Frozen Assets gm-1

by Quentin Bates

  As usual, Hardy appeared within a few seconds, dropping into the passenger seat with the nearest he came to a smile.

  ‘Where to, boss?’ Matti asked.

  ‘Out of town today.’

  ‘OK. East? South? Which way?’

  ‘Hvalvík.’

  Matti’s heart almost missed a beat and he was sure that Hardy immediately sensed it.

  ‘Hvalvík it is, then,’ he grunted, coaxing the car out into the road and scraping the bumper of the car double-parked in front.

  They sailed through Reykjavík’s sunshine. It was a warm day and the dust rose thickly in the heat. Hardy was dressed as usual in spite of the temperature, the pale leather jacket making him look slimmer across the shoulders than he really was.

  ‘Everything all right, big man? You’re quiet today,’ Hardy said pleasantly as they left the city behind and began to climb the heath.

  ‘That guy. The one you went to talk to near Borgarnes. He’s dead.’

  Hardy lifted an eyebrow. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘It was on the radio. Heart attack, they said.’

  ‘So? You didn’t see anything, did you?’

  ‘Not a thing,’ Matti assured him.

  ‘Then there’s nothing for you to worry about, is there?’

  Hardy looked relaxed as he admired the landscape around him. His hands lay idle in his lap with fingers twined together.

  ‘You know, Matti,’ he said eventually. ‘The guy you work for?’

  ‘Nonni?’

  ‘No, big man. Not the taxi man. The other guy you work for, the one you need to be particularly discreet about.’

  ‘You, you mean?’

  Irritation flashed over Hardy’s face. ‘No. The one with the establishment.’

  ‘Him? Why? I don’t do much for Mundi Grétars these days.’

  ‘Ah, but I’m sure you do. I have a little word of advice for you.’

  ‘Like what?’ Matti demanded.

  ‘It might be an idea to distance yourself from those activities for a little while.’

  Matti did his best not to be angry. With the police already snooping into his business, he found it hard to accept that Hardy was also aware of his other sideline.

  ‘What’s this about, eh?’

  ‘I just thought you ought to know that your friend may have some problems in the next few weeks and that it might be useful if you’re not too closely involved with him and his ladies for a while.’

  Bloody hell, Matti thought. The bloody man seems to know everything there is to know.

  ‘Especially the lady that you’re such good friends with. We wouldn’t want her to be in any trouble, would we?’ Hardy asked with an unmistakable note of iron in his tone.

  Matti drove in shock and silence while Hardy examined his fingernails. Neither of them spoke until Hvalvík could be seen as a bundle of houses clustered around the shallow curve of its bay in the paler sunshine of the south coast.

  ‘Where to now?’ Matti asked gruffly, butterflies fluttering under his belt at the thought of Gunna or that other cop noticing his taxi going though the village.

  ‘This time we’re going out to the Lagoon site,’ Hardy said and Matti sighed with relief as this meant at least going straight through the village and out the other side without needing to stop. But his peace of mind was cut short as the fuel gauge light blinked red as they passed the ‘Hvalvík welcomes careful drivers’ sign.

  ‘Shit. Bastard.’

  ‘What’s up?’ Hardy asked quietly.

  ‘Ach, nothing. Just got to diesel up.’

  The car rolled to a halt in front of the pumps outside Hafnarkaffi. Matti hurriedly pumped fuel, cursing the slow pace of the machine and staring out over the roof of the car to scan for anyone who might recognize him.

  ‘Shit. Fuck,’ he continued to mutter to himself as the pump clanged to a halt and he hurried inside to pay at the counter where there was nobody to take his money. For a moment he was tempted to jump back in the car and leave, but thought better of it. In a one-horse dump full of nosy parkers, somebody would be bound to notice.

  ‘Sorry, my love. Been waiting long, have you?’ cooed a woman who appeared suddenly behind the counter.

  ‘Er, no.’

  ‘Not a local, are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh. And I was sure I recognized you from somewhere. Can’t for the life of me say where, though. From Reykjavík, are you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Matti grunted, willing her to move faster as she tapped buttons on the computerized till.

