Frozen Assets

by Quentin Bates

  ‘So, what have we got, then?’ Gunna asked, examining the office noticeboard.

  ‘Nothing, it seems, unless forensics find something around the wreckage. I reckon they just used good old-fashioned rags soaked in petrol, lit a fire under each one and then got out quick.’

  ‘So, no witnesses, because the security guards were playing poker in one of the sheds all night, and not a hope of finding footprints or anything that could be definitely linked to these guys, not after the number of people who were tramping around here yesterday.’

  ‘It’s going to take a while, this one,’ Bjössi said with satisfaction, leaning his bulk back on two legs of the site manager’s chair so that it creaked in protest. ‘I expect we’ll come across them sooner or later, but it won’t be through anything we do here. Someone will blab or want to settle a score eventually.’

  ‘You know, I’m wondering how they got clear without being seen. The fires started around midnight, so it was pretty dark. It’s a good long walk from here even into Hvalvík. If we can find out how they did that, we’d be a step or two closer.’

  ‘Hm. If you think so. Ach, some idiot’ll have a drop too much to drink soon enough and spill the beans,’ Bjössi said with conviction. ‘Anyway, I’d better carry on with these numbskulls who see and hear nothing and don’t know anything either.’

  14-09-2008, 2006

  Skandalblogger writes:

  What’s that freedom thing about, Grandad?

  The march was exciting, wasn’t it just? The papers and the TV are telling us how peaceful it was, with Kolli Sverris doing his juggling and all the colourful people getting in tune with nature before they return to civilization in their 4 x 4s in time for the footie.

  But a little bird whispers to the Skandalblogger that not everything went as sweetly as we’re being told. Just how did the fire in the InterAlu compound start? You know, the fire that nobody’s talking about that burned out every piece of heavy machinery on the site? What? You mean you didn’t know about it? All the news guys were there, even our cousins the Norwegians were good enough to send a TV crew, but unfortunately they’d all gone back to their hotels by the time the real business started.

  And what happened to the overseas activists who were quietly herded off to one side at Keflavík, kept for a couple of hours and just as quietly deported without even leaving the terminal?

  Well, damn me for a cranky old liberal with some strange ideas about freedom of speech and the right to protest, but I’d have thought that there might be a bit more to this than meets the eye.

  Keep taking the pills, and watch this space!

  Bæjó!

  Vilhjálmur Traustason hesitated, sparking Gunna’s curiosity. In spite of what she saw as his numerous failings, the man could generally be relied on to get straight to the point.

  ‘I, er, wanted to mention to you the investigation into the young man who was found outside Hvalvík.’

  Gunna could imagine him twisting his fingers into knots as he spoke.

  ‘And? What? The lad was identified quite quickly and we’re making progress. At the moment it’s all about finding out how he got there from a bar in Reykjavík, even though Sævaldur reckons he has a suspect.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Precisely. You don’t agree with him?’

  ‘Nope. Gústi the Gob may be a nasty piece of work, but he’s not going to kill someone for a few credit cards. Why, what’s your problem?’

  ‘Ágúst Ásgeirsson has been bailed. No murder charge has been made, only theft and fraud.’

  ‘Aha. I told you he wouldn’t get it to stick.’

  Vilhjálmur sighed. ‘I don’t want you to allocate too many resources to this case. I have asked Reykjavík to leave Sævaldur in overall charge of the case and to liaise with you as and when.’

  Gunna stopped her jaw from dropping. ‘Are you telling me to drop this?’

  ‘This isn’t a murder inquiry. The man drowned while drunk.’

  ‘He was pushed.’

  Vilhjálmur continued as if Gunna had said nothing. ‘I’m instructing you not to put any effort into this. The city force will follow it up. You’re going to have enough to do with the InterAlu work going on in your area.’

  ‘So Reykjavík are going to be looking after this?’

  ‘Yes. That’s it.’

  The phone clicked as the connection closed.

  Matti was about to call it a night and go home to get some sleep when the door opened and a florid young man slumped into the passenger seat.

