‘Ah, thank you, Baddi. That rings a bell or two right away.’ ‘Hope that helps. I’ll let you know if I hear something.’ ‘Do that.’ Gunna straightened her cap and left Baddi as he lifted and opened that day’s DV, showing her the ‘BJB to step down?’ headline emblazoned across the front page over an unflattering picture of the Minister and Sigurjóna caught unawares by a photographer’s flash.
As far as Dagga could see, Sigurjóna Huldudóttir was a model of sobriety, good nature and sparking health on a fresh Monday morning. Her hair fell in a shining blonde curtain to her shoulders in a way that was both fashionable and practical, her understatedly expensive suit said business, while showing just a hint of enhanced cleavage.
‘You’ve seen all this shit that Skandalblogger has been publishing? I mean, not just about my husband and myself, but about a whole host of other prominent people as well?’ she asked.
‘No, not all of it,’ Dagga lied, wishing she had dressed more smartly for this interview.
‘Then you’re not as well prepared as you ought to be,’ Sigurjóna said mildly.
‘Well, I am here at short notice, and personally I don’t spend time digging into other people’s dirty linen.’
‘Pleased to hear it. Well, what do you want to talk about, now that you’re here? You’re from Dagurinn, right?’
‘That’s right. I wanted your opinion on this blogger, and on blogging in general.’
Sigurjóna sat back behind her vast desk, empty but for a closed laptop, a neat pile of papers in a wire cage and a few tasteful trinkets, artfully distributed. Dagga could see a reflection of Sigurjóna in its highly polished surface and she concluded that the desk’s owner probably didn’t do a great deal of paperwork at it.
‘Blogging has become a huge part of the Icelandic way of life,’ she began. ‘I’m probably right in saying that there are now more blogs here than there are Icelanders, so there is certainly a measure of overkill.’
‘Blogs that nobody reads?’
‘Exactly. Plenty of blogs nobody reads, a lot that are dormant, and also plenty of blogs that have a limited set of readers. You know what I mean, ones that have plenty of traffic but within a small group of friends or classmates or work colleagues. Then there are some that become enormously busy, generally for a limited time before they disappear again.’
‘Like Skandalblogger?’
‘Yes,’ Sigurjóna said without a trace of the sour anger she felt at the mention of the name. ‘It’s something that isn’t going to go away. This is more than a passing fashion. Blogging has become enormously important, especially to the younger generation. Don’t you have a blog yourself?’
‘No, actually I don’t,’ Dagga lied again.
Sigurjóna looked quizzical.
‘But I know you have your own blog and I’ve read some of it,’ Dagga added hurriedly.
‘It’s rubbish,’ Sigurjóna said airily. ‘Only don’t quote that. It’s got to the point where everyone has a blog, even government ministers. It’s part of the PR machine. We advise our clients to have a blog and to update it regularly, and of course I’d prefer you to not mention that piece of information either.’
Dagga smothered her irritation. Surely someone so expert in dealing with the media would know better than to say something and then ask for it to be kept quiet?
‘But on the record — are you prepared to tell me about Skandalblogger?’
Sigurjóna looked pained. It was something that she had practised in front of a mirror along with the winning smile that made clients feel they could trust her with their children’s lives.
‘Of course. But there isn’t a lot to tell that isn’t already well known. This blog started up about a year and a half ago. It’s completely anonymous. Some of us who have been on the receiving end of this particular brand of poison have made a study of it and it’s our opinion that there’s one person who writes not all, but certainly much of it, and the information seems to come from several different sources.’
‘So this is a group effort?’
‘Certainly. One person would hardly have access to so much information — and misinformation, as a great deal of what appears on this blog is absolutely false. If you were to publish this kind of story in Dagurinn, I can assure you that you would be sued for every penny you have, and more.’
Dagga desperately wanted to ask if the story about the Heathrow sex marathon and Sugarplum were true, but didn’t want to be thrown out, at least not quite yet.
‘And have you tried to track down this person? Or persons?’
‘Naturally. The police computer crime division is also working on it and I’m sure that every newspaper in Iceland — yours included — has had a crack at finding whoever is responsible for this blog. Am I right?’
‘You’re right,’ Dagga admitted. ‘Our internet whizzes had a try but couldn’t get very far. It’s hosted in South America somewhere, isn’t it?’
‘It comes and goes. It’s on a server in some central Asian republic at the moment, as far as I’m aware.’
Dagga checked the red light on her recorder. ‘Returning to the personality actually behind this blog, do you have any ideas, any clues as to who it may be?’
Sigurjóna raised her hands, palms upwards, by way of reply.
‘Is there anything that can be done?’
‘Probably not. If the person or persons ever surface, there will be a good few people who will undoubtedly have grievances they will want to obtain damages over, but there could be huge problems in establishing proof,’ she said, flashing the smile again.
‘Is this an issue of free speech?’
A spasm of anger passed over Sigurjóna’s face and Dagga was sure that asking about boob jobs would probably mean the end of the interview.
‘Of course it’s not about bloody free speech,’ she said with irritation. ‘It’s about the right of ordinary, honest people to live their lives without being slandered in a hideous and hurtful way, without being able to refute all kinds of awful, untrue allegations.’
‘I take it there’s no truth in any of the allegations that Skandalblogger has put forward?’
Sigurjóna’s voice rose in pitch and volume. ‘Certainly not. It’s all spiteful fabrication, pure lies.’
‘As for your husband and the allegations about his relationship with ESC and InterAlu—’
‘As I said, it’s all lies and fabrication.’
Although she was keeping her famous temper in check, Dagga was sure that Sigurjóna was about to explode. Dagga saw her eyes flicker over the desk and settle for a moment on the tiny recorder with its red light. She suddenly calmed and returned to her normal manner.
‘I’m terribly sorry. You must forgive me, but you have to understand that the last few weeks and months have been . . . stressful, shall we say?’
‘I understand that it’s been difficult for you and for quite a few other people. Your husband—’
‘Isn’t here,’ Sigurjóna interrupted. ‘He will have to speak on his own behalf and I’m sure he’ll be happy to do so. But I can say that he is deeply disturbed and hurt by allegations that he has behaved less than entirely honestly.’
‘And InterAlu? They have been portrayed very unfavourably. As Spearpoint is InterAlu’s public relations agency, surely you can comment for them?’
‘I’ll have one of my staff email you a statement this afternoon,’ Sigurjóna replied with an icy dismissiveness in her voice that Dagga realized indicated the interview was almost at an end.
‘Before we finish, I’d like to ask about the young man Skandalblog-ger alleges was murdered a few weeks ago?’
‘An extremely unfortunate matter. The police investigation, as far as I’m aware, has found nothing to indicate any kind of foul play.’