Frozen Assets (24 page)

‘Hi. It's me. Hope you had a good time last night. Call me. OK? Bye,' she intoned into the handset and clicked it shut.

‘What is it?' Jón Oddur asked from the door.

Sigurjóna stepped towards him, opening the dressing gown.

‘I need a shower. Order breakfast from room service, will you?' she snapped as she strode to the bathroom, shrugging the dressing gown from her shoulders and draping it over his outstretched arm as she swept past.

Her fingers caressed the hard whorl of scar tissue that ran diagonally across his shoulder.

‘I'm sure there's a story behind this,' Erna whispered huskily.

Hardy gently rolled on to his back and the scar disappeared from view. ‘Yeah. Not a nice story, though.'

‘Tell me one day.'

‘Maybe I will. Why do you have different names?' Hardy asked.

Erna settled herself across the bed with her head resting on Hardy's chest and one ankle hooked over the opposite knee. Hardy lay back with one hand behind his head and the other across Erna.

This time her fingertip traced the outline of a blurred fouled anchor tattooed beneath the coarse hair of the forearm lying on her chest. ‘What do you mean?

‘You and your sister. You're Daníelsdóttir and she's Huldudóttir. So why don't you have the same surname?'

‘It's not a surname. We don't have surnames in Iceland.'

‘Some people do.'

‘Yeah, a few people do. It's a bit stuck-up. Here everyone takes their father's name. Dad's Daníel Jónsson — that's Daníel the son of Jón — and I'm Erna Daníelsdóttir, Erna the daughter of Daníel. My son's called Jón, after my dad, but he's Jón Bergsson, because my ex-husband's name is Bergur. See?'

‘I figured that out. But why aren't you and Sigurjóna both Daníelsdóttir? Are you half-sisters?'

Erna untangled her legs and rolled over on to her side to look along Hardy's torso at his chin. He pulled a pillow under his head to look down his chest at her and extended a hand to stroke her side with his fingertips.

‘It's complicated,' Erna began.

‘How complicated?'

‘Well, not really. Our father's name is Daníel and our mother's is Hulda.'

‘Go on.'

‘In the old days, if someone's father wasn't known, if he'd run away, or refused to admit a child was his, or was a foreigner or something, then the mother's name would be used instead.'

‘Sounds reasonable.'

‘Yeah, but it was very unusual, didn't happen often that someone's dad was just completely unknown. But in the last couple of years it's become a lot more common. Y'know, people splitting up all the time and hating each other afterwards. So a lot of women got fed up with having their kids carrying around the name of some deadbeat guy they'd rather forget and used their own names instead.'

‘OK, I get it. Ditch the husband and his name as well, understandable.'

Erna stretched and inched herself forward as Hardy's fingertips grazed her hip and wandered along her thigh. ‘What was I saying? Yeah. Well, it got a bit sort of, y'know, fashionable as well. There are women who fell out with their dads who took their mothers' names instead. It's all very feminist and a bit smart to carry your mother's name now.'

‘So is that why Sigurjóna is Huldudóttir? Did she have a disagreement with your father?'

‘No, not really. They've never got on all that well, but they haven't fallen out either. I think she saw it as a career move more than anything else, looks good with all that cultural mafia crowd she hangs out with. Do you know what, Mr Hardy? You're quite a nice man really. We should go away together. Get to know each other properly.'

She heard Hardy's chuckle again deep in his chest.

‘You really think so? Where?'

‘I do. Spain, maybe. Or Morocco. While the kids are off my hands.'

‘Can you do that?'

‘Yeah. The girls can run the salon easily enough. They don't even need me there a lot of the time. Can you get away from your work for a few days?'

‘I should think so, if it's something important.'

‘I think it could be something important, don't you, Mr Hardy or whatever your real name is?'

‘I'd have to talk to Sigurjóna, make sure she doesn't need me for anything at the Lagoon.'

Erna stretched like a well-fed cat and readjusted her legs, putting his hand in hers to lift and place it in just the right spot. Hardy listened for a moment.

‘Is that a phone ringing?' he asked.

‘Don't know. Don't care,' Erna hissed. ‘Want me to have a word with your boss? But right now, keep doing that and I'll see what I can do.'

27-09-2008 1551

Skandalblogger writes:

Oh, people! 0 tempora, 0 mores, as the poet said and as a very few of Skandalblogger's classically educated readers will recognize. The rest of you, just google for it.

