Click here* for the photos — a few details obscured to protect the guilty. Or here* for the video clip of Sigurjóna dropping and smashing the exclusive and ludicrously expensive award statue, an individually handcrafted glass artwork by Hanna Kugga.
And where’s the old man? Gallivanting overseas again at the taxpayers’ expense? But, hell and damnation, that’s what we pay our politicians for, to get the hell out of the country for as long and as often as possible so the staff can get on with running the show without interference.
Still, who knows? He’s supposed to be there for the full week, but Skandalblogger hears on the grapevine that there might well be a good reason to come scuttling home early from the conference in Berlin where he’s holed up in the Bristol Hotel, definitely a step up from the Gruesome Gullfoss and its Latvian hookers. At least at the Bristol there’s a bit more variety to choose from.
Well, Bjarni Jón . . . See you on . . . Wednesday? Maybe Thursday?
The call icon winked on the screen of Bjarni Jón Bjarnason’s laptop. Birna raised a questioning eyebrow and he nodded to her. She silently stood up from her side of the vast dining table scattered with papers.
Bjarni Jón clicked on the accept call button and Sigurjóna’s voice erupted through the speaker at the same time as an imperfect image of her appeared in a box below the internet phone’s control panel. He could see that she was dressed smartly, as if for the office.
‘Hi, darling. How are you? Everything OK at home?’
‘Of course,’ Sigurjóna snapped back. ‘Are you alone? Why can’t I see you on-screen?’
Bjarni Jón sighed. Birna looked at him inquiringly from the sofa on the far side of the suite where she had retreated with a pile of paperwork. The inquiring look asked if she should leave them to speak privately.
‘Birna’s here. We’re preparing for the meeting with Horst. You can’t see me because I don’t have a camera on this computer.’
‘All right. Listen.’
Bjarni Jón could make out his wife’s pinched features. ‘What is it, love? How did the awards go? I take it they gave you something?’
‘Yeah. Most forward-thinking company, or some such crap. There was a hideous statue that came with it, so I dumped that,’ Sigurjóna said quickly. ‘Listen, I can’t get in touch with my sister. She doesn’t answer her phone.’
Bjarni Jón drummed the desk with his fingers. ‘So? There’s nothing new about that.’
‘And I’ve had the police here this morning asking about Hardy. They want to question him about that boy who was found dead in Hvalvík. I’m worried about this and I can’t reach Hardy either.’
‘Shit,’ Bjarni Jón hissed to himself and fumbled for a headset that he plugged into the computer. Sigurjóna’s voice broke into his ears and would at least keep half of the conversation private. ‘Have you called the compound?’
‘Of course I did, and his mobile,’ Sigurjóna snarled. ‘I’m not an idiot.’
‘I never said you were,’ Bjarni Jón said hastily. ‘Where did you see Hardy last?’
‘At the awards last night.’
‘He was there? Why?’
‘Because I invited him.’
‘Good grief.’
‘The police have some idea that he has a violent past.’
‘We knew that already. Horst told us.’
‘Not directly.’
‘No. He hinted. He said that Hardy was very competent,’ Bjarni Jón said, looking over the top of the screen to see if Birna was paying any attention, but she appeared to be engrossed in paperwork now spread across the sofa.
‘Where are you, anyway?’ Sigurjóna demanded.
‘Hotel Bristol.’
‘Yeah, but where?’
‘Berlin.’
‘Again?’
‘Yup, again. Environment Ministers’ conference.’
‘God.’
Bjarni Jón could see Sigurjóna’s face on the screen looking down at the keyboard as she typed. She looked strained, he thought, more tense than usual. He peered at the image of her beamed from the camera on top of her laptop.
‘Are you all right, Sugarplum?’ he asked tenderly.
‘What?’
He saw her sit up straight, startled.
‘Are you all right?’ he repeated.
‘Yes, yes,’ she replied quickly. ‘You’re meeting Horst this afternoon?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Anything special?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. Just a routine chat, I suppose. He asked for this meeting. What do you want me to do about— you know?’ he asked, avoiding mentioning the police out loud with Birna in the room.
‘Will you call Lárus?’
‘Lárus Jóhann? Again?’
‘Yes.’
‘And talk about what?’
‘Just call him and ask him what’s going on.’
‘Look, how can I?’
‘He’s the Justice Minister. He ought to have some bloody clue about what his police force is doing.’
‘He’s done us a lot of favours already. It’s not even as if we’re the same party. I can’t call on him too often.’
Bjarni Jón saw Sigurjóna’s face grimace with anger, fuzzed by the time-lapse imaging of the internet phone.
‘Just do it, will you?’ she snapped and Bjarni Jón was relieved that he had had the foresight to plug in the headset.
‘I’ll do what I can,’ he replied smoothly for Birna’s benefit, suppressing the irritation building up inside.
‘OK. Do that. I’m going to try Erna again. It’s not like her to not answer me.’
‘All right, darling, let me know, won’t you?’
‘Yeah. And you’ll let me know when you’ve spoken to Lárus. Bye.’
The stop sign appeared in the connection box on the screen and Bjarni Jón wondered what he was going to say to the Minister of Justice.
30
Sunday, 28 September
‘Hell, I’d just take the money and say thank you in your position,’ Bjössi said firmly. ‘I wouldn’t even consider turning that kind of thing down.’
‘Yeah, but it’s the moving part I’m not so keen on.’
‘Why? Cheap housing in the east and you can rent out your place here to some yuppie couple who can’t afford to live in Reykjavík. You’d be quids in, especially with an inspector’s pay grade. And the job might be more fun.’
Gunna had discouraged opinions from colleagues who had managed to hear of the offer of promotion and the transfer that would go with it. Bjössi was the latest and also the most forthright in his advice.
‘I know. But it’s Gísli and Laufey I’m concerned about. I really don’t want to uproot her from school, especially as she’s doing well and seems happy enough there.’
‘Gunna, my dear, I’m sorry to break this to you, but Gísli’s a big lad and he’ll want his own place soon enough. All right, Laufey’s thirteen, so how long do you think she’s going to want to stay with Mum?’
‘But Bjössi, I like living in Hvalvík. It suits me. It’s comfortable.’
Bjössi wanted to stamp his feet. ‘Just right. It’s too bloody comfortable, Gunna. You’re getting old and set in your ways before your time.’
‘Are you trying to get rid of me, or what?’ Gunna retorted. ‘To be honest with you, I had been wondering about leaving the force and giving something else a try.’
Bjössi laughed. ‘And do what? Gunna, I can’t see you working on the meat counter in the Co-op.’
‘Don’t talk such crap. My widow’s pension keeps the wolf from the door, and there’s security work, insurance claim stuff, that sort of thing.’
Bjössi stood up and shrugged himself into an outsized overcoat that Gunna had told him many times made him look like a flasher. ‘Well, it’s up to you. But times are going to be bloody tough in the next few years and working for the public sector at least has a bit of security about it. You’d be bloody mad to turn it down. Up a pay scale, a shift to plain clothes if you want it, cheap housing. Even if it’s just for a year or two, it’d be worth it,’ he said heavily. ‘Come on, apart from this case, what’s the most interesting piece of work you’ve had in the last year? Was it when Sigga Vésteins broke into the pharmacy and you had to follow the footprints in the snow to find out which low-life it was, or was it when you had to bust Albert Jónasson for 300 kilos of over-quota cod?’