Frozen Assets gm-1

by Quentin Bates

  ‘You know,’ Skúli said, looking at the image on his computer screen, ‘I spoke to this man at the march.’

  ‘What? Why didn’t you say so before?’

  ‘Should I have?’

  ‘Ach, I’m sorry, Skúli. Now, tell me more.’

  ‘Well, not much really. He came and chatted for a minute, and then he was gone. Didn’t think much of it.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Not much. Asked if I was a journo and I said yes. He said he was working for a German magazine called Eco Zeit, but I googled it afterwards and it doesn’t seem to exist.’

  ‘Did he say his name?’

  ‘No, don’t think so.’

  ‘And is he German or what?’

  Skúli thought. ‘Sorry, I don’t know. He spoke English very well, better than I do, but I couldn’t tell you if he had an accent or not.’

  There was a tap at the door and Lára appeared, grinning.

  ‘Hi,’ Skúli responded with a warmth that told Gunna he was more than a little pleased to see her. ‘That was quick.’

  ‘Wasn’t it just? I was upstairs. Been doing some pictures for Home and Garden magazine on the next floor,’ she said, unfolding a laptop and tapping it into life. She quickly located a folder of image files, swiped across them and opened the whole series.

  ‘These are the pics from the march. That was a pretty good day, I even sold some photos of it in Denmark and Sweden. Now, what was it you wanted to look at?’

  Skúli turned his computer towards her and pointed to the man’s face behind Gunna’s shoulder.

  ‘Oh, that creep,’ Lára said.

  ‘You spoke to him?’

  ‘Briefly. He asked for my phone number and said we ought to meet for a drink sometime.’

  Gunna was amused to see Skúli bridle visibly.

  ‘A bit too smooth, I thought,’ Lára continued.

  ‘Where did you think he was from?’

  ‘Not from here, at any rate. He spoke English, but he could be from anywhere. Not England, though. His English was too precise, too perfect. Y’know what I mean? Like he’d learned it at school.’

  ‘Lára knows. She studied in England,’ Skúli butted in.

  ‘What were you studying? Photography?’ Gunna asked.

  ‘No. Human resource management, actually.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, I wanted to study abroad, but to get a student loan it had to be something that isn’t offered in Iceland. So I went for human resource management.’

  ‘And now you’re a photographer?’

  ‘That’s right. I trained to manage a big department, and now I work for myself. Good, isn’t it?’ Lára asked brightly.

  ‘OK, good. But if you’re sure this guy wasn’t a native English speaker, that helps. Now, any photos?’

  ‘Yeah, there are a few more of him somewhere. What’s he done?’

  ‘Not sure yet, and as it’s an ongoing inquiry, I couldn’t tell you anyway at the moment,’ Gunna grunted, hunched over the screen as Lára tapped the space bar to toggle between pictures.

  ‘There he is again, behind those guys who didn’t want to let anyone pass.’

  ‘That’s him,’ Gunna agreed. ‘Any more?’

  They scrolled through the several hundred pictures and found half a dozen showing the man’s face, each time at the periphery of the march and never far from the police presence. Lára copied the picture files and handed them to Gunna on a disk.

  ‘Here you are.’

  ‘Thanks. It’s not a problem to let me have these? Journalistic integrity and all that?’

  ‘Hell, no,’ Lára replied. ‘As long as you’re not stopping me doing my job, it’s not a problem. I’m happy to help the police, and I’d be even happier if they found the bastard who burgled my flat.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Breidholt.’

  Gunna thought for a moment. ‘Sævaldur Bogason’s patch, I think. I’ll remind him when I see him. Anyway, Skúli, I’m afraid I might have to ask you not to publish the photo of me with our man in the background, or at least to crop him out if that’s possible. If he is someone we’re looking for, then I’d prefer not to spook him. When does it all go to print?’

  ‘Week after next, I think.’

  ‘Right. I’ll let you know. Give me a day or two. Lára, thank you for your assistance, it all helps.’

  26

  Wednesday, 24 September

  Although Gunna had seen the County Sheriff before, she had never had a reason to speak to him. Seated in the incident room in front of her and flanked by Vilhjálmur Traustason and Ívar Laxdal, he looked surprisingly youthful in faded jeans and an open-necked shirt instead of his usual office wear.

