Frozen Assets

by Quentin Bates

  ‘We’ll see, then.’

  ‘A little conundrum for you, sergeant?’ Sigmar smiled. ‘Now, I’ll give you my mobile number in case you have any more questions. But if you don’t mind, I’d really like to not be here when the financial controller calls back.’

  27-08-2008, 1339

  Skandalblogger writes:

  Keeping our end up!

  We’re still here, ladies and gentlemen, and we know how much you all appreciate the Skandalblogger’s efforts to keep youup to date with the great and the good.

  The latest is that our last gem of gossip, brought to us by word of mouth from someone who knows, has resulted in the abject fury of a certain recently re-elected former jailbird, who has been going apeshit over our revelation that he’s had a hair transplant.

  Strangely, he didn’t seem to mind too much about being called a disgraced convicted criminal. Well, you can’t argue with the truth . . . But, no, it’s the rug thing that’s really got his goat. That’s putting his priorities in the right place.

  Bæjó!

  An hour later Gunna was at the police station in Keflavík. Like Sigmar at the hospital, Chief Inspector Vilhjálmur Traustason had a surprisingly small office and, at more than two metres in height, he seemed to fill most of it. No lightweight herself, Gunna felt that the room could burst if a third person were to try and squeeze in. She sipped weak coffee and placed the cup awkwardly on the corner of his desk.

  ‘Sorry about yesterday. It was something of a busy day,’ she apologized without a shred of remorse in her voice.

  ‘Understood. Investigation has to take precedence,’ he said stiffly. ‘Now, resources.’

  ‘Indeed. How much is there in the kitty for me to spend?’

  ‘Less than ever,’ he replied with a tiny sigh, finally looking up from the screen of the laptop on the desk.

  ‘I need—’

  ‘I know what you need.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because you tell me at every available opportunity exactly what you need, as does every other station officer in the county. And I have to keep telling you that there are fewer financial resources available. But . . .’ Vilhjálmur Traustason tailed off, attention on his screen.

  ‘But what?’

  Throughout her career, she had been mildly irritated by Vilhjálmur Traustason, as well as occasionally tempted to punch his prominent nose. Promotion had sought him out in the same way that it had steadfastly avoided Gunna. She was fully aware that only an unusual set of circumstances had made her a sergeant in a rural area instead of still being a constable in the city force, and that further promotion was less than likely. The chief inspector’s steady rise put them at odds when it came to the increasingly frequent issue of funding.

  ‘I know how you love figures, Vilhjálmur. So I’ve prepared some for you,’ she said, passing a sheet of paper across the desk to him.

  He looked doubtful and scrutinized the list of requirements.

  ‘You don’t really need all this, do you?’ he asked, aghast.

  ‘Probably not. But I’m sure we can strike a happy medium somewhere.’

  ‘But — all this? Why? How can you justify it?’

  ‘Since the smelter construction started on the far side of the harbour we simply have so much more to do. Traffic through Hvalvík has increased by around four hundred per cent and virtually all of that is heavy goods. Basically, trucks going to and from that new aluminium plant. The place is awash with heavy traffic and Polish labourers.’

  ‘But you’re coping well.’

  ‘For the moment, Vilhjálmur, for the moment. There’s only me and Haddi, and Haddi doesn’t speak enough English or anything else to deal with these people.’

  ‘You can call for additional manpower when you need it.’

  ‘I can call and it’s not going to come half the time. That’s why I’m putting in for two additional officers for the Hvalvík station.’

  ‘Two?’ Vilhjálmur squeaked. ‘There’s a request for an additional car here as well. You have two cars already and normally a station like yours has only one vehicle.’

  ‘It’s a big area we have to cover. The Volvos are getting old and we could do with a jeep for the winter.’

  Vilhjálmur consulted his laptop again, scratched his head and sucked his teeth while Gunna watched him carefully while pretending to make notes on the pad resting on her knee.

  Eventually he sighed heavily. ‘Gunnhildur. What do you really need? What are your priorities?’

