Frozen Assets gm-1

by Quentin Bates

  ‘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.’

  ‘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.’