Frozen Assets

‘Lára knows. She studied in England,’ Skúli butted in.

‘What were you studying? Photography?’ Gunna asked.

‘No. Human resource management, actually.’

‘What?’

‘Well, I wanted to study abroad, but to get a student loan it had to be something that isn’t offered in Iceland. So I went for human resource management.’

‘And now you’re a photographer?’

‘That’s right. I trained to manage a big department, and now I work for myself. Good, isn’t it?’ Lára asked brightly.

‘OK, good. But if you’re sure this guy wasn’t a native English speaker, that helps. Now, any photos?’

‘Yeah, there are a few more of him somewhere. What’s he done?’

‘Not sure yet, and as it’s an ongoing inquiry, I couldn’t tell you anyway at the moment,’ Gunna grunted, hunched over the screen as Lára tapped the space bar to toggle between pictures.

‘There he is again, behind those guys who didn’t want to let anyone pass.’

‘That’s him,’ Gunna agreed. ‘Any more?’

They scrolled through the several hundred pictures and found half a dozen showing the man’s face, each time at the periphery of the march and never far from the police presence. Lára copied the picture files and handed them to Gunna on a disk.

‘Here you are.’

‘Thanks. It’s not a problem to let me have these? Journalistic integrity and all that?’

‘Hell, no,’ Lára replied. ‘As long as you’re not stopping me doing my job, it’s not a problem. I’m happy to help the police, and I’d be even happier if they found the bastard who burgled my flat.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘Breidholt.’

Gunna thought for a moment. ‘Sævaldur Bogason’s patch, I think. I’ll remind him when I see him. Anyway, Skúli, I’m afraid I might have to ask you not to publish the photo of me with our man in the background, or at least to crop him out if that’s possible. If he is someone we’re looking for, then I’d prefer not to spook him. When does it all go to print?’

‘Week after next, I think.’

‘Right. I’ll let you know. Give me a day or two. Lára, thank you for your assistance, it all helps.’

26

Wednesday, 24 September

Although Gunna had seen the County Sheriff before, she had never had a reason to speak to him. Seated in the incident room in front of her and flanked by Vilhjálmur Traustason and Ívar Laxdal, he looked surprisingly youthful in faded jeans and an open-necked shirt instead of his usual office wear.

‘So, what do you want to tell me about?’ the Sheriff asked as Gunna stood up in front of the whole group. Bjössi, Bára and Snorri sat behind them and waited.

‘I have some information about the person who may have been in the vicinity when Einar Eyjólfur Einarsson was murdered-’

‘Allegedly,’ Vilhjálmur broke in.

‘Allegedly,’ Gunna repeated. ‘But I felt that in the light of what we’ve been told, I’d best call you all together to save myself from having to repeat this later.’

Vilhjálmur fidgeted while the Sheriff nodded. Gunna took a deep breath and thumbed copies of a series of pictures to the wall.

‘The team have been in touch with police forces in the UK, Germany, Sweden, Denmark and Norway. Sweden came up trumps and this is the man we want to talk to.’

‘And he is?’ Vilhjálmur asked querulously.

‘Gunnar Ström. He’s been identified as having hired a car that appears to have been on the quay at Hvalvík the night Einar Eyjólfur died. He bears a striking resemblance to the person who stole the jeep that is likely to have been used to murder Egill Grímsson. We are absolutely certain he was present at the march on the InterAlu compound at Hvalvík.’

‘A lot of coincidences?’ Ívar Laxdal asked quietly.

‘Plenty of them,’ Gunna agreed, feeling her shirt start to stick to her back and wishing she had taken off her uniform tunic. ‘But considering this man’s background, I feel we need to concentrate on him.’

‘Go on,’ Ívar Laxdal prompted.

‘Not a pleasant character. Several sentences for violent crimes, involvement with narcotics, and a big car theft operation that exported stolen cars to West Africa from Scandinavia via various Baltic States. It seems he’s broken quite a few kneecaps in his time and he’s suspected of nastier things, including at least one disappearance and a very unpleasant incident with someone’s fingers and a hammer and chisel, but not much that can be proved. The man’s a pro.’

‘Is that all?’ Vilhjálmur asked, his face pale with horror.

‘His background is that he’s a Norwegian national, aged forty-two, naval PT and unarmed combat instructor until dishonourably discharged. Resident in Sweden since 1993, half a dozen stretches including a five-year sentence for grievous bodily harm, which was the hammer and chisel thing.’

‘Good God,’ Vilhjálmur whispered.

‘His real name’s Gunnar Hårde, with a little circle over the A, so I suppose he might be related to the Prime Minister, but I doubt it somehow.’

‘A proper Norwegian conspiracy?’ Bjössi shot in. For form’s sake, Gunna frowned at him and smothered the urge to laugh.