  ‘Manpower. Then an additional vehicle. Then all the other bits and pieces.’

  ‘Well, you’re in luck, actually, as I have a very experienced officer who has asked for a transfer and I’m sure he’d suit you.’

  ‘Not Viggó Björgvins?’

  ‘How did you know?’ he snapped.

  ‘Because the man’s being transferred all the bloody time. No. I want someone a lot younger than that idiot.’

  Sour-faced, Vilhjálmur consulted his laptop. ‘You can have one officer on permanent secondment.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You can have Snorri Hilmarsson or Bára Gunnólfsdóttir. They’ve both been seconded to you occasionally, I believe.’

  Gunna thought quickly. She knew and liked both officers. Bára was small, fair and quick-witted with an ability to get straight to the heart of things, while Snorri was the beefy, likeable young man with an endless reserve of good humour who was normally the one sent to help out at Hvalvík. Gunna knew him as tenacious but without Bára’s spark of fierce intelligence. She had seen plenty of both of them and paused over a less than easy choice.

  ‘Snorri,’ she decided.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s a plodder. Methodical, gets on with it. Country copper material. Bára has a great future in CID, as long as you can keep her on the force.’

  Vilhjálmur winced at the reference to the police force’s retention rate.

  ‘All right. I’ll interview Snorri when he comes on duty and we’ll see if he’s prepared for a transfer to Hvalvík.’

  ‘Oh, he is. He lives in Hvalvík anyway, so he’s happy with it.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I’ve already asked him.’

  ‘Gunnhildur, you know you shouldn’t bypass procedure,’ Vilhjálmur admonished grimly. ‘Now, vehicles.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s August now. How long are these vehicles you have going to last?’

  ‘Search me. I’m not a mechanic.’

  ‘I don’t have a vehicle for you. I can’t justify it.’

  ‘Come on. That old Volvo’s going to fall apart soon.’

  He tapped his teeth with the pencil. ‘Make it last the summer. I’ll allocate you a jeep, but not until October.’

  Gunna wanted to spit on her palm and shake his hand, but was still suspicious. It seemed to have all been too easy.

  ‘Done. Can I have Snorri from next week?’

  Gunna used the CID room. She could have gone back to Hvalvík as soon as Vilhjálmur had agreed to let her have both Snorri and a jeep, but she felt the need of the buzz of colleagues around her rather than Haddi’s dry chuckle from the next room.

  ‘Hvalvík police,’ she heard Haddi answer gruffly after a dozen rings.

  ‘Hi, it’s me. Are you all right without me for a few hours?’

  ‘Yeah. I reckon I can maintain law and order for a while. Are you busy with that bloke?’

  ‘Pretty much. CID have better things to do, so this is down to us.’

  ‘That’s all right. Tomorrow’s going to be busy, though.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Gunna asked.

  ‘They’re bringing some low-loaders through to the smelter site so we’ll have to close a couple of streets and escort them through.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be a problem. D’you want the good news?’

  ‘No news is normally good news.’

  ‘We have Snorri from Monday and get a jeep in October.’

&nbs
p; Gunna heard Haddi snort, which she recognized as a laugh of sorts. ‘And what did you have to do to persuade Vilhjálmur? Did you beat him round the head or just threaten the old fool?’

  ‘Didn’t have to do either. Just set out the case and explained how busy we are. But he did try and palm me off with Viggó Björgvins.’

  ‘But you got Snorri instead?’

  ‘So he says. But I’ll wait and see if it’s Viggó who turns up on Monday morning.’

  ‘If he does, I’ll be asking for a transfer,’ Haddi growled.

  ‘Me too,’ Gunna agreed. ‘Anyway, I’ll see you later.’

  Rather than use Bjössi’s desk, she sat herself opposite his empty place in the chair that would belong to the station’s second CID officer — when recruitment and financial constraints might allow the post to be filled.

  It took more than an hour on the computer to plough through the national register that lists the full name, date of birth and legal residence of every Icelandic citizen and foreign resident. She emerged from the E section with ten candidates for men with the initials EEE, of whom six could not be ruled out by their age. Encouraged, she plunged into the V section of the register, but found that VV was a very common set of initials and decided to concentrate on E3.