  ‘So, what do you want to tell me about?’ the Sheriff asked as Gunna stood up in front of the whole group. Bjössi, Bára and Snorri sat behind them and waited.

  ‘I have some information about the person who may have been in the vicinity when Einar Eyjólfur Einarsson was murdered—’

  ‘Allegedly,’ Vilhjálmur broke in.

  ‘Allegedly,’ Gunna repeated. ‘But I felt that in the light of what we’ve been told, I’d best call you all together to save myself from having to repeat this later.’

  Vilhjálmur fidgeted while the Sheriff nodded. Gunna took a deep breath and thumbed copies of a series of pictures to the wall.

  ‘The team have been in touch with police forces in the UK, Germany, Sweden, Denmark and Norway. Sweden came up trumps and this is the man we want to talk to.’

  ‘And he is?’ Vilhjálmur asked querulously.

  ‘Gunnar Ström. He’s been identified as having hired a car that appears to have been on the quay at Hvalvík the night Einar Eyjólfur died. He bears a striking resemblance to the person who stole the jeep that is likely to have been used to murder Egill Grímsson. We are absolutely certain he was present at the march on the InterAlu compound at Hvalvík.’

  ‘A lot of coincidences?’ Ívar Laxdal asked quietly.

  ‘Plenty of them,’ Gunna agreed, feeling her shirt start to stick to her back and wishing she had taken off her uniform tunic. ‘But considering this man’s background, I feel we need to concentrate on him.’

  ‘Go on,’ Ívar Laxdal prompted.

  ‘Not a pleasant character. Several sentences for violent crimes, involvement with narcotics, and a big car theft operation that exported stolen cars to West Africa from Scandinavia via various Baltic States. It seems he’s broken quite a few kneecaps in his time and he’s suspected of nastier things, including at least one disappearance and a very unpleasant incident with someone’s fingers and a hammer and chisel, but not much that can be proved. The man’s a pro.’

  ‘Is that all?’ Vilhjálmur asked, his face pale with horror.

  ‘His background is that he’s a Norwegian national, aged forty-two, naval PT and unarmed combat instructor until dishonourably discharged. Resident in Sweden since 1993, half a dozen stretches including a five-year sentence for grievous bodily harm, which was the hammer and chisel thing.’

  ‘Good God,’ Vilhjálmur whispered.

  ‘His real name’s Gunnar Hårde, with a little circle over the A, so I suppose he might be related to the Prime Minister, but I doubt it somehow.’

  ‘A proper Norwegian conspiracy?’ Bjössi shot in. For form’s sake, Gunna frowned at him and smothered the urge to laugh.

  ‘Something like that. Anyway, our man’s been a good boy for the last few years, travels under his own name, listed in the Södertälje phone book. But Special Branch in Sweden have been keeping an eye on him and he’s been back and forth to Estonia and Latvia quite a bit in the last few years. No idea what he’s been doing there, but he’s been declaring income from what’s described as work as a security consultant, and paying his taxes like a good boy. Still waiting to hear back from Oslo.’

  ‘Good. Did you run the Gunnar Ström name past them in Sweden?’

  ‘Yup. He’s used that name befor
e, but a long time ago. Other names he’s used are Ekström and Angström. They’re checking with their passport office for any valid passports in those names that might fit our boy. But the fun part is that Sweden says our man is retained as a security consultant for InterAlu, which means he’s on our doorstep. He may well be in the country right now.’

  Gunna surveyed the three men sitting in front of her in silence. Vilhjálmur looked aghast.

  Ívar Laxdal’s expression was impassive and the County Sheriff looked thoughtful.

  ‘What do you need, Gunna?’ he asked quietly. ‘More people?’

  ‘Not right now. I need cooperation straight away from other forces and some quick backup when it’s needed. I may need to upset some people in high places, but I don’t reckon that’s something that can be avoided if we’re to get to the bottom of this.’

  ‘That can all be arranged, can’t it, Ívar?’

  Ívar Laxdal nodded and grunted, his chin in one hand.

