Frozen Assets gm-1

by Quentin Bates

  ‘Bjarni Jón. I hardly expected a call from you.’

  ‘Yeah. I have a lot to deal with right now,’ Bjarni Jón Bjarnason murmured into the phone. He tried to keep his voice as low as possible and was hoping that he could make a few necessary calls without alerting Sigurjóna, still sitting blank-eyed in front of the 24/7 News.

  ‘All right. There’s not much I can do for you, my boy.’

  ‘Look. This is me doing you a favour as much as the other way around.’

  ‘One hand scratching the other, you mean?’

  ‘Yeah. Sort of.’

  ‘And what do I get out of it, whatever it is?’

  ‘You get some grateful people who could be in a position to be extremely helpful.’

  ‘Helpful, how?’

  Bjarni Jón took a long breath. ‘You know that things are changing?’

  ‘Ah, the old man’s not going to let you tough it out?’

  Lárus Jóhann chuckled grimly at Bjarni Jón’s silence. ‘Don’t worry, my boy. It’ll all blow over soon enough. Did you think I was born yesterday? Look, there’ll be another scandal along next week, and by the time elections come round again, it’ll all be forgotten. You need a little patience and a thick skin to stay in politics, my boy. Look at Árni Johnsen.’

  Bjarni Jón sighed. ‘If it happens, I hear you’re tipped for the treasury, or am I wrong?’

  Lárus Jóhann could hardly keep the flush of pride from his voice. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, young man.’

  ‘Yes, you do, you old fox.’

  ‘Nobody’s tipped for anything at the moment. My guess is that when the financial situation is announced after the weekend, the old man will want to show a united front, which means nobody will go anywhere — you included.’

  ‘But . . . ?’

  ‘When the dust settles, then there’ll be a round of musical chairs. Until then, I suggest you keep your head down and jump when the old man cracks the whip.’

  ‘In that case, a word to the wise.’

  ‘What are we talking about?’ Lárus Jóhann asked sharply, and Bjarni Jón knew he had his full attention.

  ‘If you don’t know, I’m not going to say anything.’

  ‘Come on, play the game, will you?’

  ‘Lárus, this is just a piece of advice that helps you far more than it helps me. Listen, there’s a ship docked at Skarfanes.’

  ‘What, at that fishmeal factory?’

  ‘Yes, Lárus, the one your wife owns forty per cent of. That one.’

  ‘Go on, Bjarni.’

  ‘This ship needs to leave on Friday without anything untoward happening. No customs, no inspections, nobody looking too closely at the crew. You understand?’

  ‘Not entirely, but I assume you’ll explain soon enough.’

  ‘When the ship’s gone, I’ll tell you everything you need to know. Just whisper in the right ears.’

  ‘I’m intrigued.’

  ‘Just do it, Lárus.’

  ‘But you give me your word you’ll tell me what this is all about?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I know. You’re in Parliament on Saturday?’

  ‘I’ll be in my Parliamentary office until twelve. Come and see me before that.’

  ‘Right. See you then,’ Bjarni Jón said, and the phone went dead.

  It was still blowing gusts heavy with the tang of seaweed, but the rain had stopped and sunshine was making valiant attempts to break through broken banks of grey and black cloud scudding across from the west.

  The lunchtime rush hour was at its peak and the anonymous grey Toyota sat forlornly in the car park, surrounded by the comings and goings of shoppers looking for places to park. A stream of curious onlookers were delighted to have something to watch as they waited in the burger van’s queue as the furore around the little car grew.

  Helga Karen Finnsdóttir was still bewildered by the storm she had unleashed by reporting the little grey Toyota. First the pleasant young policeman who said his name was Snorri had asked her some questions and then asked her not to go further than the coffee shop in the precinct as his sergeant would want to talk to her as well.

  Then all hell was let loose. A van full of people in white overalls had arrived, and a mechanic with Toyota emblazoned on his overalls who had opened the car for them. Then a policeman came with a dog on a lead that sniffed the car and then appeared to go around in circles before snuffling back to a spot away over on the far side of the car park, almost as far as you could get from the grey Toyota.