  Referring to the list of names and dates of birth on the pad next to her, she clicked the mouse on the telephone directory and began with the first of the names. She added the phone numbers given to the list on her pad, pulled Bjössi’s phone across the desk towards her and dialled the first number.

  ‘Hello?’ a woman’s voice answered.

  ‘Good morning. This is Gunnhildur Gísladóttir at Hvalvík police. Could I speak to Eiríkur Emil Eiríksson?’

  ‘He’s not here,’ the voice answered sharply.

  ‘Could you tell me where I could find him?’

  ‘You’re not his . . .’ There was a pause. ‘You’re not his bit on the side, are you?’ the voice continued with suppressed fury. ‘Because if you are—’

  ‘I’m an investigating officer with Hvalvík police and I assure you I’ve never met the man, but I’m trying to eliminate certain people from an inquiry. Can you tell me where I can find him? This is a serious matter.’

  The voice on the line sighed. ‘He’s at sea as far as I know. But sometimes he doesn’t bother to come home when they’re ashore.’

  ‘And you’re his wife?’

  ‘I don’t know about that. I’m his kids’ mum at any rate.’

  ‘I see. I apologize, but I have to eliminate a series of people from an incident. Could you describe him for me? Height and hair colour?’

  Gunna could hear the click of a lighter and a long exhalation.

  ‘Eiríkur’s about two metres, a bit over. Dark hair, going a bit bald at the back, big nose.’

  ‘In that case I don’t think I’ll have to trouble you any more as that doesn’t fit the description of the person we’re looking for. But can I have your name, please? It’s just in case I need to follow this up later.’

  ‘Aldís Gunnarsdóttir.’

  ‘And is that an Akureyri phone number?’

  ‘Dalvík.’

  ‘OK. Thank you for your help. I don’t expect we’ll need to trouble you any further.’

  ‘What’s he done?’ Aldís asked sharply.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘What’s he done, the bloke you’re looking for? Eiríkur gets up to all sorts.’

  ‘Nothing as far as I know. It’s a missing person inquiry.’

  ‘Oh. Shame.’ The woman’s disappointment was palpable.

  Gunna ended the call with relief, carefully noting names, numbers and the time of the call. She looked back at the list and dialled again.

  ‘Good morning. This is Gunnhildur Gísladóttir at Hvalvík police. Could I speak to Elmar Einar Ervík, please?’

  It was long past midday when Gunna realized that she would have to be quick getting back to Hvalvík before the station closed its doors at six. But she consoled herself with a job well done that left only one name unaccounted for on the list she had started with. One person had not answered his home phone or the mobile number that the telephone company’s website listed. She reflected that this was nothing out of the ordinary, as the person could be out of the country, at sea, a meeting or simply asleep. Out of curiosity, she opened a search engine on the computer, typed in Einar Eyjólfur Einarsson and clicked the search box.

  The personnel page of a company website was at the top of the list that appeared within seconds. Gunna followed the link to the site and scrolled down the list of staff to the name she was looking for. Some entries had a picture alongside the staff listing, but there was no picture of Einar Eyjólfur Einarsson, just the name and the mobile phone number she had already called unsuccessfully twice.

  She scrolled back through the list until she found the company’s personnel manager. Gunna pulled the phone over and dialled again.

  ‘Good afternoon. Spearpoint,’ a soft voice purred.

  ‘Good afternoon. This is Gunnhildur Gísladóttir at Hvalvík police. I’m trying to contact Einar Eyjólfur Einarsson.’

  27-08-2008, 2114

  Skandalblogger writes:

  So what’s going on here with the health service? We hear whispers from the inside that times are hard at the coalface of government and plans are being floated to open ‘areas of health provision’ to the ‘private sector’ as we’ve been told.

  Excuse us? Isn’t this Iceland, not some tinpot banana republic run as the President’s personal bank account? Or is it? We’re supposed to be the pinnacle of well-being and happiness. So what’s gone wrong? Why is government floating these proposals in secret and coming over coy when anyone asks about it?