  ‘Where to, mate?’

  ‘Kópavogur.’

  The young man slumped back in the seat and fumbled with his glasses. Matti caught the whiff of alcohol and the urge for a drink swept over him.

  ‘Women, they’re rubbish,’ the young man slurred. ‘You married?’

  ‘No. Not any more.’

  ‘Good for you, mate, good for you. They’re just . . .’ He floundered for words. ‘They’re just, rubbish. You know?’

  ‘Know what you mean. Girlfriend chucked you out, has she?’

  ‘Fuck, no. Worse.’

  The taxi hummed past the lights at orange on to Sæbraut.

  ‘Who d’you work for?

  ‘Himself? Nonni the Taxi.’

  ‘Well, mate. Just you be glad you work for a bloke. That’s all I’m saying,’ he said with bitterness in his voice, rooting through the pockets of his jacket and bringing out a half bottle of vodka from an inside pocket.

  ‘Not in the taxi, please,’ Matti mumbled, every fibre of his body aching for a drink as the man spun off the top and swigged.

  ‘What? Oh, sorry. But, yeah. Bloody women, specially when your boss is a woman. Nothing worse, specially a bloody ball-breaker like mine. Evil cow.’

  ‘Where d’you work, then?’

  ‘Spearpoint.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Never heard of it? What planet have you been on? PR and stuff, consultancy, project management.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I’ve got two weeks’ holiday. Flights to Florida booked and paid for. Scuba diving by day and pina coladas by night, and then the evil old bitch tells me today that I’m needed next week, and that’s that, no arguments.’

  ‘Must be something big to take your holiday off you.’

  ‘Ach. It’s those fucking bunny-hugging do-gooders. They set fire to those trucks and stuff out at Hvalvík and we have to try and clear up the mess, set up press jaunts, show people around, sort out new agencies, all that shit.’

  The desire for a drink subsided as Matti took better notice of what his passenger was saying.

  ‘So. Who’s this ball-breaker you work for?’

  ‘The Minister’s Lady,’ the man replied through even greater depths of bitterness. ‘The lovely Mrs Sigurjóna Huldudóttir, CEO of Spearpoint, evil, nasty bitch woman,’ he slurred.

  Normally he would have kept drunks like this one at arm’s length, but now Matti pricked up his ears.

  ‘Couldn’t say. Never met the lady.’

  ‘She’s bloody everywhere, going on about her house in the country or some fucking charity gig she’s organized to collect a few quid for orphans in Africa and make herself look like some kind of a fucking saint.’

  ‘I know who she is. I’ve just never met her, so I couldn’t say. All right?’

  ‘Well, all I’m saying is she’s a cow and even though her husband’s a twat he doesn’t deserve her, running his life for him and then shagging her staff as well.’

  Although Matti was getting tired of the man, he paid attention all the same.

  ‘What’s that? Bit frisky, is she?’

  ‘Ach. Shit. Never mind. Better keep quiet.’

  Drops of spit were beginning to collect on the dashboard as the man sat forward in his seat and snarled to himself.

  ‘Bloody woman,’ he slurred. ‘We all ought to get together and sue the arse off her for harassment. Y’know, if she was a man, she’d never get away with all the shit she gets
up to.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  Matti’s pulse was set racing by anything even mildly salacious, but he struggled to mask his curiosity, hoping that a show of indifference would bring out more details.

  ‘Yeah. Sigurjóna and her studs. Every trip she takes an assistant.’ He spat out the last word with more venom than Matti would have thought possible.

  ‘Assistant?’

  ‘Yeah. Personal assistant. Bloody woman. Very personal assistant.’

  ‘What? Taking notes? Carrying bags?’

  ‘And the rest. And she changes assistants more often than she changes her knickers. Hell, I’d better keep my gob shut. Said too much already.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ Matti asked, slowing down as he passed a speed camera.

  ‘Scaramanga.’

  ‘Righto. Still doing the business there, are they? Or have all the strippers gone now?’

  ‘Dunno. Gonna find out. It’s been a fucking shit day with that old witch and I’ve got to do something to make it a bit better.’

