Frozen Assets

by Quentin Bates

  Copyright © 2011 by Quentin Bates

  All rights reserved.

  Published by

  Soho Press, Inc.

  853 Broadway

  New York, NY 10003

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Bates, Quentin.

  Frozen assets / Quentin Bates.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-56947-867-7

  eISBN: 978-1-569947-868-4

  1. Policewomen—Iceland—Fiction. 2. Murder—Investigation— Fiction. 3. Financial crises—Iceland—Fiction. 4. Iceland—Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6102.A7847F76 2011

  823’.92—dc22

  2010032522

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Author’s Note

  1 Tuesday, 26 August

  2 Wednesday, 27 August

  3 Thursday, 28 August

  4 Friday, 29 August

  5 Saturday, 30 August

  6 Monday, 1 September

  7 Tuesday, 2 September

  8 Wednesday, 3 September

  9 Thursday, 4 September

  10 Friday, 5 September

  11 Sunday, 7 September

  12 Monday, 8 September

  13 Tuesday, 9 September

  14 Thursday, 11 September

  15 Saturday, 13 September

  16 Sunday, 14 September

  17 Monday, 15 September

  18 Tuesday, 16 September

  19 Wednesday, 17 September

  20 Thursday, 18 September

  21 Friday, 19 September

  22 Saturday, 20 September

  23 Sunday, 21 September

  24 Monday, 22 September

  25 Tuesday, 23 September

  26 Wednesday, 24 September

  27 Thursday, 25 September

  28 Friday, 26 September

  29 Saturday, 27 September

  30 Sunday, 28 September

  31 Monday, 29 September

  32 Tuesday, 30 September

  33 Wednesday, 1 October

  34 Thursday, 2 October

  35 Friday, 3 October

  36 Sunday, 5 October

  37 Monday, 6 October

  38 Tuesday, 7 October

  Author’s Note

  The village of Hvalvík is fictional, but not entirely imaginary.

  My imagination has placed it on the south-west coast of Iceland, a dozen or so kilometres east of the fishing port of Grindavík, which Hvalvík resembles up to a point. Hvalvík is real enough in that it is a combination of the features of many of the quiet villages dotted around the coast of Iceland, where most people make their living from the land or the sea in one way or another. The place is fictional to avoid giving offence to a real police officer, mayor, taxi driver or petrol pump attendant by choosing a real location. Other locations are genuine, although a few liberties have been taken with place names.

  With thanks to everyone who provided help and encouragement — you know who you are. Particular thanks are due to Bylgja for her patience in answering even the most obvious questions.

  1

  Tuesday, 26 August

  Water gurgled between the piles of the dock and the car’s tyres juddered over the heavy timbers. Somewhere a generator puttered on board one of the longliners tied up at the quay.

  The driver turned off the engine and killed the lights before stepping out of the car and taking a deep breath of fragrant summer air, still and laden with the tang of seaweed. He looked about him carefully and walked along the quay, watching the boats for any sign of activity.

  Satisfied, he opened the passenger door. He lifted the passenger’s legs out and then stooped to drape an arm over his shoulders. Grunting with exertion, he hauled the passenger to his feet.

  ‘Waas goin’ on?’ the passenger slurred as the driver steadied himself, planting his feet wide. He half supported, half dragged the passenger the few metres towards the gangplank of the nearest boat.

  ‘Come on. Almost there.’

  The passenger staggered against the driver. ‘W-w-where’s this?’

  ‘Nearly there,’ the driver muttered to himself as much as to his passenger.

  He braced one booted foot on the heavy timber parapet running the length of the quay, and quickly straightened his back as he tipped the passenger headlong into the blackness below. The splash competed for a second with the muttering generator on board a nearby boat and the driver stood still, listening intently. Hearing nothing from below, he nodded to himself and padded back to the car.

  A moment later the engine whispered into life and the car vanished into the night.

  The phone buzzed angrily. Gunna fumbled for the handset in the dark and barked into it.