  It seems uncomfortable to contemplate, but all the signs are there that the parts of the health service that actually produce a few quid for the state coffers are likely to be flogged off cheap to friends of the party, while the taxpayer continues to prop up the bits of it that aren’t profitable.

  So let’s cast our minds back a year or two to when the guys at the top sold off our state-run telephone system to their golfing buddies. Now, wasn’t the rationale at the time that the proceeds would be used to give us, the Icelandic taxpayers, a second-to-none health service? In which case, did the fat guys in suits simply trouser the cash they got for the phone company, considering health is now in such a poor financial state that the only option is to privatize?

  Flummoxed . . .

  Bæjó!

  3

  Thursday, 28 August

  Gunna drove into Reykjavík late in the morning when the roads should have been fairly quiet, but still found herself caught up in a straggle of traffic crawling along main roads. In spite of the falling housing market and the jittery business environment that dominated the news, things seemed busy enough as the second-best Volvo swung on to Miklabraut and down towards the city centre. New buildings and cranes dotted the skyline.

  Passing Lækjartorg, she reflected that while much had changed, there were undoubtedly more changes to come. The city had altered out of all recognition. What had been a quiet town centre when she moved south and joined the Reykjavík force all those years ago had become a buzzing sprawl of boutiques and bars. Stopped at the lights, she checked what had once been the quiet restaurant with dark wooden tables and solid food where she and Raggi had celebrated their secret wedding. The place had gone entirely, replaced with three storeys of steel-framed opaque glass.

  The lights changed and Gunna pulled away along Sæbraut, passing the Ministry buildings at the corner of Skúlagata now dwarfed by the rows of new offices and apartment blocks facing the sea and the shell of the huge Opera House rising where the fish auction had stood. She wondered which of the glass-fronted giants housed the offices she was looking for.

  The top of the building wasn’t quite as smart as the ground-floor entrance had indicated, and the back of it, overlooking building sites and car parks, wasn’t as exclusive a
s the front with its view over Faxa Bay and the brooding presence of Mount Esja in the distance.

  Gunna found the office suite and was about to push open the door emblazoned with a Spearpoint sign, its curved logo ending in a sharp point, when a raised voice inside made her pause. She stood still and listened carefully. It was clearly a woman’s voice, in a state of fury she would normally have expected to hear outside a nightclub in the early hours.

  The voice ranted with hardly a break, occasionally pausing, possibly for breath, before continuing with its tirade. No answering voice could be heard. Although few distinct words could be made out, Gunna was caught between concern and admiration for a woman who could rant at quite such length and volume.

  Eventually, tired of waiting for the tirade to come to an end, she shoved at the door and heard a buzz inside as it swung open. The voice came to an abrupt halt and Gunna found herself in front of a high reception desk where a young woman with a pinched face looked up in surprise to see a police officer in uniform.

  ‘Morning. I’m looking for Sigurjóna Huldudóttir. I believe I’m expected.’

  ‘She’s here. A moment,’ she replied in a dazed voice. As Gunna stowed her cap under her arm, she wondered if the receptionist had been on the receiving end of that magnificent rant.

  The girl stood up and went to a door behind her, knocked and opened it gingerly, before putting her head inside and muttering a few words of which ‘police’ was the only one Gunna could make out as she stood with her back to the desk and admired the building site next door. A tower crane stood almost level with the office window and Gunna could see the figure of the operator in his tiny cage at the top, concentrating as he deftly lifted and swung steel bars into place in the framework of a new building.

  More bloody offices. As if there aren’t enough already, Gunna thought.

  ‘. . . the hell do these bastards get away with this . . . ?’ a strident voice barked suddenly, cut off in mid-sentence as the office door hissed shut.

  The receptionist smiled wanly as Gunna looked around inquiringly.

  ‘She’ll see you in a few minutes. Could you wait a moment for her to finish her meeting?’ the receptionist asked sweetly. ‘Take a seat if you like.’