Sigurjóna, what were you thinking with that post-awards bash in someone else's suite at Hotel Gullfoss? And there was us thinking that white powder was going out of fashion. Which high-ranking Ministry official, which well-known media guru and which fashionable designer were photographed enthusiastically partaking of Sigurjóna's largesse with the cheese grater?

Click here* for the photos — a few details obscured to protect the guilty. Or here* for the video clip of Sigurjóna dropping and smashing the exclusive and ludicrously expensive award statue, an individually handcrafted glass artwork by Hanna Kugga.

And where's the old man? Gallivanting overseas again at the taxpayers' expense? But, hell and damnation, that's what we pay our politicians for, to get the hell out of the country for as long and as often as possible so the staff can get on with running the show without interference.

Still, who knows? He's supposed to be there for the full week, but Skandalblogger hears on the grapevine that there might well be a good reason to come scuttling home early from the conference in Berlin where he's holed up in the Bristol Hotel, definitely a step up from the Gruesome Gullfoss and its Latvian hookers. At least at the Bristol there's a bit more variety to choose from.

Well, Bjarni Jón . . . See you on . . . Wednesday? Maybe Thursday?

The call icon winked on the screen of Bjarni Jón Bjarnason's laptop. Birna raised a questioning eyebrow and he nodded to her. She silently stood up from her side of the vast dining table scattered with papers.

Bjarni Jón clicked on the accept call button and Sigurjóna's voice erupted through the speaker at the same time as an imperfect image of her appeared in a box below the internet phone's control panel. He could see that she was dressed smartly, as if for the office.

‘Hi, darling. How are you? Everything OK at home?'

‘Of course,' Sigurjóna snapped back. ‘Are you alone? Why can't I see you on-screen?'

Bjarni Jón sighed. Birna looked at him inquiringly from the sofa on the far side of the suite where she had retreated with a pile of paperwork. The inquiring look asked if she should leave them to speak privately.

‘Birna's here. We're preparing for the meeting with Horst. You can't see me because I don't have a camera on this computer.'

‘All right. Listen.'

Bjarni Jón could make out his wife's pinched features. ‘What is it, love? How did the awards go? I take it they gave you something?'

‘Yeah. Most forward-thinking company, or some such crap. There was a hideous statue that came with it, so I dumped that,' Sigurjóna said quickly. ‘Listen, I can't get in touch with my sister. She doesn't answer her phone.'

Bjarni Jón drummed the desk with his fingers. ‘So? There's nothing new about that.'

‘And I've had the police here this morning asking about Hardy. They want to question him about that boy who was found dead in Hvalvík. I'm worried about this and I can't reach Hardy either.'

‘Shit,' Bjarni Jón hissed to himself and fumbled for a headset that he plugged into the computer. Sigurjóna's voice broke into his ears and would at least keep half of the conversation private. ‘Have you called the compound?'

‘Of course I did, and his mobile,' Sigurjóna snarled. ‘I'm not an idiot.'

‘I never said you were,' Bjarni Jón said hastily. ‘Where did you see Hardy last?'

‘At the awards last night.'

‘He was there? Why?'

‘Because I invited him.'

‘Good grief.'

‘The police have some idea that he has a violent past.'

‘We knew that already. Horst told us.'

‘Not directly.'

‘No. He hinted. He said that Hardy was very competent,' Bjarni Jón said, looking over the top of the screen to see if Birna was paying any attention, but she appeared to be engrossed in paperwork now spread across the sofa.

‘Where are you, anyway?' Sigurjóna demanded.

‘Hotel Bristol.'

‘Yeah, but where?'

‘Berlin.'

‘Again?'

‘Yup, again. Environment Ministers' conference.'

‘God.'

Bjarni Jón could see Sigurjóna's face on the screen looking down at the keyboard as she typed. She looked strained, he thought, more tense than usual. He peered at the image of her beamed from the camera on top of her laptop.

‘Are you all right, Sugarplum?' he asked tenderly.

‘What?'

He saw her sit up straight, startled.

‘Are you all right?' he repeated.

‘Yes, yes,' she replied quickly. ‘You're meeting Horst this afternoon?'

‘Tomorrow.'

‘Anything special?'

‘Not that I'm aware of. Just a routine chat, I suppose. He asked for this meeting. What do you want me to do about— you know?' he asked, avoiding mentioning the police out loud with Birna in the room.

