Frozen Assets

by Quentin Bates

  ‘Do you really think this is something so serious that it warrants my ignoring her explicit instructions to leave her alone?’ the voice snarled back.

  ‘If it wasn’t important, it could wait until Monday. But it is and it can’t,’ Gunna snapped back. ‘So, are you going to tell me where she can be reached, or better still, where she is right now, or is the wife of a government minister unwilling to cooperate in an investigation that carries the highest priority?’

  ‘Wait,’ the voice replied submissively. They could hear papers being shuffled and a mobile phone beeping quietly.

  ‘Here it is,’ Ósk Líndal snapped, and Gunna gestured to both Snorri and Bára to write the number down. ‘I suppose I may as well tell you that last night Sigurjóna stayed at the Gullfoss Hotel. I don’t know her room number, but the company booked four rooms.’

  ‘Thank you. You’ve been a great help,’ Gunna said, back to her smooth voice again.

  ‘Yeah. Well, if you need any other information, then don’t call me,’ the voice grated, with the phone banging down on to its rest at the other end as the last word spilled out.

  ‘Nice one, chief. That’s the way to make friends,’ Snorri said with a wide grin on his face that almost matched the one on Bára’s.

  Sigurjóna’s head throbbed. Swathed in a voluptuous white dressing gown and with hair awry, she sat in a deep armchair in one of the Gullfoss Hotel’s finest suites.

  ‘Do you know where all your staff are at the moment?’ Gunna asked her gently as Jón Oddur, bare-chested and pink-faced, appeared from the bedroom with a handful of tablets and a glass of water which he put on the coffee table in front of Sigurjóna.

  ‘Of course not. I employ a human resources manager who does that.’

  ‘Ósk Líndal?’

  ‘That is one of Ósk’s duties.’

  Gunna opened the slim briefcase she had borrowed from Snorri and took out copies of the photos of Hårde that had come from the Swedish police. She placed a picture of a stubble-faced, younger-looking Hårde on the table.

  ‘Do you know this man?’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell me about him.’

  Sigurjóna frowned in irritation. ‘His name’s Graham Hardy. He works for InterAlu as their site integrity consultant for the construction of the Hvalvík Lagoon plant.’

  ‘And if I were to tell you that he has convictions for assault and grievous bodily harm, what would your reaction be?’ Gunna asked.

  Sigurjóna’s face was expressionless. ‘So? Our connections with InterAlu on a day-to-day basis are generally via Hardy and he’s given us no cause for concern. He’s very efficient, very well organized. What he may have done in the past isn’t relevant. He does his job well and that’s all that matters.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘All I can tell you is that it concerns an ongoing investigation and it isn’t a trivial matter. Locating your Mr Hardy is a priority.’

  Sigurjóna yawned and leaned back in the armchair. ‘Isn’t there any coffee? Jón Oddur! Order coffee, will you?’

  The young man put his head briefly round the door, nodded and bobbed quickly back to the bedroom.

  ‘I’d prefer it if this conversation could be kept confidential from your staff,’ Gunna said acidly, emphasizing ‘staff’.

  ‘Close the door, then.’

  Gunna nodded to Snorri, who walked over, gently shut the bedroom door and sat back down again on the plush sofa next to Bára.

  ‘Can you tell me about the work Hardy does?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’

  ‘If I knew where to find him, I would. What does he do?’

  ‘I told you. He’s in charge of security at the Hvalvík site on behalf of InterAlu and at the Hvalvík Lagoon site on ESC’s behalf.’

  ‘Your company?’

  ‘So you read newspapers, inspector?’

  ‘Sergeant. When I have time,’ Gunna replied. ‘I have to say, I was rather hoping that you would be more cooperative.’

  ‘Good God, you wake me up on a Saturday morning after an awards party and expect me to be cooperative?’

  ‘I would expect the wife of a minister to cooperate with a murder investigation.’

  ‘Murder? Who?’

  There was a knock at the door and Gunna said nothing.

  ‘Shall I?’ Snorri asked.

  Sigurjóna nodded. Snorri opened the door and took a tray of cups and a silver thermos of coffee from a black-waistcoated waiter. He put it carefully on the table and sat back down on the sofa where Bára was taking notes.

