‘I keep telling you, I’m doing everything I can. I’ve had meetings with the National Commissioner, the Minister of Justice, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, you name it, I’ve badgered them about it. I’ve had briefings from the head of the computer crime division, our own techno-nerd department and everyone apart from the receptionist downstairs. And I can’t get any further.’
‘This has to stop.’ Sigurjóna’s voice had gone as cold as a winter’s night.
‘I agree, but I can’t see how.’
‘Offer the bastard money.’
‘What?’
‘You heard what I said. Buy the bastard off.’
‘How? If nobody can find him, how?’
‘Find a way.’
Bjarni Jón groaned. ‘Jóna, my love. Leave it. Let it ride. Ignore it. It’ll stop sooner or later. It isn’t as if we haven’t heard gossip before.’
‘Find a way, Bjarni.’
The phone went dead in his hand. Bjarni Jón took a deep breath and typed the Skandalblogger’s URL into his web browser. He gasped when he finished reading the latest entry, then a smile galloped around his face and he laughed out loud.
‘Bloody hell. How do they find out this stuff?’ he asked himself, pressing the buzzer for Birna’s desk.
‘Minister?’
‘Birna, would you make me an appointment with the National Commissioner, please?’
‘Again, Minister?’
‘Yes, again. And as soon as is convenient,’ he said, wondering if Birna and the rest of the department would also be logging on to the Skandalblogger’s page to read the latest titbit that had upset the Minister’s wife.
Friday, 19 September
19-09-2008, 0223
Skandalblogger writes:
You do the hokey-cokey and. .
And now for the sexual aberration of the week. Which well-known and highly exclusive city hairdresser to the rich, especially to the rich, has a penchant for back door fun with a difference? What is it with these sisters and their arses? Anyway, this lady likes it rough and Skandalblogger is reliably informed that she asks her gentlemen friends to use the following recipe.
Step 1. Roll on heavily ribbed condom, any flavour.
Step 2. Sprinkle todger with finest organic marching powder.
Step 3. Get stuck in.
Word has it that if the fun dust does to her arse what we’re told it’s already doing to her nose, she’s going to be crapping in a bag long before she gets shunted off to the old folks’ home.
. . and you shake it all about. .!
‘Hi. Skúli.’
‘So I hear, young man. And just why are you calling at this time of night? Sorry, didn’t have time to meet you in Reykjavík yesterday.’ ‘That’s all right. Didn’t wake you up or anything, did I?’ Gunna laughed hollowly. ‘It’s all right. I’ve only just come in. Been round the village to make sure the local bad guys are all behaving themselves.’
‘OK. Have you got the TV on?’
‘Why?’ Gunna asked curiously.
‘I think you ought to watch the news. And buy a paper in the morning.’
Something in Skúli’s voice told her that he was serious and she rooted through the pile of old newspapers on the table for the TV remote control, jamming her phone between shoulder and ear while she did so. ‘Something important, is it?’
‘Yeah. Einar Eyjólfur Einarsson? I reckon you’ll need to see this. It was on the 19.19 news, but I reckon it’ll be on the ten o’clock news in a few minutes as well, and it’s our front page tomorrow.’
Gunna looked at her watch. ‘Right. That gives me ten minutes to find the remote and when the news is over I’m going to get some sleep.’
‘Hope so. I’ll see you next week, I expect.’
‘Goodnight, young man.’
‘G’night.’
Gunna put the phone down and finally found the remote on the floor under the table. The TV flickered into life and she sat back to watch the news, easing her boots off and putting them neatly by the side of the armchair. She wondered briefly why Skúli had said he would see her next week.
As the news bulletin began, the screen filled with a blurred picture of Einar Eyjólfur Einarsson, wearing a colourful shirt and a goofy smile. He was the main story and as the newsreader switched to an item about forthcoming local elections, she heard the phone start to ring again.
Saturday, 20 September
‘Gunnhildur, you’re here because this is your area and your case,’ began Vilhjálmur Traustason, still shaken from last night’s TV report. Everyone in the room remained silent and waited for him to continue. A police station on a Saturday morning is no less busy than at any other time and phones could be heard ringing in other rooms and traffic hummed past outside the window.
‘What we have is a somewhat untrustworthy allegation that the death of this young man who was found unfortunately deceased in — ’ he peered at the report in front of him — ‘the harbour at Hvalvík, was deliberately perpetrated.’
Vilhjálmur Traustason spread his hands flat on the table in front of him and squared his shoulders. ‘Having gone over the reports in detail and read carefully through the information from forensics and pathology, to my mind it is absolutely clear that the young man suffered death by drowning while intoxicated.’