‘Will you call Lárus?'

‘Lárus Jóhann? Again?'

‘Yes.'

‘And talk about what?'

‘Just call him and ask him what's going on.'

‘Look, how can I?'

‘He's the Justice Minister. He ought to have some bloody clue about what his police force is doing.'

‘He's done us a lot of favours already. It's not even as if we're the same party. I can't call on him too often.'

Bjarni Jón saw Sigurjóna's face grimace with anger, fuzzed by the time-lapse imaging of the internet phone.

‘Just do it, will you?' she snapped and Bjarni Jón was relieved that he had had the foresight to plug in the headset.

‘I'll do what I can,' he replied smoothly for Birna's benefit, suppressing the irritation building up inside.

‘OK. Do that. I'm going to try Erna again. It's not like her to not answer me.'

‘All right, darling, let me know, won't you?'

‘Yeah. And you'll let me know when you've spoken to Lárus. Bye.'

The stop sign appeared in the connection box on the screen and Bjarni Jón wondered what he was going to say to the Minister of Justice.

30

Sunday, 28 September

‘Hell, I'd just take the money and say thank you in your position,' Bjössi said firmly. ‘I wouldn't even consider turning that kind of thing down.'

‘Yeah, but it's the moving part I'm not so keen on.'

‘Why? Cheap housing in the east and you can rent out your place here to some yuppie couple who can't afford to live in Reykjavík. You'd be quids in, especially with an inspector's pay grade. And the job might be more fun.'

Gunna had discouraged opinions from colleagues who had managed to hear of the offer of promotion and the transfer that would go with it. Bjössi was the latest and also the most forthright in his advice.

‘I know. But it's Gísli and Laufey I'm concerned about. I really don't want to uproot her from school, especially as she's doing well and seems happy enough there.'

‘Gunna, my dear, I'm sorry to break this to you, but Gísli's a big lad and he'll want his own place soon enough. All right, Laufey's thirteen, so how long do you think she's going to want to stay with Mum?'

‘But Bjössi, I like living in Hvalvík. It suits me. It's comfortable.'

Bjössi wanted to stamp his feet. ‘Just right. It's too bloody comfortable, Gunna. You're getting old and set in your ways before your time.'

‘Are you trying to get rid of me, or what?' Gunna retorted. ‘To be honest with you, I had been wondering about leaving the force and giving something else a try.'

Bjössi laughed. ‘And do what? Gunna, I can't see you working on the meat counter in the Co-op.'

‘Don't talk such crap. My widow's pension keeps the wolf from the door, and there's security work, insurance claim stuff, that sort of thing.'

Bjössi stood up and shrugged himself into an outsized overcoat that Gunna had told him many times made him look like a flasher. ‘Well, it's up to you. But times are going to be bloody tough in the next few years and working for the public sector at least has a bit of security about it. You'd be bloody mad to turn it down. Up a pay scale, a shift to plain clothes if you want it, cheap housing. Even if it's just for a year or two, it'd be worth it,' he said heavily. ‘Come on, apart from this case, what's the most interesting piece of work you've had in the last year? Was it when Sigga Vésteins broke into the pharmacy and you had to follow the footprints in the snow to find out which low-life it was, or was it when you had to bust Albert Jónasson for 300 kilos of over-quota cod?'

‘Ach, Bjössi, I don't know.'

‘Gunna, look, either take the job or get yourself a boyfriend. You deserve a little excitement for a change.'

‘Where are you?' Sigurjóna demanded immediately the phone was answered.

‘Reykjavík,' Hardy replied. ‘Is there a problem?'

‘The police have been here looking for you. Where are you at the moment?'

‘Let's just say I'm in Iceland. It may be best if you don't know exactly where I am.'

Sigurjóna paced up and down the black quarry tiles of her rarely used designer kitchen, and noticed that the cleaner had left smears on the stainless steel hood over the six-burner gas stove. She made a mental note to have words with the girl. ‘They know about you and are looking for you.'

‘That's understandable. Do you know what information they have?'

‘No. They were very cagey and wouldn't say anything except that it's high-priority.'

Hardy looked up from the armchair enclosing him and listened to Erna singing tunelessly to herself in the bedroom. He was amazed at the woman's energy. There was definitely something about these sisters, he thought to himself.

‘Listen, have you seen my sister?' Sigurjóna demanded suddenly.

