Frozen Assets

‘I’m dead sure.’

Gunna cursed silently and wondered how, if ever, she would be able to broach the subject with Vilhjálmur Traustason. ‘Skúli, can you keep this under wraps?’

‘I can. But if I’ve noticed, then other people will as well.’

‘I’ll talk to him when I can. All right?’

‘OK,’ Skúli said dubiously.

‘Thanks, Skúli. I owe you a favour.’

Gunna put the phone down and Laufey stretched out on the sofa, eyes open.

‘Mum, who’s Skúli?’

‘Skúli’s a journalist on a newspaper who’s been writing a story about your old mum.’

‘So he’s not your boyfriend or anything, then?’

‘I hardly think so, young lady.’

Laufey yawned and kneaded her eyes with the backs of her fists. ‘That’s all right, then.’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Nothing. Just some of the kids at school said that my mum’s got a boyfriend at last and I said no she hasn’t.’

Gunna sighed. Dinner with Steini had been a pleasure. They had both enjoyed themselves and Gunna had forgotten for a few hours much of the weight she felt she had been carrying since Raggi’s death. Steini had called again but she hadn’t had time to do more than promise vaguely to meet.

‘Laufey, my darling. One day you’ll understand that a young man like Skúli is hardly likely to be interested in an old lady like me.’

‘You’re not old,’ Laufey said, swinging her legs down to the floor. ‘And Finnur says his dad said he’d give you a portion. What does that mean, Mum?’

Gunna spluttered as she choked back laughter. ‘And who is Finnur?’

‘A really stupid boy in my class.’

‘All right. Who’s Finnur’s dad?’

‘I’m not sure. I think he works for the council.’

‘Thank you. I’ll look out for him and see if I can give him a parking ticket.’

‘All right. I’m going to bed now.’

‘But don’t you tell Finnur that tomorrow, will you?’

Laufey yawned again, pulled off her socks and dropped them on the floor.

‘In the basket, please,’ Gunna pointed out as Laufey scowled in perfect facsimile of her father’s face, giving Gunna a sudden pang. ‘I have to go early tomorrow, so you’ll be all right to get yourself up for school, won’t you?’

‘Sure, Mum. I’m not a kid, you know.’

28

Friday, 26 September

Clean Iceland’s offices were two rooms between an artist’s studio and a health food shop a street back from Mýrargata and the slipways of Reykjavík harbour. Looking out of the window behind Kolbeinn Sverrisson’s head, Gunna could see the masts of the whaling boats that had been there for a decade without putting to sea.

Bára stood by the door while Gunna took the only other chair in Kolbeinn’s cramped and crowded cubbyhole of an office. Every surface was covered with snowdrifts of paperwork, folders, books and papers. The floor could only be seen in the shape of a corridor threading its way between boxes of more files.

‘It’s a mess,’ Kolbeinn sighed. ‘We only moved in here last week and there hasn’t been time to sort anything out yet. We don’t even have phones connected yet.’

‘How many of you are there here?’ Gunna asked.

‘Just two of us. Me and Ásta full time, then there’s loads of people who donate a few hours a week to the cause.’

Kolbeinn Sverrison was a raw-boned man with cropped dark hair and an open, engaging face cross-hatched with several days’ worth of stubble. Gunna had seen him in the distance at the march and wondered if the anger and passion he had shown then were far below the surface. He looked different, more vulnerable than the clown-like figure she had seen in his outsize green hat at the head of the march and later addressing the crowd with a fury that had left him drained.

‘Are you here to donate a few hours to Clean Iceland?’ he asked wryly, pouring coffee from a thermos into three cracked cups on the edge of his desk.

‘No, sorry. Do you have the pictures, Bára?’ Gunna asked, swivelling in her seat. Bára passed forward a folder and Gunna extracted pictures of Egill Grímsson and Einar Eyjólfur Einarsson. She placed them one by one alongside the row of cups.

‘Anyone here you recognize?’

‘Could be.’

‘And?’

Kolbeinn’s brows knitted in a frown as he lifted a cup and sipped.

‘Why do you need to know?’ he asked finally.

‘Because, as you must be aware, these two people are dead and we’d like to know why and who’s responsible.’

‘InterAlu is responsible,’ he said flatly.

‘Would you care to explain?’

‘Both of these men were close to us here at Clean Iceland. Egill was one of the founders of the movement and one of our most energetic campaigners. He poured a huge amount of energy into lobbying politicians and government departments, highlighting illegal acts, generally making himself a nuisance to InterAlu and all the other aluminium manufacturers who want to set up shop here.’

‘But particularly InterAlu? Why?’