Frozen Assets

‘He specialized in security, firewalls and things like that, stopping hackers and prying eyes from looking too closely into systems,’ Snorri offered. ‘I reckon he was setting up systems for people who are doing things that aren’t entirely legal and placing them overseas somewhere in countries where things aren’t looked at too closely.’

‘Porn, scams, that sort of thing?’ Bjössi asked.

‘Could be.’

‘Skandalblogger, maybe?’

‘Who knows? Maybe we’ll find out when our own über-nerds get in there.’

Gunna looked around the table. ‘Right then. Ósk Líndal. Any joy?’

Snorri grinned. ‘There’s someone who isn’t a happy bunny on a Sunday afternoon.’

‘Explain,’ Gunna instructed sharply.

‘She didn’t answer the phone, so we paid her a visit. She lives in one of those terraces at the top of Mossfellsbœr, so it was easy enough to drop in on the way back from Borgarnes,’ Bára explained.

‘And?’

‘She was as unhelpful as she could be without slamming the door in our faces.’

‘Well, I reckon we interrupted some kind of party,’ Snorri grinned.

‘She was even less pleased when we got her to go and open up the Spearpoint offices so she could look up what we wanted.’

‘She was in some kind of kimono thing and had to get changed so she could go out,’ Snorri added. ‘She’s a biiig lady. A seriously strange woman.’

‘OK, what did you get?’

‘She had all the info there that we wanted. All the dates that Hårde has been here from the middle of last year onwards,’ Bára said, handing over a computer printout. ‘As you can see, he was in Iceland when Einar Eyjólfur disappeared and also in March when Egill Grímsson was killed. And apart from a couple of breaks, he’s been here almost all summer.’

‘That figures,’ Snorri added, speaking for the first time. ‘The site manager at the Hvalvík compound confirmed that Hårde had only been there once or twice a week, but after the fire on the night after that march, he’s been around pretty much all the time.’

‘Did you make any progress on finding whoever started that fire, Bjössi?’ Gunna inquired.

‘Nah. No fingerprints. No identifiable footprints. No witnesses. Nothing to go on at all. They’ll show up sooner or later, but how much evidence there might be towards a conviction when that happens is anybody’s guess.’

‘Airlines, anyone? Any progress there?’

‘Sorry, chief. Only got one pair,’ Snorri said sadly, with both of his large hands on the table in front of him.

‘Not to worry. That’s next, please, ladies and gentlemen. Anything from the nerds in Reykjavík?’

‘Yes. Er, there’s a new entry on Skandalblogger’s page, posted on Saturday. Has anyone seen it?’ Bára asked.

Heads were shaken around the table.

‘It’s about the awards thing that Sigurjóna Huldudóttir attended, alleging large amounts of cocaine being present.’

‘Nothing new there, then,’ Snorri said. ‘Is that something worth chasing, d’you think?’

‘Don’t know. We have enough to be getting on with as it is,’ Gunna mused. ‘I’ll let the Reykjavík drug squad know and they should be able to investigate.’

‘But that’s not all,’ Bára added. ‘There was a strange comment to say that Bjarni Jón Bjarnason should have good reason to be on his way back to Iceland early from this conference he’s at in Berlin. No more details. Maybe Skandalblogger knows something we don’t?’

‘I’m wondering if maybe we ought to be having a quiet word with the Minister for Environmental Affairs,’ Gunna said quietly, as if to herself, placing Skúli’s printout on the table and spreading it out. At the back of the room, Vilhjálmur Traustason’s eyes widened in horror. ‘And we need to find out about this, immediately.’

‘What’s this?’ Snorri asked, looking at Gunna with surprise. ‘I didn’t think you read this sort of thing.’

‘I don’t. It was passed to me last night. This is what Tuesday’s Hot Chat is going to look like. But you’ll have to wait until tomorrow to buy your own copies of Hot Chat.’

Gunna said Hot Chat as if the very words themselves smelled like a public toilet on a hot day.

‘Is this from your toyboy?’ Bjössi smirked.

‘That would be telling. If you look, you’ll see that these pictures were taken by a freelance hack called Ármann J, real name Ármann Jens Helgason. His phone number’s there. One of you can chase this guy up today and squeeze what you can out of him. Snorri, I’ll leave that to you. Now, if we look at these photos, incidentally taken at the

Gullfoss on Friday evening during that bullshitmongers’ jamboree, we will see the lovely Sigurjóna, her PA or whatever he is, Sigurjóna’s sister Erna the hairdresser, and a certain Mr Hårde.’

‘Bloody hell,’ Bjössi said and whistled.

‘The cheeky cow.’ Bára seethed. ‘She knew exactly where he had been the night before and certainly didn’t bother to tell us that.’