  Finally the rude policewoman had appeared, fired off a dozen questions and then joined the dog handler before coming back.

  ‘Right, what time was it when you booked the car?’ Gunna asked abruptly.

  ‘I already told your colleague, it was five minutes to twelve.’

  ‘And how long had the car been here?’

  ‘I took a note of its number about nine thirty.’

  ‘So it had been here almost three hours when you gave it a ticket?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ Helga Karen admitted.

  ‘What’s the time limit here?’

  ‘Well, it’s supposed to be two hours, but I don’t like to issue a ticket right on the two hours. I normally give people a few minutes. It’s easy enough to get held up.’

  ‘That makes you a very generous warden,’ Gunna observed, warming to the woman. ‘How long have you been doing this job?’

  ‘About a year. Just over.’

  ‘How often are you supposed to check each car?’

  Helga Karen thought for a moment, huddled deep in her bright yellow waterproof uniform coat, a size or two too large for her.

  ‘It’s supposed to be around every hour or so,’ she said.

  ‘And in practice?’

  ‘There’s just too much to get round in an hour,’ she said helplessly. ‘We have targets and they’re quite hard to reach. I suppose normally I can get around everything in an hour and a half. But I’m on my own today as Jóga who works the shift with me is off as her little boy’s ill and she couldn’t get anyone to sit with him.’

  Gunna was beginning to get impatient. ‘All right, tell me exactly how long this car could have been parked here.’

  ‘It was there just before ten when I did my first round, but it wasn’t there when I finished at four yesterday.’

  ‘So it was parked here between four yesterday afternoon and around ten this morning? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Thank you. That’s what I was after,’ Gunna said, turning and striding away.

  34

  Thursday, 2 October

  Hårde parked the grey Mercedes a street away and walked up the hill with his bag over his shoulder. The car’s owner, who had made the mistake of driving down the rutted track to check on his summer house, was now lying in a heap in his own garden shed and would have no further need of either car or summer house.

  From old force of habit, he had cleared up behind him, washed the dishes he had used and even hung the wet dishcloths on a rail behind the kitchen door. The magazines he had read went back to the rack next to the bed and the remote back to the plastic holder on the TV set. His brief sojourn in the shuttered summer house next to its own black-sand beach had been restful and had given him a chance to sleep, stretch and catch up on the news. There had been nothing on local TV about the hunt for him, and he assumed that this either wasn’t news any more, or else the gathering financial storm was overshadowing everything else. A computer and an internet link would have made things even better, but live football on satellite TV almost made up for it.

  Letting himself in through the back door of Erna’s darkened house, he wondered just how soon the Mercedes’ owner would be missed. The elderly man who had spluttered with fury when he found Hårde watching his TV wore a wedding ring, so presumably his wife would raise the alarm sooner or later. Presumably finding the white truck parked behind the summer house would put the police on to the trail o
f the Mercedes, but that couldn’t be helped. The system alarm bleeped its warning and Hårde quickly punched in the number to disarm it. Without turning on any lights, he made his way through the house, taking in the aroma of Erna that he could smell everywhere.

  The spacious bathroom sat at the middle of the house, the only room with no outside windows. Hårde clicked on the light and shut the door before turning on the hot water and opening one of the cabinets to survey the rows of jars and bottles jumbled on to the shelves.

  Late in the afternoon and everyone was tired. The search was in progress for Ágúst Vilmundsson’s scruffy pickup. The reported sightings of Hårde had slowed to a trickle. Snorri was back at the airport checking flights and working with the airport police on monitoring the hundreds of people passing through the departure lounge.

  Bára yawned to herself, aching to sign off and sleep for a few hours.

  ‘All the prints match up,’ she told Gunna. ‘All the fingerprints from the guesthouse in Mjósundsvegur, the flat in Hverfisgata and the Toyota rental car. All the same person.’

  ‘The cheeky, impudent bastard.’

