drinking?’
‘I don’t drink. At least not alcohol.’
‘Drying out?’
‘No. I just don’t drink.’
‘Everyone drinks. Unless they’re drying out,’ Erna said with finality.
Sigurjóna’s name was called out and she lurched upright to walk falteringly towards the stage where a young man with a head as shiny as his suit was waiting for her and clapping.
‘What’s the award for?’ Hardy asked Erna, who had a hand on his shoulder again.
‘I don’t fucking know. Best advert for decaffeinated yoghurt or something like that. Nobody goes away from here without a prize,’ she yelled back at him over the storm of applause that greeted Sigurjóna’s arrival on stage.
Sigurjóna grabbed the microphone ahead of the shiny-suited compère and launched into the impromptu speech that one of the office staff had carefully crafted for her that afternoon. The room quietened as she began, but the speech lasted a long time for something made up on the spur of the moment and the level of chatter rose steadily, moving gradually forward from the back tables.
‘What’s your sister saying?’ Hardy asked.
‘Just bullshit. She’s thanking everybody she’s ever met, including the postman, the girl she sat next to in primary school, her personal trainer, and her husband.’
‘Where is he tonight?’
‘Hell, I don’t know where high-and-mighty Bjarni Jón is,’ she snarled. Hardy was interested to see she disliked her brother-in-law and filed the information away for future reference.
‘Was he supposed to be here?’
‘You’re sitting in his seat, honey,’ Erna said, attention on Sigurjóna who was winding up her speech. ‘Oh, how sweet! She thanked me as well! Big sister!’ she squawked in delight, reaching for a bottle from the middle of the table and upending it into her glass.
‘She’s great, my big sister, isn’t she?’ Erna declared to Hardy in a voice that carried over the conversation around them. ‘Her tits are better, but at least mine are real.’
Hardy felt the phone buzz in his pocket and put a hand inside his jacket to take it out. He looked at the number displayed and stood up quickly with the phone flashing in his hand.
‘Excuse me just one minute,’ he said quickly and marched towards the lobby.
‘Don’t be long, honey! Bjarni Jón’s not here and we girls need at least one man around!’ Erna yelled after him.
The elegant statuette by a well-known artist had become a collection of slivers of black glass that shuffling feet had dispersed across the floor of the ballroom, providing a nightmare mess for the staff of the Gullfoss Hotel to clean up in the morning. With the ceremony long over and already forgotten, a few couples gyrated jerkily across the dance floor and groups of dazzling people, much the worse for wear, sat in alcoves around the edge, some on the point of passing out.
‘Where’s my sister?’ Sigurjóna demanded, shaking Jón Oddur by the lapel of his silver-grey suit. She took a long draw on the joint in her other hand as Jón Oddur’s eyes opened blearily.
‘Dunno. She just went. Haven’t seen her,’ he slurred.
‘Where did she go? Was she alone?’
‘Don’t know. She was dancing with that foreigner.’
‘Which one? There’s plenty of foreigners here.’
‘Er. The tall guy. Y’know. Had a meeting with him today. Yesterday,’ he corrected himself. ‘Hardy?’ Sigurjóna sat down hard on the chair next to Jón Oddur and ground out the joint on the table top. ‘Did you get a room here?’
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