  ‘You still haven’t answered my question,’ Gunna reminded Sigurjóna as she poured coffee for herself.

  ‘What question?’

  ‘Where’s Hardy?’

  ‘I have no idea where he is. As you know, until a quarter of an hour ago, I was asleep. Anyway, you haven’t answered my question either.’

  ‘You mean the one I expect you know perfectly well that I can’t answer?’

  ‘Yeah. Who’s been murdered?’

  ‘Like I said, I can’t say anything about an ongoing investigation.’

  ‘It’s that silly boy Einar Eyjólfur, I suppose. Look, he must have been drunk, got a lift with somebody and lost his way somehow. For such a smart guy, he was an idiot in some ways.’

  ‘I can’t comment at the moment. But it’s important that we speak to Hardy soon. Where’s he living?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘He’s working for you and you don’t know his address?’

  ‘Strictly speaking, he doesn’t work for me. He’s an employee of InterAlu and we purchase their services in some fields, some of which happen to be carried out by Mr Hardy.’

  ‘How about a phone number?’

  ‘I contact him when I need to at the compound in Hvalvík. Jón Oddur has the number.’

  ‘No mobile?’

  ‘Probably. But I don’t have a number for him,’ Sigurjóna lied.

  ‘I assume you must have a record of when Hardy has been in Iceland, in which case I must ask you to let me have a full list of his stays here.’

  ‘I’m not sure we would have that.’ Sigurjóna yawned again. ‘You could ask Ósk. She might know.’

  ‘You’re paying for this guy’s services and you don’t have a record of the work he has done for you? That hardly sounds plausible.’

  Sigurjóna’s face frosted over. ‘Are you accusing me of lying, sergeant?’

  ‘No,’ Gunna replied sharply. ‘Merely a suspicion on my part that you might not be as helpful as you could be. Failure to cooperate with a police investigation is a crime in itself, you know.’

  ‘I am aware of that. If you want any information, you’d better call Ósk. Now, if that’s all, I have calls to make this morning, including one to my lawyer.’

  Gunna stifled the smile that leapt to her lips.

  ‘Give him my kindest regards, would you? We’ll leave you to catch up on your sleep,’ she said, noticing the bedroom door open a crack. She stood up and handed the keys of the Volvo to Snorri.

  ‘You drive this time,’ she said to him and turned back to Sigurjóna. ‘Thank you for your time, and apologies for disturbing you at such an early hour of the morning.’

  ‘What do you think, chief?’ Snorri asked as the lift swooped groundwards.

  ‘Bullshit from start to finish, I reckon.’

  ‘She knows where Hårde is and how to contact him. Body language. Every time she tells a lie, her face goes blank for a fraction of a second and then relaxes,’ Bára said. ‘What next?’

  ‘Hell, I don’t know. It’s getting on for midday, so I’ll buy you both lunch at the bus station. Then we’d better get back and see what’s happening at the nerve centre. Then someone had better call that bloody woman again.’

  ‘The one who said not to call her if we needed to know anything?’
>
  ‘That’s the one. And if she doesn’t answer the phone, send someone to bang on her front door. But first we’d better find the manager of this place.’

  Bára nodded to herself while it took Snorri a moment to catch on. Gunna extracted the Swedish police’s photo of Hårde from the file and put it in Snorri’s outstretched hand.

  ‘I’d like you two to go and chat to a few of the staff. Show them the pic and ask if they’ve seen him about. He could be under our noses in a suite of his own right here.’

  ‘Gotcha, chief,’ Snorri grinned.

  ‘I’ll go and do the same with the manager. Then it might be lunchtime.’

  Sigurjóna cursed. She paced back and forth across the thick carpet of the suite with her phone at her ear. She swore again as the voicemail kicked in.

  ‘Hi, this is Erna’s phone, I can’t take your call right now, so just talk after the squawk. Bye!’

  Sigurjóna stabbed her phone’s red button to end the call and hit redial.

  ‘Jón Oddur!’ she yelled as it began to ring, and his head appeared round the bedroom door. He stood expectantly as Sigurjóna listened to Erna’s voicemail message again.

