Frozen Assets (19 page)

‘I take it there's no truth in any of the allegations that Skandalblogger has put forward?'

Sigurjóna's voice rose in pitch and volume. ‘Certainly not. It's all spiteful fabrication, pure lies.'

‘As for your husband and the allegations about his relationship with ESC and InterAlu—'

‘As I said, it's all lies and fabrication.'

Although she was keeping her famous temper in check, Dagga was sure that Sigurjóna was about to explode. Dagga saw her eyes flicker over the desk and settle for a moment on the tiny recorder with its red light. She suddenly calmed and returned to her normal manner.

‘I'm terribly sorry. You must forgive me, but you have to understand that the last few weeks and months have been . . . stressful, shall we say?'

‘I understand that it's been difficult for you and for quite a few other people. Your husband—'

‘Isn't here,' Sigurjóna interrupted. ‘He will have to speak on his own behalf and I'm sure he'll be happy to do so. But I can say that he is deeply disturbed and hurt by allegations that he has behaved less than entirely honestly.'

‘And InterAlu? They have been portrayed very unfavourably. As Spearpoint is InterAlu's public relations agency, surely you can comment for them?'

‘I'll have one of my staff email you a statement this afternoon,' Sigurjóna replied with an icy dismissiveness in her voice that Dagga realized indicated the interview was almost at an end.

‘Before we finish, I'd like to ask about the young man Skandalblog-ger alleges was murdered a few weeks ago?'

‘An extremely unfortunate matter. The police investigation, as far as I'm aware, has found nothing to indicate any kind of foul play.'

‘You don't believe he was killed deliberately?'

‘Of course not. I'd like to know how he found his way out there to that place in wherever-it-was . . .'

‘Hvalvík,' Dagga supplied.

‘Wherever. But that's all the mystery there is. Look, the internet and the blog world are full of all kinds of conspiracy theories and lunatic ideas. It's not a great source for a journalist from a serious newspaper to be using for research.'

Well, meow, Dagga thought. ‘And Skandalblogger's comment that he was ‘‘very much one of us''? He was a Spearpoint employee, wasn't he?' she asked, imagining that she could hear the enamel on Sigurjóna's perfect teeth being ground to dust.

‘I'm sorry,' Sigurjóna said, barely controlling the urge to let fly. ‘That's something that has already been commented on, and out of respect for Einar Eyjólfur Einarsson's family I would prefer not to comment further. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm very busy.'

Dagga picked up her recorder and they both stood up. Sigurjóna came around the desk, fury gone, smiling again.

‘Thank you so much. By the way, are you happy at
Dagurinn
? Hm? You know, I started at the ground floor in journalism as well, and it's a great way to begin.'

‘I know.'

‘Of course, I can see you've done more research than you wanted to let on. Let me know when you feel like moving on from
Dagurinn
, won't you?' Sigurjóna added archly, shaking Dagga's hand. ‘And you'll send me a draft of your article? Just to check. I'm sure you understand.'

It was only when Spearpoint's door closed behind her that Dagga checked her recorder and saw with relief that it was still running.

Gunna looked the old house up and down. With three storeys clad in corrugated iron and perched on a concrete basement, it was typical for the area, which was gradually becoming fashionable once again. Doubtless it would be sold sooner or later to an entrepreneur who would tear it down and replace it or else fill the old house with pine and dimmed lights.

But today Gunna was interested in the list of names on the array of doorbells and doubted that any of them would work. One of the fading slips of paper had been altered in the not too distant past, with the occupant's real name scratched out and ‘Ugly Tóta' scrawled across instead.

Gunna guessed that the flat the bell belonged to would be in the upper part of the house. She pressed the button, heard nothing and shoved the door, which, unsurprisingly when she saw the smashed lock hanging by a single screw, opened in front of her.

The stairs were dark and the first landing showed her a row of closed doors, but when she heard the sound of a television from behind the first one, she rapped at it. She heard the springs of a sofa complain inside and shuffling feet approach. The door opened and Gunna recognized Tóta immediately.

