Frozen Assets

Boredom was something Hardy handled well. Military training had taught him to keep quiet until something needed to be said, and in prison he had learned to keep within his own thoughts for as long as necessary. Hunting for prey of four- and two-legged varieties had given him patience greater than that of any prey he had outwaited. Sitting at Sigurjóna’s and Erna’s table at an awards ceremony was not quite the same thing, but he still was able to call on old skills as the people around him chattered in Icelandic interspersed with odd English words, occasionally breaking into shrill laughter.

The food was acceptable, although cold, and in a restaurant he would have sent it back. But prison and the military had taught him not to pass up a meal, so he ate the fragrant but rapidly cooling lamb and potatoes, sipped his drink and enjoyed the sight of Sigurjóna, Erna and the rest of their group becoming progressively more raucous as the bottles of wine on the table were systematically drained. He wondered how capable Jón Oddur, the sweating young man detailed to assist him, would be in the morning.

‘Are you enjoying yourself, darling?’ Erna yelled into his ear, draping an arm loosely around his neck and pummelling his shoulder with her free hand.

‘Of course,’ Hardy replied smoothly.

‘You’re not drinking?’

‘I don’t drink. At least not alcohol.’

‘Drying out?’

‘No. I just don’t drink.’

‘Everyone drinks. Unless they’re drying out,’ Erna said with finality.

Sigurjóna’s name was called out and she lurched upright to walk falteringly towards the stage where a young man with a head as shiny as his suit was waiting for her and clapping.

‘What’s the award for?’ Hardy asked Erna, who had a hand on his shoulder again.

‘I don’t fucking know. Best advert for decaffeinated yoghurt or something like that. Nobody goes away from here without a prize,’ she yelled back at him over the storm of applause that greeted Sigurjóna’s arrival on stage.

Sigurjóna grabbed the microphone ahead of the shiny-suited compère and launched into the impromptu speech that one of the office staff had carefully crafted for her that afternoon. The room quietened as she began, but the speech lasted a long time for something made up on the spur of the moment and the level of chatter rose steadily, moving gradually forward from the back tables.

‘What’s your sister saying?’ Hardy asked.

‘Just bullshit. She’s thanking everybody she’s ever met, including the postman, the girl she sat next to in primary school, her personal trainer, and her husband.’

‘Where is he tonight?’

‘Hell, I don’t know where high-and-mighty Bjarni Jón is,’ she snarled. Hardy was interested to see she disliked her brother-in-law and filed the information away for future reference.

‘Was he supposed to be here?’

‘You’re sitting in his seat, honey,’ Erna said, attention on Sigurjóna who was winding up her speech. ‘Oh, how sweet! She thanked me as well! Big sister!’ she squawked in delight, reaching for a bottle from the middle of the table and upending it into her glass.

Sigurjóna tottered back with applause and whistles ringing in her ears, a black glass statuette of a pair of elongated praying hands under one arm and a wine bottle held by the neck in her other hand.

‘She’s great, my big sister, isn’t she?’ Erna declared to Hardy in a voice that carried over the conversation around them. ‘Her tits are better, but at least mine are real.’

Hardy felt the phone buzz in his pocket and put a hand inside his jacket to take it out. He looked at the number displayed and stood up quickly with the phone flashing in his hand.

‘Excuse me just one minute,’ he said quickly and marched towards the lobby.

‘Don’t be long, honey! Bjarni Jón’s not here and we girls need at least one man around!’ Erna yelled after him.

The elegant statuette by a well-known artist had become a collection of slivers of black glass that shuffling feet had dispersed across the floor of the ballroom, providing a nightmare mess for the staff of the Gullfoss Hotel to clean up in the morning. With the ceremony long over and already forgotten, a few couples gyrated jerkily across the dance floor and groups of dazzling people, much the worse for wear, sat in alcoves around the edge, some on the point of passing out.

‘Where’s my sister?’ Sigurjóna demanded, shaking Jón Oddur by the lapel of his silver-grey suit. She took a long draw on the joint in her other hand as Jón Oddur’s eyes opened blearily.

‘Dunno. She just went. Haven’t seen her,’ he slurred.

‘Where did she go? Was she alone?’

‘Don’t know. She was dancing with that foreigner.’

‘Which one? There’s plenty of foreigners here.’

‘Er. The tall guy. Y’know. Had a meeting with him today. Yesterday,’ he corrected himself. ‘Hardy?’ Sigurjóna sat down hard on the chair next to Jón Oddur and ground out the joint on the table top. ‘Did you get a room here?’

‘I booked four,’ he said proudly.

‘Shit. My fucking sister,’ she cursed. ‘Come on. Where’s your room?’

29

Saturday, 27 September

‘Good morning.’