  ‘I’ll never get the hang of this thing,’ she warbled. ‘The old till’s so much easier, but progress is progress and I suppose I’ll have to get used to it sooner or later. That’ll be six thousand two hundred, my dear.’

  Matti dropped notes on the counter and made for the door. As he stepped out, a police car cruised up the street towards them and Matti swore to himself, looking down at the ground as he opened the car door.

  Hardy looked out from his seat at the police car as it passed by. Matti lifted his head to follow his gaze and was relieved to see that rather than the cousin he definitely had no wish to run into, the driver was an older man with a kindly face who looked over at them curiously, but didn’t bother to stop.

  ‘Right. Let’s go then, shall we?’

  Hardy pointed. ‘There’s a café there. Do you want to eat?’

  ‘No,’ Matti said brusquely. ‘Let’s get out to the compound, shall we? It’s a real dump, that place,’ he added lamely.

  Dagga coaxed the television next to her desk into life as a sober newsreader was halfway through his item on the 19.19 news.

  ‘. . . morning and we are taking you straight over live to the press briefing that is already taking place.’

  ‘Smári Geir doing well for himself on TV, I see,’ Dagga observed as the young man’s face vanished and was replaced with a trio of senior police officers sitting behind a row of microphones.

  ‘We consider that, in the light of this serious allegation from a highly unusual source, a further investigation is justified,’ one of them read out from a prepared statement. Skúli stared at the group, his eyes going from the man speaking to one of the others next to him, and back.

  ‘These allegations are of an extremely grave nature, claiming that a very serious crime has been committed against an innocent young man, culminating in his death. We are issuing a general appeal for witnesses to come forward and to place at the disposal of the police any information that may identify the alleged perpetrator,’ Vilhjálmur Traustason read out in a tone as morbid as the grave.

  Flashes flickered and he blinked repeatedly.

  ‘We have already identified persons who may or may not be involved in this incident. At present we are eliminating persons who are known to have been at or near the scene on the day in question. That is all. Questions?’

  There was an immediate chorus that was cut short as the broadcast returned to the studio.

  ‘No statement on their website yet,’ Dagga said, looking up from her laptop. ‘I’ve emailed and asked for the text and I suppose it’ll be here soon. What are we doing on this, Jonni?’ she asked.

  ‘We can cobble most of it together from the statement when it comes and the TV reports, but I suppose we’d better find a few comments. Any ideas, Skúli, as you’re our crime man?’

  ‘What’s Reynir Óli’s take on this?’

  ‘Oh, the usual.’ Jonni yawned. ‘Play along with the others, make it a front page if we can get an angle no one else will have.’

  ‘Like what?’ Dagga asked.

  ‘Well.’ Jonni smiled cruelly. ‘I was thinking Sigurjóna Huldudóttir. She’s been on the receiving end of Skandalblogger more than most people, so I’m sure she’d love the chance to sound off. It’s just a question of which one of you two darlings wants to go and listen to her ranting. Make it early, though. She’s normally a bit pissed by mid-afternoon.’

  At the Keflavík station Gunna had a
lready banged the doors aside when she realized that she didn’t know where her own incident room was, but catching sight of Bára at the end of a corridor she set off to follow her.

  ‘How goes it?’

  ‘Fine. I have two guys chasing up Clean Iceland and I’m off in a minute to talk to the guy who calls himself the strategic director.’

  ‘Good. Play it cool, will you? We don’t want to alarm anyone. Now, is everyone here? I need to speak to you all together.’

  The incident room was just a large office with a few desks, phones and PCs. A planner pinned to the wall showed the dates when Einar Eyjólfur had been last seen and when his body had been discovered.

  Gunna stood before it with the sheaf of notes she had picked up from the station in Hvalvík, along with Snorri, who had been given the whole story in a staccato barrage on the way after they had left a bewildered Haddi in sole charge at Hvalvík.

  ‘Right, ladies and gentlemen.’ She looked around at Bára and Bjössi. ‘Where’s Snorri?’

  ‘Here, chief,’ he said apologetically, slipping in around the door.

