Frozen Assets gm-1

by Quentin Bates

  ‘Edda! Olli! Here, now.’

  The two young officers tumbled into the room from the kitchen.

  ‘Any luck?’ Gunna asked Olli.

  ‘Not yet. They’re on to it and are calling me back. They want to verify my status as well.’

  ‘You can do that at the station. This lady is going to Hverfisgata with you, right now.’

  Sigurjóna half rose to her feet and began to protest. ‘Why? What is this for? I want my lawyer here right now, this instant—’ she crowed before Gunna cut her off.

  ‘You are going to Hverfisgata to be questioned properly about your role in assisting a wanted felon in evading custody, to begin with. Then there’s your role in the deaths of Egill Grímsson and Einar Eyjólfur Einarsson, and I’m sure there’re a few things to be found out there.’

  ‘I knew nothing about that,’ Sigurjóna snarled.

  ‘And then we can move on to the fact that you’ve knowingly hindered an investigation. From there we can go on to possession of a proscribed substance with intent to supply. How’s that?’

  ‘You fucking evil fat lesbian bitch,’ Sigurjóna hissed. ‘Arresting me, you’ll fucking suffer for this. You know who my husband is.’

  ‘Yeah. A soon-to-be ex-Minister. You’re not being arrested. You’re being taken into custody for your own protection. You’ve five minutes to put some clothes on.’

  Edda and Olli took unsure steps forward.

  ‘Take her to Hverfisgata and let her sober up a bit before we start talking to her. Her lawyer can be called, but don’t hurry any more than you have to. If she kicks up, cuffs. All right? Get a move on then,’ she ordered, as Edda stepped forward and gripped Sigurjóna’s upper arm to bring her to her feet.

  Erna decided that she had time for an hour at the gym and a visit to the salon before her flight. As she stopped at the junction to turn left, a police car came fast along the main road, slowed sharply and turned into her street. She wondered what it was doing in such a quiet neighbourhood and decided they would probably be looking for one of the neighbours’ teenage kids. She’d find out when she got back, she thought, grinned to herself and patted the shoulder bag on the seat beside her.

  Erna had packed no more than a change of underwear, shorts, a couple of T-shirts and a minimum of toiletries, as well as her laptop and an old address book. Hand baggage only this trip. If she needed anything else, hell, there were shops in Morocco as well, she decided, not that she was planning on wearing too many clothes. Her stomach fluttered in anticipation of seven days at the secluded villa in M’diq, a sleepy resort an hour’s drive east of Tangier still known only to a discerning few.

  She had booked the flights and the hire care online, and called to let Hardy know to meet her in the departure lounge. She listened to his deep chuckle with a pleasure that bordered on the sensual, recalling listening to that rumbling laugh through his chest.

  Hårde’s rented car rolled out through the compound gate and along the road back to Hvalvík. At the crossroads outside the town, he turned away from the main road and took the old unmade track that he knew would be noisy and uncomfortable, but would take him unobtrusively to Keflavík and the airport where Erna would be expecting to meet him in a few hours.

  Outside the town and on a curve that was out of sight of prying eyes, Hårde pulled off the road. There were several hours to wait since his work at the compound had been simpler than expected. He had decided not to tell the site manager about InterAlu’s decision — they’d find out soon enough.

  Hårde closed his eyes and kicked off his shoes. He drew his feet up into the closest approximation he could manage of a lotus position and concentrated on each breath, forcing himself to be calm.

  Bjarni Jón Bjarnason fretted in club class. With the aircraft in flight, he was cut off from phone, email and the exchange rate, and hated it.

  He hailed a passing stewardess, asked for a brandy and admired the woman’s muscular bottom as she bustled away to fetch it.

  The meeting with Horst had left him numb. He could see little more than the whole edifice crashing about his ears. Spearpoint would be left high and dry by the bank with crippling commitments and no customer to buy the power it was due to start producing at the end of the year — if they were even to get that far.

  Maybe he could pull strings and get the National Power Authority to absorb the project — in return for a quiet payoff of some kind that would settle outstanding debts. Nationalizing it could be the answer. ESC could become public property, with Spearpoint’s holding quietly transferred somehow, which would look good at any rate, he thought idly, and caught himself as his thoughts drifted back to Sigurjóna.