  ‘And as this guy is clearly dangerous, I want access to the Special Unit if some strong-arm stuff looks likely.’

  ‘As this appears to be a unique case for Icelandic policing, I feel a more senior officer should be handling it,’ Vilhjálmur said abruptly.

  ‘I was wondering when this was going to occur to you,’ Gunna murmured.

  Ívar Laxdal and the Sheriff frowned in unison.

  ‘Gunnhildur is a highly competent officer. I don’t see a problem with her taking charge of this investigation, particularly as she has been with it from the outset,’ the Sheriff pointed out.

  ‘This is an exceptional case,’ Vilhjálmur responded stiffly.

  ‘And in my view Gunnhildur is an exceptional police officer,’ Ívar Laxdal said. ‘She’s familiar with every aspect of the investigation so far and we risk losing time by handing over to someone more senior. Do you have another officer in mind? Do you feel you should be in personal charge?’

  Vilhjálmur opened his mouth and closed it again, while Gunna wondered when they were going to stop discussing her as if she were in another room. Unlike the three men sitting in front of her, she could see frowns on the faces of Bjössi, Snorri and Bára behind them. There was silence for a moment until Ívar Laxdal broke it.

  ‘This is something you’re confident to handle, isn’t it, Gunnhildur?’

  ‘It is,’ she answered hoarsely.

  ‘That’s settled, then,’ Ívar Laxdal said with satisfaction. ‘Now, where are you taking this?’

  ‘As low-profile as possible for the moment.’

  She turned to the desk, picked up Matti’s picture and one of the green taxi and added them to the row of photographs on the wall.

  ‘I would very much like to track down this character, Marteinn Georg Kristjánsson, known as Fat Matti. He’s a taxi driver and small-time criminal who we understand has been ferrying Ström/ Hårde, whatever we decide to call him, around the country. Matti has disappeared and I’m concerned for his safety. I’m hoping that he hasn’t been quietly disposed of, as he may well be able to provide some information about Hårde’s activities.’

  Ívar Laxdal nodded. ‘I think the best we can do is to leave you to get on with it. Agreed?’ he asked, turning first to the Sheriff and then to Vilhjálmur before shoving his chair backwards as they all rose to their feet.

  ‘If you need anything, call me,’ he said as the door swung shut behind them.

  ‘Well done, sweetheart,’ Bjössi announced, breaking the silence and clapping his hands slowly. ‘Knocked ’em dead. Now what?’

  Gunna sat down and felt her legs turn to jelly. ‘Snorri, I’d like you to start with a quick scout around Reykjavík and see if you can find Matti anywhere before we put out an alert for him. Bára, anything from Clean Iceland about Egill Grímsson and Einar Eyjólfur?’

  ‘Nothing concrete. Supposed to be meeting them this afternoon.’

  ‘All right,’ Gunna decided. ‘Keep to that, but let me know. Bára, would you check to see if Fat Matti’s taxi has been picked up anywhere and check all the flights as far back as you can for Ström or Hårde? That’s it for now. I have to get back to Hvalvík for an hour and I’ll see you all here in . . .’ She craned her neck to see the clock on the wall. ‘In two hours.’

  Reynir Óli scowled. Sometimes Dagurinn’s editor felt that a little discipline could be applied to Jonni Kristinsson, but a feeling that he would be unlikely to come out of it well had always held him back.

  ‘Well? What do you have?’

  Jonni looked sideways at her as Dagga took a deep breath.

  ‘ESC,’ she said.

  Reynir Óli’s head jerked up, eyes wide. ‘What?’

  ‘Energy Supply Consultation.’

  ‘I know what it stands for,’ he snapped. ‘What’s the story?’

  ‘It’s to do with that Hvalvík aluminium project, the one that went quiet when National Power decided not to sell them electricity.’

  Reynir Óli had recovered his composure, but had a nasty taste in his mouth and was sure that Jonni was scrutinizing him. He nodded slowly. ‘And?’

  ‘I understand that it’s about to be floated on the stock exchange now that it has a contract to supply InterAlu with electricity.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘ESC were granted a special concession as a public-private partnership to build an autonomous hydro-electric plant in the hills above Hvalvík, so they can dam the river there to produce electricity and supply it to InterAlu.’