  ‘I’ll keep this quick,’ Gunna announced, pinning the passport picture of Ström staring blankly out of it to the wall board. ‘This man is someone we need to eliminate. We don’t have anyone else at all. Einar Eyjólfur appears to have had no enemies at all, everyone liked him, so there doesn’t seem to be anyone anywhere who would have wanted to harm him.’

  She tapped the noticeboard with one finger.

  ‘Name of Ström, presumed Swedish national, has probably been to Iceland more than once. I have established that he rented a car of the kind seen on the dock that night, a BMW X-three jeep with JA in the number. Don’t worry,’ she warned, seeing the expression on Bára’s face. ‘I’ve spent a day already eliminating every vehicle that doesn’t fit. We need to know what his business is, who he is, why he’s been here and what his movements have been.’

  ‘Is this man a suspect or a witness?’ Bára asked.

  ‘Initially a witness. We’ve placed him provisionally, time and place, where Einar Eyjólfur was found. Also, we have a possible link to him and the stolen blue jeep that was lifted from Sandeyri harbour. Now, Bjössi, will you investigate, assuming the jeep hasn’t been disposed of? If we link this to Egill Grímsson’s death as well, as I firmly believe we can, then we have something uncomfortably big on our hands.’

  Bjössi looked pensive for a moment. ‘Fuck. You mean this guy’s killed two people?’

  ‘It looks that way to me,’ Gunna agreed.

  He whistled. ‘Vilhjálmur and Ívar Laxdal are going to love you. Iceland hasn’t had a double murder since . . . ?’

  ‘I suppose since Gréttir did his stuff. So, I want this investigated as a priority. Bjössi, I want you to start by contacting Stockholm. Then Interpol. Snorri will email you the picture of our boy to send out.’

  She put the sheaf of documents from Swiftcars on to the desk in front of him.

  ‘His passport, driving licence and credit card details are all in there, so hopefully our herring-munching friends in Sweden can tell us something straight away. Get on to Visa. The credit card trail might help us as well.’ Gunna took a long breath. ‘We don’t know if he’s still in the country. We have no idea if he thinks we might be on to him. We can only assume he’s dangerous and not to be approached. OK? That’s all for now.’

  The group scattered, leaving Gunna and Snorri behind as they all hunched behind phones and computers or disappeared from the room.

  ‘What now, chief?’ Snorri asked.

  Gunna thought. ‘I want to know where Matti Kristjáns is in all this. He was nowhere to be found yesterday, so you’d better be off to Reykjavík for the afternoon and see if you can track the old bastard down. Have a quick look at the taxi ranks and if he’s not there, get straight down to Nonni the Taxi’s place. Be as heavy as you like if they don’t cooperate.’

  ‘OK. I can do that.’

  ‘It’s getting on for one now, and there’s the briefing with Vilhjálmur Traustason at five, so hopefully I’ll have something for him by then. You’d better be off and see if you can find anything out before then.’

  With everyone else busy, Gunna tapped a computer until it awoke from its sleep, typed ‘Clean Iceland’ into a search engine and waited impatiently for the machine to do her bidding.

  A list of choices appeared, Gunna clicked on the most obvious one and instantly the website of the Clean Iceland Campaign emerged in front of her. She saw that it was largely in English and began to pick her way through the panels of information, starting with news. Here she scrolled down to the beginning of the year, quickly found a bulletin on Egill Grímsson’s death and read through a short biography of the man, detailing his commitment to the cause of opposing heavy industry in Iceland and his devotion to his family, alongside his dedication to his job as a schoolteacher in the grey Reykjavík suburb where he had lived for most of his forty-four years.

  Gunna made a few notes, including that he had been one of the founders of the movement and had lobbied the Ministry of Environmental Affairs tirelessly, while being involved in an international campaign of protests outside Icelandic embassies across the developed world in cooperation with environmental groups abroad that formed a loose network across much of Europe, North America and some Asian countries.

  She closed the window on the screen and sat back.

  So, he was a bit of a firebrand on the quiet, was our Egill, she mused.