  Maybe it was time for a change, a quiet parting of the ways and a smooth divorce? But he knew that, with Sigurjóna, nothing was likely to be quiet or smooth. A husband in government was a major asset to her that she would be unlikely to let go easily.

  He sympathized with her. Spearpoint had been doing extraordinarily well on the basis of her undoubted personal skills and their combined access to the right people. They both felt they had worked hard to get this far. But Sigurjóna was certainly hard work. A sweet little thing who would do as she was asked, give him a brood of children and not spit venom every time he lit a cigar would also be nice.

  And what about her lunatic sister? Bjarni Jón groaned to himself out loud. The stewardess with the magnificently toned behind looked at him with momentary concern as she delivered his brandy with a flashing smile, and he smiled wanly in return. No rings on her fingers. He quickly considered asking for her phone number but decided against it.

  But Erna, bloody hell, what a mess. Two out-of-control kids, two failed marriages, numerous smashed cars and a discreet spell in rehab, not to mention bailing her out of a cell once or twice after screaming matches in the street. Bjarni Jón was fully aware that Sigurjóna and Erna were close, but the woman was a liability he could do without. So where the bloody hell had she got to this time? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t disappeared for a day or three before, but this time Sigurjóna was clearly more worried than usual. Hell, he’d worry about it when he got home, he thought, allowing his eyes to drift back to the stewardess’s buttocks as she backed down the aisle with the trolley of drinks yet again.

  Hårde opened his eyes. The sun was higher in the sky than it had been when he had closed them. His mind was calm. The dusty surface of the road told him that nobody had passed while he had thought.

  The time he had spent concentrating on every breath, guiding his attention back to counting each slow inhalation whenever his thoughts wandered, had cleared his mind.

  He picked up the mobile phone that he had switched off at the

  InterAlu compound and opened it. He deftly lifted out the SIM card, dropped it out of the car’s window into the grass at the roadside and replaced it with another that had been wrapped in a twist of paper in his wallet. He switched on and scrolled to one of only a few numbers in the directory.

  ‘Horst,’ the gravel voice answered.

  ‘Hårde.’

  ‘Problem?’

  ‘Not sure. I need an alternative route off this island.’

  ‘You are mobile? Car?’

  ‘For the moment. I may have to get rid of the car soon.’

  ‘Call me back in twenty minutes. I’ll have something for you,’ Horst said, ending the call abruptly.

  She watched Sigurjóna sit defiantly in the back of the squad car, handed the keys of the house to Edda for safekeeping and shut the door behind her. Pacing Sigurjóna’s gravelled path with a Camel, Gunna returned Snorri’s missed call.

  ‘You called. What is it, lad?’

  ‘Hårde, I think. There’s a pair of seats booked on a flight to Madrid at five thirty this afternoon. Names of Erna Daníelsdóttir and Gunnar Hadre.’

  ‘Madrid? Erna as well? You know she’s been reported missing?’

  ‘Maybe she’s not that missing after all.’

  ‘Obviously not,’ Gunna pond
ered. ‘It might be a smokescreen of some kind. I don’t like it. The man knows he’s being looked for. I want a team up there to grab him if he does show up for this flight, but I want surveillance up there straight away. Get on to the airport force, will you? Tell them what’s happening.’

  ‘Yeah, of course, chief.’

  ‘Is Vilhjálmur about?’

  ‘In his office, I think.’

  ‘OK. I’ll call him there.’

  She dialled again and listened to the ringing tone with impatience.

  ‘Vilhjálmur,’ announced the expected measured tone.

  ‘Gunna. There’s plenty going on and now I need you to do your bit.’

  ‘Ah, Gunnhildur. Making progress, I assume? Excellent—’

  Gunna cut him off abruptly. ‘Vilhjálmur, listen. Sigurjóna Huldudóttir’s in custody at Hverfisgata.’

  ‘What? The Minister’s wife? You’re certain?’ he demanded through a sharp intake of breath.

