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.
***
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 n
ot 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.
Sigurjóna tottered back with applause and whistles ringing in her ears, a black glass statuette of a pair of elongated praying hands under one arm and a wine bottle held by the neck in her other hand.
‘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?’
‘I booked four,’ he said proudly.
‘Shit. My fucking sister,’ she cursed. ‘Come on. Where’s your room?’
29
Saturday, 27 September
‘Good morning.’
Erna opened one eye and lifted her head from the pillow, dropping it down again as sunlight filtering through gaps between the curtains pierced her eyeballs. She quickly screwed her eyes shut again.
‘Hi,’ she mumbled.
‘Your head hurts?’ Hardy inquired gently.
‘Yeah. Sleep more,’ she mumbled.
Hardy nodded, swung his legs from the bed and padded from the room. Erna vaguely took in the sound of running water as she drifted back to sleep.
An hour later he returned to wake her, mugs of fragrant tea, two aspirins and slices of toast spread with honey on a tray that he balanced in one hand as he slid back into the bed alongside her.
‘Good morning again.’
‘And to you.’
‘Feeling better now?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
Hardy put the tray down on his lap and passed her one of the mugs.
‘My mother told me not to accept drinks from strange men.’
‘Maybe I’m not a strange man any more?’
Erna sipped and gulped down the two little white tablets.
‘What time did we get back here?’ she asked.
‘Around two.’
‘An early night, then. What time is it now?’
‘Ten.’
‘Have a good time last night?’ she asked, crunching toast over the tray to catch crumbs.
‘Of course. I take it you mean the ceremony, or do you mean the party afterwards?’
‘Was there a party afterwards?’ Erna asked blankly.
‘The party that you and I had here.’
‘Oh, that.’
‘Both of them were pretty good.’
‘That’s good.’ Erna yawned, curling back beneath the covers and sending exploring fingers towards Hardy’s thigh. ‘I need to get up but I’m too lazy. It’s great to stay in bed for a change.’
‘When are you usually up?’
‘Never later than seven on normal days. Maybe eight on a weekend. Depends on the kids.’
‘How many do you have?’
‘Two.’ Erna yawned again.
‘They’re not here today?’
‘They’re with their fathers for a change for a couple of weeks. One lives in Chicago, the other one’s here in town.’
‘Peace and quiet then?’
‘For the moment. But I’ll miss them soon, I expect. How about you? Children? Girlfriend? Wife, maybe?’
Hardy chuckled. Erna placed her head on his chest and could hear his laughter deep inside.
‘Nothing. Nobody. There’s just me. A single man with no ties.’
‘Then there must be something wrong with you if no woman has snapped you up yet.’
The hair of his chest tickled her nose and she ran a hand through it.
‘I like this,’ she said softly. ‘Icelandic men shave everything. They think it’s sexy but some of us like a man who has some hair. It’s more, y’know . . .’ She struggled for the English word. ‘Like a cave man, you know what I mean?’
‘Primeval?’
‘I guess so. Hey, I have to shower. Do you want to fuck again before or after?’
***
Bára cupped the phone in her hand, pursing her lips in irritation. She shook her head as Gunna lifted a questioning eyebrow.
‘Yes, I am fully aware of that,’ Bára continued. ‘And no, I didn’t know that the PR Federation awards were held last night. Look, I’m sorry that your boss may have a hangover, but this is an important investigation into a serious matter . . .’
Bára paused and listened for a moment to a flood of complaint before she cut through the voice again. ‘Excuse me, but this is a police investigation. I need to speak to Sigurjóna Huldudóttir urgently. Now, are you going to tell me where I can find her?’
The voice chattered into Bára’s phone and she lifted it up, shrugging her shoulders. She waited for it to go quiet before she continued.
‘Excuse me, I repeat, this is a police investigation. Look,’ she said quickly, pre-empting the voice on the other end before it began to complain again. ‘You need to speak to my superior officer. Hold on, please.’
Bára covered the mouthpiece with her hand. ‘I can’t get any sense out of this woman at all. She just yells at me that Sigurjóna’s not in the office today, refuses to release her mobile number and then said something about harassment. Will you speak to her?’
Gunna stood up and walked around the desk. She picked up the handset, pressed the loudspeaker button and put the handset down, leaning forward to speak to the machine in the middle of the desk.
‘Who am I speaking to, please?’ she asked as smoothly as she could.
‘This is Ósk Líndal, Sigurjóna’s personal assistant,’ a haughty voice crackled through the speaker in reply. ‘She’s not here today and isn’t contactable.’
‘Fine, now listen, Ósk. This is Gunnhildur Gísladóttir and I’m at the Keflavík police department,’ she said, her voice hardening gradually. ‘I understand that my colleague has been trying to reach Sigurjóna Huldudóttir this morning without much success, which I also understand is due largely to a lack of cooperation on your part.’
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