  Vilhjálmur Traustason appeared silently, accompanied again by Ívar Laxdal, hugging a slim briefcase to his chest and sporting a military-style black beret instead of his usual uniform cap.

  ‘Progress, Gunnhildur?’

  ‘Ach, our man pops up and then he’s gone by the time we get anywhere near him. The phone he was using is dead, I reckon, so no chance of tracking him through that. He had a rental car that he ditched in Hafnarfjördur and we’re as sure as we can be that he stole a white pickup and drove off in that. The search is on for that, but he may have switched cars twice more since then, for all we know.’

  Gunna ran a hand through her hair, leaving it sticking up at angles. ‘I’m telling you, Vilhjálmur, this is one sly bastard. We’ve never had to deal with anyone like this before. He’s a real artist.’

  ‘What do you think your chances of apprehending this character are?’ Ívar Laxdal asked quietly, and Gunna thought quickly.

  ‘The longer he’s running about, the better the likelihood of picking him up. Iceland’s not a big place and there are only so many ways out. But this guy has some highly placed friends somewhere.’

  ‘Do you mean the company he was working for here?’

  ‘Something like that. Although with the news we’ve seen of their business today, I’d imagine they have other fish to fry right now.’

  She drummed her fingers on the desk, wondering whether or not to tell him that deep down she had little hope that Hårde would now be found.

  ‘I don’t doubt that as long as he’s in Iceland we’ll find him,’ she decided. ‘Assuming he is still in the country, he can’t stay that many steps ahead for long and even a pro like this guy will make a mistake or be unlucky sooner or later. What really worries me more than anything is if he’s confronted by a police officer without backup, how far is he prepared to go?’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘This guy has murdered three people already and could easily have killed that Danish guy if he’d wanted to. I’m convinced he didn’t kill him because he was a better diversion alive than as a corpse so that while we buzzed around like flies, he had a breathing space to run for it.’

  ‘What are you asking for, Gunnhildur?’ Vilhjálmur said.

  ‘I need an armed response team I can call on when I need them.’

  ‘I see. Excuse me for a moment,’ Ívar Laxdal said as the mobile phone in his top pocket chimed. He checked the display and answered in an undertone. He looked up quickly at the group.

  ‘One minute. I’ll be right back,’ he said as he clicked the door shut behind him, phone back at his ear.

  ‘I don’t know if I have the authority to mobilize the Special Unit,’ Vilhjálmur said. ‘Is this man armed?’

  ‘I doubt it, although it’s possible. He seems dangerous enough without a gun.’

  Vilhjálmur pursed his lips. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘I’m sure laughing boy in the corridor can mobilize the toy soldiers easily enough,’ Gunna said. ‘Anyway, I have things to do.’

  ‘Where are you putting your effort now?’

  Gunna wanted to tell him that any slight lead would be welcome, but refrained.

  ‘Right now we’re checking every kind of transport link there is. Snorri’s liaising with the international airport. We’ve got flights monitored for anything unusual scheduled to leave the country. Luckily all the squillionaires seem to be hiding at the moment, so there aren’t that many private jets on the move.’

  Vilhjálmur looked sour at the reference to the conflicting reports that had been scattering the news all day on the deepening financial crisis.

  ‘The rest of us are watching shipping at the moment,’ she continued.

  ‘Trawlers?’

  ‘Hardly, Vilhjálmur. Short-haul commercial shipping mostly. There are still a few yachts and cruise ships about, but I don’t think they’re likely.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I’m not too worried about the cruise ships. Port control in Reykjavík is pretty strict and we can worry about that tomorrow anyway. I’m not too fussed about Hafnarfjördur, as the port is so trussed up by security and CCTV that unless he has a cast-iron way into the area, there should be alarm bells ringing in our guy’s head.’

  Gunna rested her chin on her hands and tried to think clearly as Ívar Laxdal returned to the room, his phone stowed back in his top pocket.

  ‘Sorry. I had a few calls to make. Now, were you saying something about armed response?’

  ‘Yes, Vilhjálmur and I were discussing it.’