‘Why?'

‘I can't reach her and I haven't seen her since the awards. Did she go home with you?'

‘She's fine.' Hardy chuckled. ‘I'll ask her to call you.'

‘Shit. Well, that's a relief anyway. At least I know why the randy old cow's not answering her phone. I hope she hasn't completely tired you out?'

‘Tell me about your visit from the police. What did they want, exactly?'

‘To know where you are. That's all they'd say.'

‘A senior officer?'

‘There were three of them. A sergeant and two officers.'

‘Plain clothes or uniform?'

‘Uniform.'

‘Do you have the man's name?'

‘It's a woman. Gunnhildur. She used to be quite well known. She's tough.'

‘We'll see. I'm sure we can fix something,' Hardy said with a chill in his voice. ‘Now, if you'll excuse me, this isn't a secure line and I have some things to arrange.'

‘OK. But get Erna to call me, all right? Hardy?'

‘Yes?'

Sigurjóna was silent for a moment.

‘Was Einar Eyjólfur's death anything to do with you?' she asked, almost whispering the words and listening to Hardy's silence.

‘That's an unpleasant question,' he replied eventually, smoothly. ‘But I take it his disappearing was useful for you?'

‘Well, it was. Yes.'

‘Then don't worry about it.'

Bjarni Jón Bjarnason was learning how shock feels. His fingers and feet were numb, and he found himself observing his own reactions to the news with a detached objectivity that surprised him.

‘Jeeesus,' he whispered silently to himself.

Horst meshed his fingers delicately together and planted his elbows on the glossy tabletop, so perfectly polished that his whole image was mirrored in the surface.

‘Are you all right, Mr Bjarnason? I am, of course, sorry to have to bring you such unwelcome news. Would you like a drink?'

‘Er, no thanks,' Bjarni Jón stumbled, trying to keep an outward semblance of composure. ‘Can I ask the reasons for this?'

‘Certainly,' Horst answered smoothly. ‘This seemed like a very positive project at the time when others were setting up geothermal and hydro-electric systems for powering smelters. We definitely saw this as a possibility, but when our Norwegian friends pulled out for reasons of their own—'

‘Ethical reasons,' Bjarni Jón added sourly.

‘Exactly, ethical reasons.'

‘Surely you weren't all that concerned about ethics?'

A narrow smile flashed across Horst's face. ‘Not particularly, but our parent company, as you know, is looking at the long term and they are concerned about adverse publicity, as well as other aspects. To be quite blunt, we do not have confidence in your economy and we understand that the financial sector in your country is weakening.'

‘What?' Bjarni Jón demanded. ‘Our banks are in a very strong position. I think you're on the wrong track here.'

Horst's face gave nothing away. ‘If you think so, Mr Bjarnason. But we have very reliable information to the effect that your bank does not have the funds to support your company's activities.'

‘That's absolutely ridiculous. There have been a few minor exchange rate problems, but our financial sector is one of the strongest in the world.'

‘We are fully aware of who your bankers are and what their real position is. If I were in your position, Mr Bjarnason, I would be concerned.'

Bjarni Jón realized that there was no menace in Horst's voice. He had the feeling that he was being given unwanted advice by a wise uncle.

‘I assure you, we are not badly positioned and everything is set to go ahead with the last phase of the finance for the Hvalvík Lagoon project.'

‘Yes, of course. I believe this represents some eighty per cent of your company's contribution?' Horst asked.

‘You know it is.'

‘Then I think you may be disappointed. I hope not, but I believe you will be when you meet your bankers.'

‘Ridiculous,' Bjarni Jón repeated.

‘Between ourselves, it is much easier for us to do our business in the developing world. Developed countries such as yours present obstacles that we are not used to dealing with, and frankly, we do not want to deal with. We don't find joint ventures particularly comfortable.'

‘So you're just going to walk away?'

‘Precisely. We are withdrawing from the project. There will be a question of some compensation that will have to be arranged, but we can deal with that when your lawyers contact ours. It might take a few weeks.'

‘They certainly will.'

‘Of course. That isn't a problem. We would appreciate it if you would instruct them to do so as soon as is convenient, as InterAlu would prefer to have everything concluded as rapidly as possible.'

Bjarni Jón stood up now that feeling had returned to his feet. Horst did the same and walked around the table, offering a hand to shake. Bjarni Jón debated with himself for a second whether or not to accept it before limply grasping Horst's hand.

