Frozen Assets

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘Would he recognize either of you anyway?’

‘I doubt it. We only spoke for a few minutes.’

‘Good. Right. I have to run, as you can imagine, Skúli. I can’t tell you how grateful I am for the information, and if this comes off, I owe you an enormous favour.’

Skúli grinned broadly. ‘No problem.’

‘By the way,’ she murmured in a voice that wouldn’t carry, ‘maybe you ought to know that a certain prominent political figure’s wife is in a cell at Hverfisgata, not that you heard that from me.’

Skúli grinned. ‘Great. Thanks, chief.’

‘Call me tomorrow. OK?’ Gunna shot at him, departing at a trot.

‘Vilhjálmur!’ Gunna bellowed, bursting back into the incident room. ‘Where the hell is the bloody man when you need him?’

‘Here, Gunnhildur. If you’d slow down for a second, you’d find me right behind you,’ he said tartly.

‘Right. No time to fart about,’ she said briskly as the rest of them appeared, having heard Gunna’s bellow echo through the building. ‘Our man’s at Keflavík airport right now.’

‘And you thought he wouldn’t be?’ Snorri mumbled through a mouthful of sandwich.

‘I may be wrong. So fire me. I’m told he was at check-in twenty minutes ago, so he’s probably checked in by now and waiting for his flight. Vilhjálmur, I want the airport force alerted straight away.’

‘They’re already on standby for this person, but it hasn’t helped with the Minister going through and all the press they expected.’

‘I don’t give a stuff about the Minister. He’s long gone by now. Get them back on the ball and tell them that our man is probably in the building. Remind them he’s dangerous. Now, please, Vilhjálmur.’

Vilhjálmur Traustason left the room at the closest to a run anyone had seen since he had been in the police handball team twenty years before.

‘Snorri, Bjössi, you’re with me. Bára, I want you to stay here and hold the fort. Get on to the airport and explain what the hell’s going on.’

‘Isn’t Vilhjálmur doing that?’

‘Vilhjálmur is safely out of the way talking to his opposite number at the airport. I want you to communicate with us and with the guys on the ground. Make sure they know what’s happening before we get there.’

‘OK. Will do,’ Bára said, parking himself at a computer screen and placing a headset over one ear.

‘Come on. Snorri, you’re driving,’ Gunna said, tossing the keys to the second-best Volvo high in the air.