  Gunna could feel the tremor of fear in the voice on the other end. ‘Of course I’m bloody sure, and I can find grounds to hold the miserable cow if she makes a fuss. Now, listen, and you’d better write this down. I want you to get on to Reykjavík now, straight away. I need a car in Mjósundsvegur with at least two officers before I get there.’

  Vilhjálmur was silent, but she could hear the scratch of his fountain pen.

  ‘Mjósundsvegur. Number?’ he asked to her relief.

  ‘Don’t know. It’s a guesthouse at the top end by the church. That’s where our man’s been staying. I doubt he’s there, but I don’t want to chance it alone.’

  ‘Quite right,’ Vilhjálmur replied. ‘I’ll get it fixed for you right away.’

  ‘Ask forensics to get there as well. If there are any prints, I want them. As soon as I’m done there, I’ll be on the way out to Keflavík again. Things are happening at the airport, I reckon, so I want you to get on to the most senior officer there and brief him. Snorri can tell you more. All right?’

  Vilhjálmur Traustason had the fleeting feeling that Gunna had been promoted over his head.

  ‘Nine five five zero, zero three five five.’

  Gunna’s communicator buzzed and she pressed the button on her headset to reply.

  ‘Zero three five five, nine five five zero.’

  ‘Olli here. The phone company just got back to me. The number is an ordinary pay-as-you go SIM card that was never registered. It’s the sort you can pick up at petrol stations. Nothing special about it and no hope of identifying the user.’

  ‘Not to worry. It was worth a go.’

  ‘Hang on. It’s been switched off for about two hours.’

  ‘Any idea where?’

  ‘The last connection was through the mast at Lækjarbakki.’

  ‘Outside Hvalvík?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Two hours ago?’

  ‘Last connection was 10.05.’

  ‘OK, thanks, Olli. Make sure the number’s monitored in case it comes up again, and will you ask the phone company to call me direct if there’s any activity?’

  ‘Will do. We checked Erna Dan’s house as well, all quiet, no sign of anything unusual and the intruder alarm says it’s active.’

  ‘Good,’ Gunna said. ‘Sounds like nobody home there.’

  They were back around the incident room table, ignored computer screens lighting the room with their dim glow. There was a chill in the room now that the sun had travelled far enough west by midday for its rays to leave their side of the building in shadow.

  ‘What do we have?’ Gunna demanded, without bothering to greet anyone and hauling off her jacket as she sat down.

  ‘I went to the Gullfoss like you said,’ Bára began. ‘Tracked down a doorman who saw Hårde leave with Erna at about two in the morning. They left on foot and he didn’t see them take a cab or get in a car.’

  Vilhjálmur shimmered silently in. Gunna looked up at him inquiringly, but he held both hands up palms outwards to indicate that he did not intend to take part other than to listen.

  ‘Who spoke to the snapper, Ármann?’

  ‘Me, chief,’ Snorri replied quickly. ‘Nothing much to tell, really. He didn’t notice Erna and Hårde particularly, just snapped off the photo of every table and got as many names as he could.’

  ‘Nothing, then?’

  ‘Nothing we didn’t know already. He showed me the whole file of pictures he took, and our two can only be seen in a couple of them. He left before the party really got going. But he said he saw all the awards being presented and also Sigurjóna dropping hers on the floor.’

  ‘How did that happen?’ Gunna asked.

  ‘Just pissed, I think. Ármann also did some video and he admitted he’d posted the clip of Sigurjóna dropping her statue on to YouTube, the one that Skandalblogger linked to.’

  ‘Any significance there? Does this guy have a link to the Skandalblogger?’ Gunna asked.

  ‘Could be. But if so, he’s not saying anything, which is hardly surprising. Is that relevant at this stage?’

  ‘Probably not,’ Gunna decided. ‘Making a fool of yourself in public generally isn’t a criminal offence. I just want to know where that bloody Hårde is and if Sigurjóna’s fruitcake sister is still in the land of the living. Who dug up the flight ticket info?’

  ‘Me again, chief.’ Snorri’s hand went up. ‘17.35 flight this afternoon to Madrid, booked in the names of Erna Daníelsdóttir and Gunnar Hadre.’

  ‘Hadre?’