  ‘Isn’t this just rumour?’ Reynir Óli asked. ‘Is this really a story that we can use?’

  ‘Good grief, man. If that isn’t a story, what is?’ Jonni exploded, pulling off his glasses and pointing them at Reynir Óli. ‘Public money used to set up a dodgy company that then gets floated while all the scumbags in the know get share options. They get a fat contract through some shady back-door deals with other government departments, side-stepping a state monopoly in the process, and the moment the contract with InterAlu becomes public knowledge, their share value will go through the roof.’

  ‘Channel Three’s already sniffing around it,’ Dagga added. ‘I don’t know how far they’ve got, but they’ll run it as soon as they can get a handle on the scam.’

  Panic flashed behind Reynir Óli’s rimless glasses. ‘I need to see something absolutely cast-iron before we can run this,’ he said doubtfully. ‘Look, guys, we don’t want to upset too many people too early. So, look, er, keep this very discreet and, er, I’ll do some consultation. OK?’

  Without pausing to listen to a reply, Reynir Óli was gone.

  ‘Like a scalded cat,’ Jonni observed with satisfaction. ‘Did you make that up about Channel Three being on to all this?’

  Dagga nodded.

  ‘Master stroke. Excellent.’

  Skúli looked from one to the other and back again. ‘Is all this true?’

  ‘Is what true?’ Dagga asked.

  ‘All that about ESC and InterAlu and Hvalvík?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Jonni replied. ‘According to some of my finest unattributable sources of government gossip, our young lady here is right on the money.’

  27

  Thursday, 25 September

  ‘Seen him?’ Gunna demanded as soon as Snorri came in.

  ‘Not a whisper of him anywhere.’

  ‘Bloody man. Where the hell is he?’

  ‘No idea, chief. He’s just vanished.’

  ‘Right. Tell me where you went.’

  Snorri sat down and opened his folder of notes, with everything carefully logged. His finger followed the trail down the page.

  ‘Started at the taxi ranks, Hafnarfjördur, Kópavogur, Grensás, then Lækjartorg, Tryggvagata, the usual places. No sign. Spoke to a few of the taxi drivers and nobody’s seen Fat Matti about. Then his flat, bedsit, whatever you call it. Ugly Tóta — is she really called that?’

  ‘Ugly by name and ugly by nature. She used to be a terrible hell-raiser in her younger days, which weren’t that long ago. I’ve bun
dled her into the back of a squad car more than once.’

  ‘Ugly Tóta hasn’t seen him. Nothing more than she told you the other day.’

  ‘So he hasn’t been back?’

  ‘Not that she’s aware of, and there’s hardly anything in his room to come back for anyway, you said.’

  ‘OK. Didn’t expect anything else. How about Nonni the Taxi?’

  ‘Nothing there either. Nonni was there himself this time and he’s not happy.’

  ‘He’s not a cheerful character at the best of times.’

  ‘Even less cheerful now. Matti’s actually one of his best drivers and he does quite a bit of his contract work, and for that they like to keep the same faces as much as possible. He says that when Matti’s not well, by which I suppose he means pissed, then he always calls in. Never fails. But now he’s disappeared and so has the car.’

  ‘In that case I can understand. A newish car, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yup. No car and no driver to drive it. Like the man said, there’s payments to be made on the vehicle whether it’s earning money or not.’

  ‘Did you come over heavy?’

  ‘Did my best. Nonni was a bit reticent until I pushed him and made it clear that this is a murder inquiry we’re dealing with, and he came clean.’

  Gunna just raised an eyebrow instead of asking.

  ‘It seems that some of what Matti does by way of contract work is for Mundi Grétars.’

  ‘Scaramanga?’

  ‘That’s the one. Evil place, a real rip-off. They have some, um, exotic dancers there who apparently do more than just dance, all foreign girls.’

  ‘Prostitution?’

  ‘Who knows? The policy is that whatever the girls do outside working hours is up to them. It seems that some do and some don’t. But it’s common knowledge that Mundi doesn’t discourage them from doing business, as it keeps the punters coming in. Matti and a few of the other drivers ferry them about to wherever they’re supposed to be working.’