  23

  Sunday, 21 September

  This time Matti Kristjáns wasn’t just worried — he was frightened. He ran the conversation with Hardy over in his mind as he packed those of his meagre possessions that he didn’t dare leave behind.

  ‘Meet me in an hour and we’ll talk it over,’ Hardy had said nonchalantly, too nonchalantly, Matti thought. Had it been a mistake to tell Hardy a little bird had whispered in his ear that the police were looking for him? Although no stranger to a little persuasion himself, Matti couldn’t forget Hardy’s coolness after having so effortlessly broken the wrist of the man in the farmhouse outside Borgarnes.

  Rooting under his bed, he hauled out a seaman’s canvas kitbag and stuffed clothes unceremoniously into it, dirty clothes and clean going in together, and a sleeping bag on top of the lot. From the drawer in the bedside table he took a few papers, driving licence, health insurance card, passport and a couple of bank cards, all of which he stowed in the inside pocket of his jacket.

  Sadly he surveyed the stack of glossy pornography peeking from under his bed. Antiques, some of these, he thought with a pang, recalling that the airbrushed nudes had been with him through plenty of tough times without a word of complaint.

  Matti shoved the stack back under his bed and clicked the door shut on his way out. At the bottom of the stairs he paused and listened for the TV in the living room. A daytime soap meant that the old woman was in. In fact, she wasn’t older than Matti, but years of hard living had taken a grim toll.

  ‘Tóta! Going out for a bit,’ Matti called, hoping she wouldn’t hear him, but the door swung open and the heavy-set woman stood in the doorway leaning on the frame.

  ‘Going to be long?’ she demanded without taking the cigarette from her lips.

  ‘Day or two,’ Matti lied.

  ‘Paid up, are you?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so,’ he lied again as Tóta’s eyes narrowed, and he knew that she could smell something wrong. Set a thief to catch a thief, he thought bitterly.

  ‘Well, if you’re not sure how long you’re going to be, then I’d better have another month’s rent so’s I can be sure,’ she said in a sandpaper growl.

  Matti knew when not to argue. He pulled a handful of notes from his trouser pocket and handed them over.

  ‘That’s all I’ve got right now. Nonni’s supposed to be paying out at the end of the month for the booking work and we’ll square up then if that’s OK.’

  Tóta thumbed through the notes, counting under her
breath.

  ‘All right. That’ll do for now,’ she said as her face broke into a gap-toothed smile. ‘I won’t rent your room out straight away, though I reckon I could put four Poles in there tomorrow if I wanted to. Tonight, even,’ she cackled, and promptly dissolved into a fit of coughing. Matti made his escape as Tóta’s face was beginning to go a colour he wasn’t comfortable with.

  The big car’s engine whispered into life and within seconds he had made up his mind and was out on the main road, heading through the late morning traffic of Reykjanesbraut to Kópavogur. He drove through the centre of the town in a hurry, but not enough of a hurry to attract attention. He kept his eyes peeled for the police, half expecting to see his cousin Gunnhildur creeping up on him with that sinister lopsided grin of hers.

  Matti shuddered at the thought that Hardy was now probably aware that he wasn’t going to meet him, and he waited for his phone to ring as he swung off the main road and swerved to take the speed bumps of the suburban streets as painlessly as possible. He stamped on the brake and stopped in front of a terraced house at the bottom of a cul-de-sac. He leaped out of the car, bounded up the half-dozen steps and was inside the door as he hammered on it.

  ‘Marika!’

  ‘She sleeping,’ a tall woman in a coarse towelling dressing gown said sourly, appearing from the kitchen with a plate of toast in one hand.

  ‘But she’s here?’ Matti demanded. ‘Alone?’

  ‘She alone,’ the woman replied sharply. ‘We not work here,’ she added, by which time Matti was at the top of the stairs and knocking at a door. Before a sleepy questioning reply was heard, he was already inside the room.

  ‘Marika, get up. We have to go.’

  ‘What? Matti?’ The girl in the bed looked out from under her duvet in bewilderment, black hair twisted around her face.

  ‘Marika, listen,’ Matti panted. ‘We have to get away from here. Just for a few days. There’s trouble.’