  ‘Hi. It’s me. Hope you had a good time last night. Call me. OK? Bye,’ she intoned into the handset and clicked it shut.

  ‘What is it?’ Jón Oddur asked from the door.

  Sigurjóna stepped towards him, opening the dressing gown.

  ‘I need a shower. Order breakfast from room service, will you?’ she snapped as she strode to the bathroom, shrugging the dressing gown from her shoulders and draping it over his outstretched arm as she swept past.

  Her fingers caressed the hard whorl of scar tissue that ran diagonally across his shoulder.

  ‘I’m sure there’s a story behind this,’ Erna whispered huskily.

  Hardy gently rolled on to his back and the scar disappeared from view. ‘Yeah. Not a nice story, though.’

  ‘Tell me one day.’

  ‘Maybe I will. Why do you have different names?’ Hardy asked.

  Erna settled herself across the bed with her head resting on Hardy’s chest and one ankle hooked over the opposite knee. Hardy lay back with one hand behind his head and the other across Erna.

  This time her fingertip traced the outline of a blurred fouled anchor tattooed beneath the coarse hair of the forearm lying on her chest. ‘What do you mean?

  ‘You and your sister. You’re Daníelsdóttir and she’s Huldudóttir. So why don’t you have the same surname?’

  ‘It’s not a surname. We don’t have surnames in Iceland.’

  ‘Some people do.’

  ‘Yeah, a few people do. It’s a bit stuck-up. Here everyone takes their father’s name. Dad’s Daníel Jónsson — that’s Daníel the son of Jón — and I’m Erna Daníelsdóttir, Erna the daughter of Daníel. My son’s called Jón, after my dad, but he’s Jón Bergsson, because my ex-husband’s name is Bergur. See?’

  ‘I figured that out. But why aren’t you and Sigurjóna both Daníelsdóttir? Are you half-sisters?’

  Erna untangled her legs and rolled over on to her side to look along Hardy’s torso at his chin. He pulled a pillow under his head to look down his chest at her and extended a hand to stroke her side with his fingertips.

  ‘It’s complicated,’ Erna began.

  ‘How complicated?’

  ‘Well, not really. Our father’s name is Daníel and our mother’s is Hulda.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘In the old days, if someone’s father wasn’t known, if he’d run away, or refused to admit a child was his, or was a foreigner or something, then the mother’s name would be used instead.’

  ‘Sounds reasonable.’

  ‘Yeah, but it was very unusual, didn’t happen often that someone’s dad was just completely unknown. But in the last couple of years it’s become a lot more common. Y’know, people splitting up all the time and hating each other afterwards. So a lot of women got fed up with having their kids carrying around the name of some deadbeat guy they’d rather forget and used their own names instead.’

  ‘OK, I get it. Ditch the husband and his name as well, understandable.’

  Erna stretched and inched herself forward as Hardy’s fingertips grazed her hip and wandered along her thigh. ‘What was I saying? Yeah. Well, it got a bit sort of, y’know, fashionable as well. There are women who fell out with their dads who took their mothers’ names instead. It’s all very feminist and a bit smart to carry your mother’s name now.’

  ‘So is that why Sigurjóna is Huldudóttir? Did she have a disagreement with your father?’

  ‘No, not really. They’ve never got on all that well, but they haven’t fallen out either. I think she saw it as a career move more than anything else, looks good with all that cultural mafia crowd she hangs out with. Do you know what, Mr Hardy? You’re quite a nice man really. We should go away together. Get to know each other properly.’

  She heard Hardy’s chuckle again deep in his chest.

  ‘You really think so? Where?’

  ‘I do. Spain, maybe. Or Morocco. While the kids are off my hands.’

  ‘Can you do that?’

  ‘Yeah. The girls can run the salon easily enough. They don’t even need me there a lot of the time. Can you get away from your work for a few days?’

  ‘I should think so, if it’s something important.’

  ‘I think it could be something important, don’t you, Mr Hardy or whatever your real name is?’

  ‘I’d have to talk to Sigurjóna, make sure she doesn’t need me for anything at the Lagoon.’

