‘That’s fine,’ Ingimar said. ‘You can let her go. She’s small potatoes. Just a pawn.’
Ringing off, he switched on his computer, went to The Squirrel’s web page and scrolled down to find a picture of María alongside one of her articles. He opened Tinder on his phone and searched until he found a woman who resembled her. He stared at the woman’s picture for a moment, imagining fucking her hard as a punishment for María’s interference. But then realised that he had no appetite for it. Tinder was too easy. There was no victory to be had there, no challenge.
40
Agla hadn’t slept much, and when the door was unlocked in the morning for once she was anxious to get out of her cell. All the same, she felt a certain trepidation at the thought of meeting Elísa at breakfast. This was going to be colossally awkward. She had spent the night trying to escape thoughts she could not control as they flitted from Elísa and the hot skin of her arm, to the fleeting kiss, which in hindsight could mean anything, then on to that crushingly terrible time when Agla had sat in a rental car outside the place where Sonja was staying in London, watching her but not daring to speak to her. It had been plain that Sonja had wanted to get away from Agla, their commitment too much for her. She’d clearly been overwhelmed by the vision of the future stretching out ahead of her.
A couple of times during the night she had managed to focus her thoughts on the various aspects of the bizarre aluminium conundrum. She had got out of bed and snatched up the raw materials market reports she had printed out, and then tried to work her way through the figures, attempting to get a handle on how the aluminium flowed on to the market. What was clear was that the world market had changed markedly in recent years, and those changes had begun to occur just as William’s bank had bought Meteorite Metals.
But she couldn’t maintain the concentration required for real work. She felt as if her body was unable to remain still. She could hardly breathe for the lump in her throat that appeared when her thoughts went to Sonja. When they then turned to Elísa, her heart beat faster and the palm that had stroked the tattooed arm felt as if it were on fire.
Agla decided to take a morning shower instead of an evening one, hoping that Elísa would have left the kitchen by the time she got there, and she would be able to get herself coffee without having to face her. What would she say to her? What on earth had happened last night in the cell doorway? Was it something other than usual light-hearted clowning for Elísa? If it was, what would that mean for Agla? These questions were maddening, and for the first time since that first week she had been in prison, Agla hammered in frustration at the shower taps, which only delivered short bursts of lukewarm water – supposedly enough for each prisoner to wash in.
Getting out of the shower, she growled at the mirror, which showed her the neglected mop of hair that resisted any attempts to tame it – other than those made by the skilled fingers of her regular hairdresser, who normally thinned it for her and touched up the roots, which were now looking distressingly grey. It was a long time since she had last considered her own appearance, but now she wondered whether Elísa thought she looked worn out. She would definitely need a complete overhaul once this was all over: a haircut and dye, a facial with all the works, manicure and pedicure, and on top of that she would need some new clothes. The ones she had brought with her to prison were now hanging off her like sacks, she had lost so much weight. Her stomach lurched at the thought that soon she would be let out of this cage, but this time there was none of the old despair at the thought. Now there was work to be done – she had to get to the bottom of whatever murky business William had his fingers in. She needed to find out how she could make herself part of this intrigue.
She met Elísa in the kitchen doorway. She was taken by surprise, as the wing was silent and the women appeared to have finished breakfast. She had expected to have the kitchen to herself.
‘Is there coffee in the pot?’ she asked, walking into the kitchen without looking at Elísa. She didn’t wait for an answer; the jug was half full, so she poured herself a cup. Then turned to find Elísa gone. Hell … She could have said something else: ‘good morning’, or anything other than asking if there was any coffee left.
41
‘Good to see you on your feet!’ Sonja said as Thorgeir made his way down the wide curving staircase. His heels clicked on the mahogany floor as he made his way towards Sonja and then followed her across the foyer and into the dining room.
He had slept through the night in a decent bed, had taken a bath and was now dressed in a suit. He looked human again instead of resembling a wild animal.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘As well as can be expected,’ he replied, his voice still hoarse after the tears and his movements stiff from his long incarceration in the cage.
‘There’s coffee,’ Sonja said, pushing the flask across the table to him and gesturing for Thorgeir to take a seat, which he did with a deep groan.
His appearance had changed little with the passing years, despite his lifestyle. It seemed to be a quirk of people who looked older while still young, that they hardly changed at all after middle age. His hair had always had the same streaks of grey, and his face had never been anything other than lined, while his frame was as skinny as a teenager’s. He poured himself coffee, and Sonja could see that his hand shook slightly, although she couldn’t be sure if this was the withdrawal symptoms at work, or simply fear. She relished being amiable to him, as it seemed that every time she passed up an opportunity to punish him it simply magnified his terror of the final reckoning. But Sonja had no desire for a dramatic showdown. This drawn-out, painful amiability was her revenge on him.
‘You have to understand, my dear Thorgeir, that we can’t have our people partying so hard they forget what they should be doing.’
He didn’t reply, but looked downcast and stared at his hands.
‘And you have to understand that we can’t have people being sent back home to Iceland for treatment and going to AA meetings where they open their hearts.’
He looked up quickly.
‘You know I’d never tell—’ he began.