  ‘I can, er, help you out with that. If you’re looking for some company,’ Matti ventured.

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you’re looking for a lady to look after you for an hour or two.’

  ‘OK,’ the man said slowly. ‘Tell you what, give me your number and I’ll give you a call if I don’t get lucky.’

  ‘Sorry, mate. One time offer only. Not an offer to be passed up.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Negotiable. Depends what you’re looking for.’

  ‘No, hell. I’ll sort myself out. I can always go and jump on the bloody boss if I get really desperate.’

  Matti slowed, hauled the car off the main road and past the sprawling Smáralind shopping complex, slowing for lights and taking several more turns before pulling up in front of a nondescript building with only a single bright light over its door, where a thickset man in black stood guard.

  ‘Here we are. That’ll be six thousand five hundred.’

  The man dropped a handful of notes on the seat as he struggled to stand up and get out of the car.

  ‘Want me to wait for you? In case they don’t let you in?’

  Matti shrugged as the man found his feet and set his course for the door without answering.

  ‘Not my problem if you’ve got to walk back to town,’ he muttered to himself as he scooped up the notes and trousered them. It was just as well he hadn’t bothered to set the meter running.

  17

  Monday, 15 September

  ‘Snorri?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Hi. Busy?’

  ‘You know,’ Snorri replied guardedly.

  ‘Listen. You remember the car that was in the dock at Sandeyri?’

  ‘Blue one, yup.’

  ‘Stop saying yup, will you? You sound like a teenager.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Look, I have something I’d like you to look into. I have to go out to the InterAlu place again now and I don’t have time, otherwise I’d be doing it myself.’

  ‘All right?’ Snorri said dubiously.

  ‘Now, remember what I told you about cultivating a suspicious mind? This Egill Grímsson character was run down on the ninth of March. If this car is the one that was responsible, I’d bet anything you like it was in the dock at Sandeyri within a few hours.’

  ‘Go on,’ Snorri said.

  ‘I’m sure it went from Grafarvogur out to Sandeyri and someone must have had a sight of it.’

  ‘All right. So what do you want me to do?’

  ‘Just a bit of digging through traffic records. See if there’s a speed camera that may have caught it, anything like that. Shouldn’t take you long.’

  ‘That’s a bit of a while ago now.’

  ‘I know. I’m not expecting miracles, but do what you can.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘I might knock off once I’ve been to the compound, so you can drop in and see me when you’re done. If I’m not here I’ll be at home. OK?’

  Snorri grunted in agreement and Gunna jingled the second-best Volvo’s keys as she left him to get back to his computer. Egill Grímsson irritated her. But what irritated her even more was that the case had been mothballed and that it had taken place where the Reykjavík force would hardly welcome interference from outside.

  15-09-2008, 1448

  Skandalblogger writes:

  Cosy Moments will not be muzzled!

  Things are getting serious, boys and girls. It’s just like the movies, only this is real life. Real life, people, just to remind you, is what happens right after you select Shut Down.

  We understand that there’s a price on the Skandalblogger’s head. We hear there’s corruption and skulduggery afoot. We hear that there’s (whisper it!) money in the kitty to get our fingers broken one by one. We hear that there are respectable people in high places who want us shut down, so obviously we’ve been doing something right, especially if our hit stats for the last month are anything to go by. Maybe we should start selling advertising space?

  But seriously, folks, who’s the tough guy who visited a computer communications consultant Skandalblogger has never met or heard of, on the same day that the poor man had a fatal heart attack and unaccountably broke his own arm in the process? Is it the same hardnut who may or may not have driven a dead-drunk Einar Eyjólfur Einarsson off to an out-of-the-way harbour and rolled him into the water to drown quietly? Isn’t it time we had a few answers?

  But just so as you sad people can have your fill of filth and revel in the misfortunes of your elders and betters . . . Excuse us, did we say elders and betters? Of course we didn’t mean that, what we meant to say was the rich and morally bankrupt, maybe even genuinely bankrupt if the tales of panic we hear from our financial friends have a grain of truth . . .