‘What?' Tóta demanded, smoke from the stub of cigarette between her lips curling past half-closed eyes.

‘Good morning, Tóta. I'm sure you remember me. This is what you might call a friendly visit.'

‘Since when have coppers been friendly's what I want to know?'

‘Well, you were happy enough every time we carted that lad of yours off to cool down in the cells.'

‘Yeah, well. He was a bit high-spirited when he was younger, my Pesi was. Anyway, what does the law want round here?'

Gunna looked over Tóta's shoulder at the dingy room behind her, curtains drawn to keep out summer sun, and a large flatscreen TV gabbling to itself in the corner, the only new thing in the room. ‘Aren't you going to ask me in, then?'

Tóta shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.'

Tóta settled herself back in the corner of the sofa that fitted her snugly and finally took the cigarette from between her lips. ‘This can't be anything that serious, otherwise there'd be two of you,' she growled.

‘Like I said, just a friendly visit. I'm looking for Matti Kristjáns. I understand he's living here at the moment.'

‘Yeah, Fatso lives here.'

‘And where is he now?'

Tóta shrugged and lit another cigarette from the glowing stub of the first. ‘Dunno. He went out.'

‘When?'

Another shrug. ‘Yesterday, maybe?'

‘Was it or wasn't it?'

‘Dunno. Can't be sure.'

Gunna took a deep breath and counted to ten. ‘So, Tóta, has your bloke still got his little hobby going in the cellar, or has he given that up?'

Tóta looked away from the TV for the first time and glowered.

‘You're not going to make trouble for an old man, are you? What difference does a bottle of moonshine here and there make?'

‘Hard to say. I might not look too closely here and there. Depends how helpful you are. Where's Matti?'

‘Dunno. He went out yesterday. Paid his rent and was gone. That's all.'

‘All right. So now you're sure it was yesterday. Early? Afternoon? Evening?'

‘Morning,' Tóta said. ‘Morning-ish. I don't know.'

‘Any idea where he went?'

Tóta didn't even shrug, just spread her hands wide. Gunna levered herself thankfully from the chair.

‘Right. I need to see his room.'

‘Upstairs.' Tóta pointed vaguely towards the door.

‘Show me.'

Tóta trudged ahead of her up the flight of narrow steps, slippers a size too big flapping against cracked heels, and fished for a set of keys in the pocket of her housecoat. She tried several before the right one clicked into the lock and the door swung open.

‘You ought to have a warrant,' Tóta said dubiously as Gunna snapped on surgical gloves and went into the room.

‘If you want a warrant, I can get one of my colleagues to be here with one in half an hour and I'll wait in your living room until he gets here. If that's what you want? Hm?'

Tóta lapsed back into insolent silence and watched from the doorway, scattering ash on the carpet.

‘Have you been in here since Matti left?'

Tóta said nothing and Gunna pulled the drawers of a small dresser open to find only dust inside. Some of Matti's clothes were draped over the back of a chair and the creaking wardrobe was empty apart from a raincoat that might have gone out of fashion a generation ago.

‘I said, has anybody been in here since Matti left?'

‘Look under the bed.'

‘Why?'

‘Just look.'

Gunna swept aside the hem of the duvet and bent down to peer at the dust and a noticeable dust-free square patch underneath.

‘Nothing there.'

‘Then the old man's been in here and nicked Fatso's porn mags. So he's been in here.'

‘Tóta, do you have any idea where Matti is? I'm not going to bugger about here. This isn't something trivial.'

‘I don't know,' Tóta whined. ‘He paid his rent, he went out.'

‘Did he say when he would be back?'

‘No.'

‘Do you expect him back, considering he's taken most of his stuff?'

‘Maybe. Maybe not. If he isn't back by the end of the month, I'll rent his room out to someone else. I could get three Polish in here, easy,' she said, brightening at the prospect.

‘Let's try again. Do you know who he was going about with? Any friends who visited him here? Anyone looking for him? Did he mention anyone in particular?'