Sonja raised a finger indicating that he should keep quiet.
‘The condition you were in when Sponge brought you here from Iceland didn’t inspire a lot of confidence, so the only option for you was the cage. You understand, don’t you?’
Thorgeir sighed and said nothing, so Sonja stood up and went over to him.
‘Now, after a few days in the cage, you’re a new man,’ she said, placing a hand on his shoulder and feeling him flinch at her touch. ‘So we did the right thing, didn’t we?’
She squeezed his shoulder and he nodded.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Right. Quite right.’
‘And you understand that this wasn’t a punishment, but a necessary strategy to get you back in line?’
‘I understand perfectly,’ he said, nodding again.
‘Good,’ Sonja said, letting go of his shoulder and sitting back down. ‘You’re booked on the evening flight back to Iceland from Heathrow, and you can catch the tube to the airport. And you keep yourself straight, or next time there won’t be anything to soften the withdrawal symptoms in the cage. Understand? It’ll be cold turkey and I don’t give a shit if the cramps kill you.’
Hesitatingly, Thorgeir got to his feet, as if he hardly dared believe there was no more to come; that there was no further punishment to be meted out.
Sonja gave him a friendly smile.
‘Have a good trip home, Thorgeir,’ she said. ‘Let me know when you’re back on your feet, won’t you?’
He sidled out of the room, crabwise, as if he wanted to hurry as fast as he could but dared not turn his back on her. Alex followed him out through the foyer and Sonja could hear him murmur a goodbye as he opened the heavy mahogany door and let him out. Then Sonja heard his rapid footfalls down the steps outside. At one time there hadn’t been a single person in the entire world she had hated as mu
ch as she had loathed Thorgeir. Back then she could only look on as he had sent her travelling from one country to another, first with cash and then with cocaine; trips that marked the beginning of all her misfortunes. But her viewpoint had changed. She saw that Thorgeir was a junkie, so had never been entirely in control of his actions. And she had also admitted to herself, that she was completely responsible for her own misfortunes.
42
The sun was rising as Donald and the night watchman escorted María to the gate, making it plain that if she were to show her face again, the gun would be waiting for her. María nodded vehemently and was left in no doubt that they would shoot if she were to return. She wasn’t inclined to find out. There were ways other than breaking in to find out what these men were up to.
‘Did you find any of Meteorite’s customers?’ she asked as soon as Marteinn answered the phone.
‘Yes,’ Marteinn said. ‘I emailed you the list.’
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘How did you get hold of that?’
He said nothing.
‘Marteinn, where did you find a list of Meteorite’s customers?’
‘Why do you want to know?’ he shot back at her.
‘Just curious,’ she replied. ‘Marteinn, are you all right?’ she added.
‘That’s a fucking sneaky question,’ he snapped. ‘You’re on the other side of the world, so why stick your nose into stuff that doesn’t concern you?’
María stopped and leaned on the fence that encircled Meteorite Metals. She had the sudden feeling that she was about to faint.
‘My dearest Marteinn,’ she said. ‘Have you been to the clinic? You know you need help to get your treatment in balance, and if you’re starting to be suspicious about me then there’s something wrong.’
‘Don’t you try and use that against me,’ he whispered, his voice laden with hatred. ‘You pretend to be my friend, but I can see all the clues that tell me what you’re up to. And the dangerous thing about all this is that I’m the only one who can see through you!’
He hung up and María drew a deep breath. By the time she arrived back home he would be seriously disturbed. His mother was dead, and his sister, who lived on the other side of the country, in Egilsstaðir, wanted nothing to do with him. So there was nobody to call other than the police or the mental-health clinic, and she knew from painful experience that it wasn’t easy to have him admitted. On top of that he was still struggling to forgive her for having had him sectioned once already. It wasn’t something she wanted to go through again.
She got into the car, started the engine and turned the heater up. The car had no aircon, but at least there was heating, which she needed as she was shivering with cold. Her teeth chattered and her hands were numb from the cuffs, which had prevented the blood circulating. She rubbed her wrists cautiously. Each one was marked with a deep groove, like a bright-red bracelet. There was no sign that there had been any bleeding, despite what her instincts had told her as she had sat on the cold warehouse floor. But instinct could lead you astray, as Marteinn demonstrated so clearly. The painful emotions that he experienced had no basis, but still caused him unending misery. In three days she would be home and then she would see what could be done for him. Now she desperately needed to get some warmth inside her, and make use of her time in America.
It wasn’t until she was under the shower at the motel that she burst into tears. The flow of hot water seemed to melt the cold ice casing that had formed around her sensitive core as she sat on the cold warehouse floor, and now her body ached with pain. She could not fully straighten her back, her buttocks were sore, and there was so much pain in her hands it was as if they had been burned.
She could still feel where the muzzle of the pistol had been jabbed into her cheek.
The chlorine taste of the water made her gag, but she gulped down three painkillers, and forced herself to drink more water to make them work faster, before throwing herself onto the bed, hair still wet. She set her alarm, giving herself two hours, and was instantly asleep.