  ‘Well, close enough to Hårde. I checked back with the airline. It was booked over the net using a credit card that checks back to Erna Dan.’

  Gunna leaned back and stretched her legs out in front under the table. ‘What I’m wondering is this, did Erna book this and maybe type in Hårde’s name wrong? Or did maybe Hårde book this using her computer and credit card? I have to admit, I’m getting a nasty feeling that we’re going to find a seriously dead Erna somewhere sooner or later.’

  ‘Ah, I’ll see if I can check,’ Snorri said. He seated himself in front of one of the semi-dormant computers and tapped at the keyboard to wake it.

  ‘What does anybody think?’ Gunna asked. ‘I reckon it stinks.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘The man knows we’re looking for him.’

  ‘How would he know that?’ Vilhjálmur asked quietly.

  ‘Because Sigurjóna bloody Huldudóttir told him so. Anyhow, it seems too easy. Watch the airport and wait for him to show up. It’s too simple. A man like Hårde doesn’t get caught out like this.’

  ‘Where else could he go?’ Bára asked.

  ‘Hell, I don’t know. There are private aircraft coming in and out, more than ever now that Iceland has more billionaires per square metre than anywhere else in Europe. There are other airports, shipping, the ferry in the east. Or he might lie low until the heat’s off.’

  ‘Where, though? He’d be noticed, surely?’ Snorri suggested.

  Gunna opened her mouth to speak, but closed it as the door banged open and Bjössi came in.

  ‘I thought you were at Hverfisgata practising police brutality on Sigurjóna?’ he said, as Gunna watched deep disapproval register on Vilhjálmur Traustason’s face.

  ‘Gave up. She flatly refuses to say anything at all without her lawyer present. I left her in an interview room with old Viggó Björgvins to bore the crap out of her.’

  ‘That’ll do the trick. People have been known to admit to all sorts rather than listen to that old fart drone on for hours on end,’ Bjössi agreed. ‘Oh, and there’s a young man down in reception, wants to speak to you and says it’s urgent.’

  ‘What? Who’s that?’

  ‘Don’t know. Said his name’s Skúli. Does that mean anything to you?’

  ‘Ah. Yes. In that case, ten minutes for a coffee and a fag for the puffers. Back here at . . .’ She looked up at the clock, registering that any chance of a lunch break had been and gone. ‘Back at five past.’

&n
bsp; ‘Getting anywhere, Snorri?’ Gunna called across the room as she opened the door.

  ‘The technical bloke at the airline says he’s sure enough that the flights were booked using the Icelandic version of the web page. Also, whoever booked it got all the accents right in Erna’s name, but got Hårde’s name wrong.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that indicates Erna was alive when the flights were booked,’ Gunna rumbled.

  ‘Yeah, but that’s not all. There’s a Gunnvald Ström booked on a flight to Billund this afternoon as well.’

  ‘Bluff? Coincidence? We’d best have a presence at the airport and look out for Mr Ström and hopefully eliminate him.’

  Skúli was sitting in the police station’s lobby with Lára at his side.

  ‘What brings you here?’ Gunna asked as she sat down next to them.

  ‘The guy. We’ve seen him.’

  ‘Which guy? Who do you mean?’

  ‘The one you’re looking for. The one on the Hot Chat pages I showed you.’

  ‘Hårde?’

  ‘I don’t know his name. But the one who was sitting at the table in that picture.’

  ‘He was on the march,’ Lára added.

  ‘Where? When?’

  ‘About twenty minutes ago. At the check-in desk at the airport.’

  ‘You’re sure? What was he up to?’

  ‘He was in the queue to check in for a flight, I suppose.’

  ‘Bloody hell. What were you doing up there, anyway?’

  Skúli grimaced. ‘A shot in the dark. Bjarni Jón Bjarnason was arriving from Berlin. We were supposed to try and get a comment from him if we could, now that the InterAlu withdrawal seems to be happening, but he must have been whisked away through the VIP lounge. Which is what we’d expected anyway. Instead of going straight back, we decided to go for a coffee in the café by the departure desks and Lára almost walked into him.’

  ‘Did he see either of you?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’