Frozen Assets (18 page)

Steini nodded. ‘How are your kids? Your lad's at sea, isn't he?'

‘Yup. Deckhand on
Snæfugl.'

‘Not a bad berth. Has he been there long?'

‘Since January. He tried college but couldn't get on with it. Then one of his uncles, you must know him, Stefán Jónsson, had a word and got him a berth to see how he'd like it. Gísli took to it straight away. I wouldn't be surprised if he applies for navigation college in a year or two.'

‘Send him to me if he needs any coaching,' Steini smiled.

‘I might do just that. But we'll see,' Gunna replied absently. She shook herself quickly, realizing that her thoughts were drifting unconsciously back to Matti and whether or not to try and hunt him down in the morning.

She looked up to see Steini gazing quizzically at her.

‘Sorry. Miles away,' she said, irritated with herself.

‘Work on your mind?' Steini asked gently.

‘Unfortunately,' she admitted, wondering at the same time if she should mention the offered promotion that would also entail moving to the other side of the country. ‘Until this is sorted out, I'm afraid it's going to be on my mind. But I ought to be on my way home soon. Laufey's gone riding and I'd better cook a meal for us this evening for once.'

Steini waved for the bill until the waitress placed it in front of him and sauntered away.

Gunna reached for it. ‘My turn.'

‘No, come on. I invited you.'

‘I know, but you paid last time,' Gunna said firmly and Steini shrugged. Gunna stood up to walk over to the bar. She rested her elbows on the counter and dug through her purse, lifting one foot to place it on the brass rail that ran along the foot of the bar. Steini smiled quietly to himself as he admired Gunna's figure in the loose cheesecloth trousers that he felt did her so many more favours than uniform.

‘Ready?' she smiled, returning to the table. Steini stood up and followed her outside.

‘Well, thank you for a pleasant lunch,' Gunna said as she dug in her pocket for the Range Rover's key and dangled it from a finger.

‘Yours?' Steini asked, patting the big car's bonnet.

‘No,' Gunna said, laughing. ‘It's Gísli's. He's wanted one of these since he was about five. So as soon as he'd saved up enough, that's what he bought. The insurance was costing him a fortune considering he's at sea four weeks in five, so now he splits the insurance with his old mum and I use it as well when he's away.'

‘That's very generous of him,' Steini said and Gunna had a sudden image of a tongue-tied teenager in front of her. ‘You know, Gunna, you're a highly attractive lady and I'd like to see more of you,' he said quickly.

Taken by surprise, Gunna took a few seconds to reply.

‘That's very kind of you to say so, Steini. I wouldn't mind seeing a bit more of you as well, but I've a lot on my plate right this minute and I don't know . . .' She took a gulp of air. ‘I'm sorry, you've caught me on the hop.'

Steini smiled slowly. ‘I'm sorry. Didn't mean to startle you. I'll give you a call in the week if that's all right?'

His face was one big question as Gunna nodded.

‘Do that. I'm going to be busy, but give me a call when you have time,' she said firmly.

He hesitated for a moment and finally leaned forward to peck her on the cheek.

‘See you soon, then,' he said and strode away to the van that Gunna recognized from the day they had spoken on the dock at Sandeyri.

Gunna sat in the Range Rover's driving seat and waited for her stomach to settle.

‘Good grief,' she grumbled to herself. ‘I should be past all this stuff by now. Like a lovesick bloody teenager.'

24

Monday, 22 September

The second-best Volvo hummed through Hafnarfjördur in the morning sunshine, with the faintest dusting of white on Esja's slopes in the distance above Reykjavík a reminder that the short days of winter weren't far away. Gunna had always had misgivings about what she saw as the mountain's brooding hulk and had never understood the fondness people born in its shadow always professed for it. Gunna found Esja less than impressive compared to the dramatic sheer slopes of her childhood home.

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.'