  ‘Gunnhildur.’

  ‘Good morning. Sorry to wake you up. I did wake you up, didn’t I?’ asked a familiar voice as she cast about for the face that went with it.

  ‘You did,’ she yawned. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Albert Jónasson.’

  Gunna stretched a hand to the curtain and twitched it aside to let in a glare of early morning sunlight.

  ‘And what can I do for you at this ungodly hour?’ she asked, knowing that Albert Jónasson was not a man to trouble a police officer without good reason, especially one who had arrested him only a few weeks before.

  ‘Thought you’d be the best person to talk to. There’s a bloke down by the quay.’

  ‘You woke me up to tell me there’s a stranger by the dock?’ Gunna growled.

  ‘Yeah. A stranger who’s dead.’

  She snapped awake and swung her feet on to the cold floor. ‘Where?’

  ‘On the beach by the pontoons. Saw something in the waves and went to have a look.’

  ‘Right. Stay where you are. I’ll be right there.’

  Gunna drove past the half-dozen longline boats tied up at the quay and slowed down as the car rumbled on to the black gravel that made up the track leading to the small boat dock. She could make out a solitary figure standing next to the only boat there, a bearded bear of a man in orange oilskin trousers pacing the pontoon dock next to a spotless fishing boat that puttered with its engine idling.

  She parked at the top of the dock among the fishermen’s pickup trucks and Albert Jónasson strode to meet her, pointing at a bundle lying among the waves lapping on the black sand of the beach a few metres away.

  ‘Down there,’ he said grimly, following behind as Gunna trod gingerly, wary of disturbing anything.

  ‘Have you been down here, Albert?’ she called over her shoulder.

  ‘No fear. Leave well alone, I thought.’

  ‘You haven’t had a look? How did you know it was a body?’

  ‘I got here a bit late. All the others were away before daybreak. I was just starting up and saw something floating, so I had a look with the binoculars and saw what it was. So I thought I’d better give you a call.’

  Gunna ripped a pair of surgical gloves from the pouch on her tool belt and snapped them on before she squatted by the bundle and gently smoothed matted red hair back from a face that looked peaceful but lost. She pressed the button on her Tetra communicator and spoke into the tiny microphone on her collar.

  ‘Nine eight four one, nine five five zero. Are you there, Haddi?’

  She retreated and pulled her phone from her pocket.

  ‘Albert, are you going to sea today?’ she asked as the dialling tone buzzed.

  ‘I was going to.’

  ‘All right. Ah, Haddi, that took a while,’ she said, switching her attention to the phone. ‘Look, shelve everything, we have an unidentified body floating in the small boat dock. You’d better get the cavalry out.’

  Albert watched
Gunna nodding as she paced back and forth, admiring her solid frame inside the uniform that didn’t do it justice.

  ‘No,’ she continued. ‘Ambulance and the technical division, discreetly if that’s at all possible. Get Bjössi over from CID in Keflavík if he’s not too busy with the Baltic mafia. OK?’

  She ended the call and looked over to where Albert was waiting patiently for her.

  ‘Am I all right to go to sea today, then?’

  ‘When will you be back?’

  ‘Three. Four, maybe.’

  ‘Go on then. But I’ll need you to make a statement when you’ve finished landing your fish.’

  ‘No problem,’ Albert said gratefully, already making his way along the pontoon and throwing off the boat’s mooring ropes in the process. ‘See you later, Gunna,’ he called out as the boat surged from the quay.

  And I’ll stay here and wait for the professionals to turn up, Gunna thought, opening the squad car’s boot to get out a roll of tape to cordon off the area. She wondered if the tape had ever been used before in Hvalvík, a village where a speeding ticket or an uncooperative drunk were the most serious crimes she or Haddi normally had to deal with.

  26-08-2008, 0944

  Skandalblogger writes:

  You can’t keep a good blog down!