  Anyway, beware, ladies, and especially gentlemen. If you go for the little blue pills that help with a certain problem down below, then watch out, as Skandalblogger is reliably informed that there’s a duff batch on the streets. Right size, right shape, right colour, right price. But no trade. You pay your way, pop your pill, and the lady’s still looking at a night with Mr Floppy.

  You pays your money and takes your choice!

  Bæjó!

  Gunna returned from what she felt was an entirely wasted trip to the InterAlu compound, cursing the waste of an afternoon on what was little more than assuring the site manager that there would be no more demonstrations outside his gates.

  She emptied the Co-op shopping bags into the fridge and the cupboards, hummed as she swept the kitchen floor for the first time in days, cleared the debris from the fridge and bagged it ready to go in the bin before deciding that the bathroom could wait for its birthday. Something to grapple with put Gunna into a detached frame of mind that allowed her to do mundane chores she would normally put off, leaving her free to turn things over in her mind while cleaning the flat on autopilot.

  She recognized her own symptoms and resigned herself to the fact that she would have no peace until she found some kind of conclusions. She brewed coffee and sat down at the kitchen table to read through her notes, as well as the printouts she had made of Clean Iceland’s web pages that included a lengthy obituary of Egill Grímsson.

  She was startled when the doorbell buzzed. At the door she looked through the frosted glass to see Snorri still in uniform outside, looking a little uncomfortable.

  ‘Come in,’ Gunna said with an unaccustomed cheerfulness, swinging the door aside.

  Snorri grunted a greeting, bent down to pull off his shoes, padded behind her into the kitchen and sat down in the chair against the window without needing to be asked. Scanning the papers scattered across the table, he picked a mug from the window sill and automatically held it out to be filled.

  ‘I stopped off at the station, but Haddi said you’d gone home. So here I am.’

  ‘Laufey’s supposed to be home from her trip today, so I ought to be here for her.


  ‘Another trip?’

  ‘Work experience, which she managed to wangle at a stable near Ólafsvík, the cheeky thing. Her grandmother lives up that way so she’s been there for the weekend and she should be back any minute. Now, young man, there’s something I wanted to talk over with you without any curious ears listening in.’

  ‘You’re not up to anything dodgy, are you?’

  ‘Don’t talk like a daft old woman.’

  ‘All right, I just don’t have long before my lesson.’

  ‘What lesson?’

  ‘Jói Ben’s daughter.’

  ‘Silla Sjöfn or the other one?’

  ‘Silla Sjöfn.’

  ‘And what’s she supposed to be teaching you?’ Gunna asked, mystified for a moment before she remembered that Snorri had begun to supplement his modest police salary by giving driving lessons. The tips of Snorri’s ears glowed pink.

  ‘I’m teaching her,’ he said lamely. ‘To drive.’

  ‘Sorry. Slipped my mind.’

  ‘And you were about to say something unladylike as well.’

  ‘Me? Come on.’

  Snorri slurped coffee and looked at the papers on the table with curiosity. ‘And?’

  Gunna took a deep breath. ‘I’m convinced there’s more to all this than meets the eye.’

  ‘I thought that the moment we saw the film of that bloke stealing the jeep,’ Snorri admitted. ‘Very professional, only took a couple of seconds. But if you’re going to steal a car, why nick an old crate like that?’

  ‘An old heap is unobtrusive. I’m sure there’s a link between the jeep and Egill Grímsson and I wouldn’t be even slightly surprised if our body in the dock wasn’t part of the story as well.’

  ‘I know it’s unusual and suspicious, but what makes you think there’s a connection?’

  ‘What it boils down to is that Egill Grímsson was the motivator behind getting this Clean Iceland Campaign off the ground to start with. Clean Iceland organized that march up at the InterAlu compound. My guess is that Einar Eyjólfur was feeding information to Egill, and Einar Eyjólfur was working for Spearpoint.’

  ‘Which is that bunch who are bringing in all these Poles and Portuguese to work up at the Lagoon?’