‘No. Nothing. He whinged all the time about Nonni the Taxi and the bloke at some club he did business for. Some foreigner, he said. I reckon Fatso was a bit scared of him, didn't want to upset him.'

Gunna shut the door behind her, but decided to keep the surgical gloves on until she was out of the house. ‘What sort of business?'

‘Don't know. Didn't ask. But Fatso had plenty of money. Lots of money.'

‘Where from, d'you know?'

‘Ask Fatso when you find him. I'll bet he won't tell you either.'

At the front door, Gunna rolled off the gloves, taking her time as Tóta was clearly anxious to get back to her television.

‘Thank you for your assistance. If you hear anything about Matti, I'd appreciate it if you let me know. That way I won't have to look for him down in your cellar, if you get my meaning,' Gunna said as Tóta scowled through the crack of the door.

Dagga decided to take the stairs instead of waiting for the lift. As she reached the first landing, she heard the lift hiss and open above and behind her, but shrugged and decided to carry on anyway.

Hardy stepped from the lift and dialled a number on his mobile, letting it ring until a disembodied voice told him in soothing tones that the number was either switched off or out of range. He cut the voice off before it had a chance to ask him to try again later and stepped quietly into Spearpoint's offices.

Dísa looked up as the door opened and recognized him. Without a word spoken, she buzzed through to Sigurjóna.

‘What?' Sigurjóna snapped through the intercom.

‘Mr Hardy is here to see you,' Dísa replied.

‘One minute, please, Dísa. Then show him in.'

‘Sigurjóna will be right with you,' she said in her careful English, looking back up at Hardy who simply nodded in reply.

Hardy stood impassive at the desk. Dísa found the man sinister. He said little, but what he said was always polite. On his rare visits to Spearpoint's offices, he always looked the same, always dressed in the same way come rain, shine or snow. As she waited for the minute to pass, Dísa thought to herself that what really made Hardy sinister was the impassive look that gave no clue as to what he was thinking.

The intercom light flickered in front of her and Dísa looked up to where Hardy was standing at the window, hands folded together behind his back and rocking almost imperceptibly on the balls of his feet.

‘Sigurjóna's free now,' Dísa said to his back. Hardy twisted round soundlessly, nodding at Dísa with a hint of a smile.

Sigurjóna was sitting at her desk, watching a TV news channel with the sound turned down low. She glowered as Hardy came in and padded across the thick carpet.

‘It's started again,' she said, without bothering with a greeting.

‘The blog?'

‘Last week. I thought you had stopped it when it went quiet. I thought you'd found someone who was responsible for all this?'

‘A message has been sent. I'm sure it will be effective.'

‘Yeah,' Sigurjóna spat. ‘And do you know what that stupid Skandalblogger is saying now?'

‘No. I haven't read it.'

‘All right. It's saying that someone who drowned in Hvalvík harbour was put there deliberately.'

‘Is that so?'

‘I hear the police are asking questions again.'

‘I see.'

‘I thought I could trust you after Horst said that you could fix anything?'

Hardy wondered how many drinks Sigurjóna had already had at this early hour of the afternoon. He felt that drinking while concentration was required was the sure sign of an amateur, or someone in deeper than they could cope with.

‘Some tasks take longer than others, I'm afraid. But the important work is progressing well. I understand that Horst is satisfied with progress at the site in Hvalvík and that the Lagoon site is also coming along well.'

‘Yeah. That's all on schedule. I have well-paid staff to look after the details, so they do just that,' Sigurjóna said. ‘Now, I'm wondering if you're going to finish the little job I asked you to do before?'

‘It's in hand,' Hardy assured her. ‘It's not often that something like this can be done overnight. But I have to ask for your help with another matter as well.'

Sigurjóna smiled a touch more broadly than she would have done without access to the vodka bottle in the cabinet. ‘In that case we'll help each other out. But why do you need help with anything from us?'

‘I need to locate someone and, as I don't have local knowledge, I need assistance from someone who does.'

‘I'm sure one of my people can help. But what about the driver who was fixing stuff for you? Can't he help you with whatever you're on the lookout for?'

‘That's the person I need to locate.'