  So, we’re back and once again the Icelandic scandal blog has a brand-new home! We’ve been tarred and feathered and run out of town on a rail one more time, so this time we’re back stronger than ever in a delightful part of the world where they respect the power of Mr Visa to overrule the pathetic attempts of those-who-run-things to silence free speech. Hurrah for the Tiger economies! Free speech is there for those willing to pay for it!

  Making friends and influencing people!

  But anyway, folks, and we mean that most sincerely, our favourites are still up to their old tricks. Gunni Benedikts at the trade ministry, no doubt after a looong lunch with his old chum Óli at agriculture, has just decided to block imports of New Zealand lamb to our fair country. Now, some of you may find this a bit hard to stomach, what with all the claptrap these guys have been spouting over the years about free market economics, going for the most competitive bid, and all that shit. But let’s remember which party holds trade? And agriculture? Of course, it’s our old friends the Progressives, and we can’t go upsetting the farmers, or at least the half-dozen who are still in business and who vote for them, just by letting them be undercut by cheap foreign imports. That wouldn’t be fair, would it?

  (Private) Power to (a few of) the People!

  As for everyone’s favourite minister . . . ! Bjarni Jón, now just who are your new friends? And we don’t mean the guys at InterAlu, it’s their friends from further east we’re interested in this time. From what a little bird whispers in our ear, these are oil people. Energy people. Money people. Powerful people. Watch your back, BJB, and when you’ve shaken hands with them, you’d better count your fingers, just to make sure.

  We’ve heard the rumours circulating around environment and trade, and the PM’s office, and we’re not going to believe it, as we know what a great guy you really are. We’re absolutely certain that you’d never sideline the National Power Authority by inviting a foreign company to build and run a private power station to sell electricity to InterAlu. So, please, BJB, tell us it ain’t true?

  Watch this space, there’ll be more tomorrow!

  Bæjó!

  Haddi firmly believed that a whirlwind of unwarranted attention had descended on Hvalvík and its tiny police station. By mid-morning the station’s older, but junior, police officer would have preferred to be making his accustomed tour of the village in the station’s better Volvo, taking in coffee, gossip and a doughnut or three with the lads at the net loft or maybe with one of his cousins in the saltfish plant’s canteen. Instead he found himself fending off a flood of questions through the phone and from the huddle of newspaper and television people outside.

  Outside on the grass verge a serious young woman in a thick parka over a smart city suit presented take after take with the little harbour and Hvalvík’s pastel-painted houses in the background, as if to make sure that Reykjavík viewers understood this was a report from outside their city limits.

  Teams from Morgunbladid, DV, Fréttabladid, state TV and radio, Channel 2, Channel 3, and a few more that Haddi had never heard of had all demanded information, been told there was no statement yet and they’d just have to wait. Haddi was putting the phone down from telling the local paper the same thing when a young man with a mess of gelled fair hair that appeared to defy both gravity and the breeze outside pushed his way through the door into the station’s reception area.

  ‘Yes?’ Haddi asked brusquely, arms folded on the counter.

  ‘Er. Hi. I’m Skúli Snædal from Dagurinn.’

  Haddi rolled his eyes ceilingwards. ‘Look, son, I’ve told all of you that there’ll be a statement this afternoon. Yes, we have found an unidentified person. No, I can’t tell you where. No, I can’t tell you any more than that.’

  ‘But I’m—’

  ‘Sorry. That’s all I can say right now.’

  ‘But that’s not what I’m here for. I’ve come to see Gunnhildur. I’m shadowing her for a while. For Dagurinn,’ he added.

  Haddi took a deep breath ‘So you’re not here because of the body?’

  ‘No. What body?’

  ‘Never you mind. The chief’s not here right now, and I don’t suppose she’ll be back for an hour or two.’

  ‘Couldn’t you call her up? I’m expected.’

  Haddi pulled his glasses down from among his curls and peered over them.

  ‘If it was something important, then I could call her up,’ he agreed. ‘But on a day like today, then it would have to be something more than usually important.’

  Skúli tried again. ‘It’s all arranged. I can call the press representative at police headquarters and confirm with them again.’