  ‘Fine. It’s authorized. You have seventy-two hours in which you can alert a six-man team. Echo Squad are already on manoeuvres not far from here, so they can respond fast. I have already alerted their commanding officer.’

  ‘Bloody hell, you work fast,’ Gunna said appreciatively.

  Clearly not used to being addressed with such familiarity by a provincial sergeant, he opened his mouth and then closed it with the words unsaid.

  ‘Keep me posted, please. Check with me within forty-eight hours if you need an extension,’ he finally said frostily, sweeping from the room with Vilhjálmur close behind him.

  35

  Friday, 3 October

  Rain again threatened to break through. Hårde enjoyed the sight of the majestic grey and black clouds rolling across the morning sky just as Gunna looked at them with annoyance and wished the bloody rain would let up for an hour or two.

  In the mirror he critically examined the dark tint that his hair had taken, courtesy of a tube of hair dye from Erna’s bathroom. The expensive sunglasses he had found in her bedroom would only go dark in bright light. He didn’t like the dark hair, but an all-over crop in a few days would take it out.

  Dry weeks followed by a break in the weather had left the Icelandic air sparkling with clarity. The greens of fields and the brown and grey tones of the rocks and hillsides glittered with a new life. Hårde was even enjoying the drive through the jagged lava fields in the smooth Mercedes. It wasn’t his ideal choice of car, but he had to admit it was comfortable. He sped through enough puddles to plaster the number plates with a respectable layer of mud.

  He approached following Horst’s instructions, leaving the main road along a wide but barely visible track that looked at first glance like little more than a flattened area of ground where the black lava had been pounded down.

  The track widened and swung away from the main road down towards the coast where a long swathe of rock had been cleared, shovelled aside and flattened to make way for the long sheds of the factory squatting by the sea. Hårde frowned as an indefinable yet powerful aroma drifted even through the car’s closed windows.

  Passing by the long building where there was no indication of any activity, nor any cars parked by the door at the end marked Office, he found a quiet spot between some containers and an expanse of gr
ound strewn with the detritus of industrial fishing. Pumps, nets packaged into huge bales, coils of rusting wire and assortments of anonymous stainless steel equipment lay stacked on pallets against the day that something might possibly come in useful.

  Hårde left the key in the car, reasoning that there was no need to put the unfortunate owner’s heirs to any additional inconvenience. Briefly he toyed with setting fire to it, figuring that it would cover his tracks more efficiently. He immediately dismissed the idea as impractical — a fire would attract attention and he admitted to himself that he just liked the idea of a bonfire.

  He checked quickly that he had everything, shut the car door and walked past the buildings on the seaward side where a long quayside was deserted apart from a small freighter moored at the far end. A generator rattled and the belching mouthfuls of oily black smoke from the funnel told him that the main engine was being started up.

  The ship was low in the water. Hårde swung his holdall on to his back and took the gangplank in a few long strides before looking about to see where any of the crew could be found. He heard a door slam above him and a bearded face under a peaked cap appeared at the bridge wing.

  ‘Gunnar?’ the man demanded fiercely.

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Good. Come up. Go through the door there and shut it behind you.’

  The ship’s bridge was deceptively small. A single chair occupied the centre overlooking the radar screens, and there was a stool near one of the windows for a lookout.

  ‘I’m Terje,’ the man in the peaked cap said, shaking Hårde’s hand firmly. ‘You’re our new second engineer for this trip?’

  ‘That’s right. Where are we bound, and what are you carrying?’

  ‘Fishmeal, going to Rotterdam, calling at Stornoway. Or so I’m told.’ He smiled. ‘Been to sea before?’

  ‘Yup, but it was a long time ago.’

  ‘In that case I take it you know your way around an engine room, so you’d better go below and sort yourself out. There’re only four of us on board. Follow the smell of food and you’ll find the galley. Trude’s the cook. Tell her I sent you and she’ll show you a cabin. But keep your hands off her. She’s married to the mate and we want to keep this a happy ship.’