‘Doesn't this reflect badly on you, Mr Horst, as you were in charge of the project?'

‘Quite the contrary,' Horst said, smiling. ‘I was dubious about it from the start and warned the directors of our parent company of the difficulties I expected we would be presented with in Iceland. As it happens, I was quite right, so actually it reflects rather well on me personally.'

Bjarni Jón couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice. ‘So you come out of it all right and we have to pick up the pieces?'

‘I am aware that this is a significant disappointment to you and your wife, Mr Bjarnason. Please be assured that there is nothing personal in this, but I really do think that your bankers have a great many questions to answer.'

‘It's just business,' Bjarni Jón said, trying not to sneer, wondering how he was going to break the news to Sigurjóna. ‘Have you announced this yet?'

‘Exactly. Business. We haven't made an announcement and I don't expect we will. InterAlu prefers a low profile. Please give my kindest regards to your wife and we will be in touch with her people after the weekend. I'm sure she can issue a suitable press release,' Horst added with a hint of a grim smile.

Gunna parked the jeep outside
Dagurinn
's offices. Normally she would never have used a private car for police work, but Skúli had been so insistent they meet that she borrowed the keys to Gísli's Range Rover and made the hour's drive to Reykjavík in ten minutes less than usual, even with the detour to drop Laufey off with her friend on the way.

‘So what did you want me to see, young man? And why the hell are you still at work at eight thirty on a Sunday evening?' Gunna asked as they made their way in single file through the maze of workstations. She thought the young man looked tired. There were black bags under his eyes and his hair stood on end where he had repeatedly run his hands through it.

Although every light was on,
Dagurinn
's office was deserted. A pair of tiny Asian women were slowly dusting each desk in the background, clicking off desk lights as they went.

‘I'm still at work because I have a ton of stuff to get through and also because I wanted to make sure Reynir Óli wasn't here when I show you the proofs of Tuesday's
Hot Chat
.'

‘
Hot Chat
? What's that?'

‘God, Gunna, where have you been?
Hot Chat
's
Dagurinn
's answer to
Seen & Heard
,' Skúli said. ‘It's pretty shit, actually. It's just the same as
Seen & Heard
, but it's got a bit more raunchy as the competition got tougher.'

‘Which did?' Gunna asked, confused already.

‘Well, both of them did. They're both garbage. Lots of gossip and celebrity scandal.'

‘And that's what you want to show me?'

‘Yup. Come on.'

Skúli threaded through the quiet desks and the two cleaners soundlessly stepped aside to let him pass, looking at Gunna, still in uniform, with fearful eyes. She tried to smile at them, as if to send a message that she wasn't remotely interested in their immigration status, but their expressions remained impassive as she followed Skúli.

At the far end of the row of desks, he sat down and started up one of the computers. He tapped at the keyboard and paused. A page of newsprint and pictures appeared gradually, scored with red guidelines, and Skúli scrolled downwards.

‘The guy you're looking for, the foreign tough guy. You know, the one who was at the march in the spring. Is that him?'

He pointed at the screen and Gunna fumbled for her glasses. She peered at the image of four people sitting round a table with a cluster of wine bottles in the middle. Hårde had a smile on his face and his left arm round the back of a statuesque blonde woman. On Hårde's right side sat the pink-faced young man Gunna had seen at the bathroom door in the Gullfoss Hotel suite and next to him sat a regal Sigurjóna in a low-cut black dress, all of them with their attention on something out of camera shot.

‘Bloody hell. What's all this?' Gunna asked.

‘I'll print it out for you.'

Skúli's fingers flickered and a printer hummed somewhere behind them.

‘It's the PR Association Awards, held the other night. The design guy did these pages today and I saw the proofs this afternoon.'

‘But it's Sunday. Don't you people ever take a day off?'

‘The guy who did the story is a freelance, and freelancers never stop working. The page make-up guys are on flexi-time, so if they want to, they can work twenty hours straight and take two days off. I guess the one who did these pages was in today because it's the last page of the mag and I don't expect he'll be in again until the middle of the week.'

Skúli swung his chair round and picked a crisp set of proofs from the printer under the bench behind him. He smoothed the sheets and spread them on the desk.

‘That's Sigurjóna Huldudóttir.' His finger paused at Jón Oddur. ‘Don't know who that guy is. That's the foreign guy.'