  Erna stretched like a well-fed cat and readjusted her legs, putting his hand in hers to lift and place it in just the right spot. Hardy listened for a moment.

  ‘Is that a phone ringing?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t know. Don’t care,’ Erna hissed. ‘Want me to have a word with your boss? But right now, keep doing that and I’ll see what I can do.’

  27-09-2008 1551

  Skandalblogger writes:

  Oh, people! 0 tempora, 0 mores, as the poet said and as a very few of Skandalblogger’s classically educated readers will recognize. The rest of you, just google for it.

  Sigurjóna, what were you thinking with that post-awards bash in someone else’s suite at Hotel Gullfoss? And there was us thinking that white powder was going out of fashion. Which high-ranking Ministry official, which well-known media guru and which fashionable designer were photographed enthusiastically partaking of Sigurjóna’s largesse with the cheese grater?

  Click here* for the photos — a few details obscured to protect the guilty. Or here* for the video clip of Sigurjóna dropping and smashing the exclusive and ludicrously expensive award statue, an individually handcrafted glass artwork by Hanna Kugga.

  And where’s the old man? Gallivanting overseas again at the taxpayers’ expense? But, hell and damnation, that’s what we pay our politicians for, to get the hell out of the country for as long and as often as possible so the staff can get on with running the show without interference.

  Still, who knows? He’s supposed to be there for the full week, but Skandalblogger hears on the grapevine that there might well be a good reason to come scuttling home early from the conference in Berlin where he’s holed up in the Bristol Hotel, definitely a step up from the Gruesome Gullfoss and its Latvian hookers. At least at the Bristol there’s a bit more variety to choose from.

  Well, Bjarni Jón . . . See you on . . . Wednesday? Maybe Thursday?

  The call icon winked on the screen of Bjarni Jón Bjarnason’s laptop. Birna raised a questioning eyebrow and he nodded to her. She silently stood up from her side of the vast dining table scattered with papers.

  Bjarni Jón clicked on the accept call button and Sigurjóna’s voice erupted through the speaker at the same time as an imperfect image of her appeared in a box below the internet phone’s control panel. He could see that she was dressed smartly, as if for the office.

  ‘Hi, darling. How
are you? Everything OK at home?’

  ‘Of course,’ Sigurjóna snapped back. ‘Are you alone? Why can’t I see you on-screen?’

  Bjarni Jón sighed. Birna looked at him inquiringly from the sofa on the far side of the suite where she had retreated with a pile of paperwork. The inquiring look asked if she should leave them to speak privately.

  ‘Birna’s here. We’re preparing for the meeting with Horst. You can’t see me because I don’t have a camera on this computer.’

  ‘All right. Listen.’

  Bjarni Jón could make out his wife’s pinched features. ‘What is it, love? How did the awards go? I take it they gave you something?’

  ‘Yeah. Most forward-thinking company, or some such crap. There was a hideous statue that came with it, so I dumped that,’ Sigurjóna said quickly. ‘Listen, I can’t get in touch with my sister. She doesn’t answer her phone.’

  Bjarni Jón drummed the desk with his fingers. ‘So? There’s nothing new about that.’

  ‘And I’ve had the police here this morning asking about Hardy. They want to question him about that boy who was found dead in Hvalvík. I’m worried about this and I can’t reach Hardy either.’

  ‘Shit,’ Bjarni Jón hissed to himself and fumbled for a headset that he plugged into the computer. Sigurjóna’s voice broke into his ears and would at least keep half of the conversation private. ‘Have you called the compound?’

  ‘Of course I did, and his mobile,’ Sigurjóna snarled. ‘I’m not an idiot.’

  ‘I never said you were,’ Bjarni Jón said hastily. ‘Where did you see Hardy last?’

  ‘At the awards last night.’

  ‘He was there? Why?’

  ‘Because I invited him.’

  ‘Good grief.’

  ‘The police have some idea that he has a violent past.’

  ‘We knew that already. Horst told us.’

  ‘Not directly.’

  ‘No. He hinted. He said that Hardy was very competent,’ Bjarni Jón said, looking over the top of the screen to see if Birna was paying any attention, but she appeared to be engrossed in paperwork now spread across the sofa.