  ‘Sorry. Not now. Look, we have a very serious incident to deal with, so I’d appreciate it if you’d call Reykjavík and sort it out with them. We’re a bit busy right now. Hm?’

  Haddi’s frown and raised eyebrows made it plain that this was not a matter for discussion and the young man appeared to concede defeat.

  ‘All right then. But do you know when she’s going to be back?’

  ‘Normally, about now. Today . . .’ Haddi shrugged his shoulders.

  The young man nodded glumly and made for the door. The look of disappointment on his face aroused a sudden pang in Haddi’s heart and he called across as the young man had the door half open.

  ‘Not from round here, are you?’

  ‘No. Reykjavík.’

  ‘D’you know Hafnarkaffi?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s the shop down by the dock. It’s getting on for lunchtime and odds are that’s where the chief’ll be. But you didn’t hear that from me, all right?’

  The young man grinned in delight. ‘Thanks. That would be great. How do I recognize her?’

  ‘Gunna? Can’t miss her. She’s a big fat lass with a face that frightens the horses.’

  Hafnarkaffi stands between the fishmeal plant and Jói Ben’s engineering shop. Originally a shed used for storing tarred longlines through the summer, Hafnarkaffi has grown gradually since it was turned into a drive-in kiosk thirty years ago, then expanded into a shop and had an extension built to add a small café for harbour workers and fishermen. The final addition was the petrol pumps outside, but by now hardly anything of the original corrugated iron shed is to be seen and the place has become an enduring nightmare for council planners who have visions of it spreading across the road.

  Skúli looked through the steamed-up glass panels of the door and made out figures sitting at tables. Pushing it open, he ventured in, thought for a moment and decided that he really was hungry anyway.

  At the end of the long counter he collected a tray and pushed it in front of him, picking up bottled
water on the way and stopping before the row of steaming steel bins.

  ‘Fish or meat?’ a grey-faced woman behind the counter asked.

  ‘Er — what do you have?’

  ‘Fish or meat.’

  ‘What sort are they?’

  ‘It’s Tuesday. Salted fish or salted meat.’

  Skúli’s heart sank and he began to wish he hadn’t bothered with a tray.

  ‘Saltfish, please,’ he decided, knowing that he would regret it.

  The woman ladled fish and potatoes on to a plate. ‘Fat?’

  ‘Sorry? What?’

  ‘D’you want fat on it?’

  ‘Oh, er, no. Thanks.’

  She dropped the spoon back into the dish of liquefied fat and pointed to a pot. ‘Soup?’

  ‘Oh, no thanks.’

  ‘It’s included.’

  ‘No, thanks anyway.’

  ‘Up to you. It’s there if you change your mind. Coffee’s included as well. That’s eight hundred. Receipt?’

  Skúli handed over a note and received change and receipt. He scanned the room and quickly located a bulky figure in uniform at the far side, hunched over a table. At a distance it wasn’t easy to see if the figure was man or a woman, but Skúli hoped he had found the right person. He edged between tables, forcing a row of blue-overalled workmen to haul in their bellies and chairs for him to pass, before planting his tray on the table.

  ‘May I sit here?’

  The figure looked up and Skúli saw that, in spite of the broad shoulders, the solid woman with the short fair hair was not the bruiser Haddi had given him to expect. Although she would never be a beauty, she had an angular, handsome face that radiated authority. He wondered briefly if this was natural, or the product of a police career.

  ‘Help yourself,’ she said, between spoonfuls of colourless soup.

  ‘You must be Gunnhildur?’

  She nodded, scraping the bottom of the soup plate. ‘Known to every man and his dog as Gunna the Cop,’ she corrected. ‘And you must be the lad from Dagurinn. I suppose Haddi told you I’d be here, did he?’

  Skúli picked at the saltfish on the plate in front of him. This kind of traditional food had never been on the menu at home and he wasn’t ready for the overpowering salt flavour of the first forkful.