43
Anton stared at the dynamite and was worried. The undersides of the sticks all seemed to be damp and the paper wrappers were wearing through. He had felt all over the boiler room floor and there was no damp to be found anywhere. Maybe it hadn’t been a smart move to keep the dynamite lying on a plastic bag. He picked up one stick and carefully unwound the paper. It was wet to the touch; in some weird way, it seemed to be sweating. The damp seemed to come from inside. It was like when his father took fish from the freezer to let it defrost in the kitchen, and the carton would become wetter and softer through the day. But the dynamite hadn’t been frozen, and if anything, it was now uncomfortably warm in the boiler room.
He hoped that the dynamite hadn’t become useless. If it wasn’t usable, then he had no idea what he would do. His plans would be back at square one. He sat on the camping chair and took out his phone. He would have to sort this out. School would just have to wait; this was much more important.
Searching in Icelandic yielded no results, though, but a search for ‘sweating dynamite’ in English did. He read through a couple of chatroom posts and a wiki article that matched what he was looking for. Apparently, the nitroglycerine was leaching out of the dynamite; to stop it happening he needed to turn the sticks regularly. He didn’t waste time reading all the words of warning about how sensitive nitroglycerine could be; he knew perfectly well that explosives needed to be handled with care. He gently turned every stick over so that the damp side was facing upwards. That way he hoped the liquid would leak back into the sticks. The worrying thing was that, according to the wiki article, dynamite ought to be kept somewhere cool. The temperature in the boiler room could vary. Sometimes the hot water pipes running along the wall from the inlet valve would hiss and then it would become warm, and at other times it was quite cool down here. But there was no point worrying about it. He had no other place to keep the explosives, and he preferred to have it somewhere close by, where he could keep an eye on it.
There was, however, a bigger headache – and that was how to solve the detonator problem. All this explosive was of no use if there was no way of setting it off remotely. He shut the boiler-room door behind him and so that he wouldn’t be heard walked lightly up the grass verge rather than the steps. Not that he needed to bother; his father had already left and his mother was asleep, and would sleep well into the day.
Outside, on Tjarnarbakki, he saw a man looking at the sky, his phone in his hand. Anton watched his strange behaviour, until he heard a buzz and saw the drone whizz across the lake.
‘It’s a no-fly zone,’ he said to the man in English, assuming he had to be a tourist, as this was common knowledge. ‘This is the approach path for passenger aircraft landing at the city airport. You could cause an accident.’
The man quickly landed the drone.
‘Sorry, I didn’t know,’ he said.
‘But the drone should know. It should be programmed so it won’t work in a no-fly zone.’
The man smiled apologetically.
‘You can get round anything,’ he said. ‘A computer is just a computer.’ He packed the drone away into its case. ‘You live in one of these houses?’ he asked, gazing along the street with admiration.
Anton pointed to their house and the man nodded as he admired it.
‘Lucky you,’ he said.
But Anton’s thoughts were elsewhere as he walked away. A solution to the detonator problem was taking shape in his mind.
44
Agla looked at the blurred picture María had attached to her email. Despite the heavy grain and the green cast, it seemed to support what her short message said. The warehouse at Meteorite Metals was full to the rafters. Agla had learned that sometimes things were just what they appeared to be, and this seemed to be one of those instances. Apparently, the Icelandic smelter was producing aluminium that was registered on LME, but instead of being sold, it was put into Meteorite’s warehouse, where it was s
tacking up. But despite all its activity, Meteorite Metals looked to be in poor financial shape, and things were deteriorating. The outgoings on its balance sheet had not been itemised, though, so it was impossible to see where the money was going.
It was obvious that William and his bank were running a scam of some kind, undoubtedly with Ingimar’s involvement, that revolved around stockpiling aluminium. But the reason why they were doing this remained a mystery. At some point there had to be a use for it all. Maybe it was an attempt to lift the world price, but as this was governed by demand rather than production capacity, such a venture was doomed to failure. International regulations would have to be changed before stockpiling would have any effect on the world market price; these rules had been put in place explicitly to prevent stockpiling. Yet it was clear that neither the smelter in Iceland nor Meteorite Metals was selling the aluminium. It was all very strange. Agla sent a message to María, asking her to follow one of the trucks. It wouldn’t do any harm to know where they were taking aluminium.
She suddenly felt a shudder of discomfort pass through her, of the kind she had not felt since her first few days in prison. She had to stand up, move her legs and use every ounce of willpower not to scream in frustration. She had to get out of this place; she needed to go where she wanted, to breathe fresh air, to be herself. She jumped a few times, forcing herself to draw breaths that went all the way down to her belly. She lay on the library floor, closed her eyes and concentrated on a mental image of the ceiling of her bedroom at home. In her mind she lay in her own bed, free to stand up, walk out and go wherever she pleased.
Agla was startled when the door opened and one of the warders let Elísa in.
‘Hey, do you want to come to my room at eight tonight?’ Elísa whispered, glancing at the security camera as if she was sure that it recorded sound as well as images. ‘They’re all going to an AA meeting – everyone except the bookkeeper – and I’m going to pretend to have a headache. We can have an hour to ourselves with nobody to disturb us.’
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