‘But have you seen him about? He’s driving a green Merc for Nonni.’
‘I knock off in an hour or two, so the young lad can get on with the evening shift. I recall seeing Matti last week, but not since.’
‘And I take it you’d normally see him about?’
‘Normally, yes. On the rank at Lækjargata, or around town. We Icelanders don’t like to think so, but our island’s only a goldfish bowl,’ he said gravely. ‘You see everyone sooner or later.’
‘That’s odd. I’ve been looking about for Matti, and I haven’t seen him.’
The old man frowned. ‘What’s the boy done this time? If you can tell me, that is?’
Gunna upended her mug and drained the last bitter drops of coffee while there was still a little warmth in them. ‘Y’know, Baddi? I’m not sure and I’d tell you if I did know. I have a nasty feeling he’s tangled up in something deeper than he’s used to this time. .’
‘And you don’t want him getting into any real trouble again? Dodda, my girl, you’re soft.’
‘Ach. Family and all that. Matti’s a pain in the arse, but he’s a good sort at heart, and I did promise his mother years ago that I’d keep an eye out for him.’
‘Well, some days he’s not about at all. Our Matti always keeps busy, and from what I’ve heard, he’s been running some foreign business chap about. Cash in the back pocket and no questions asked.’
Gunna extracted a pen from her top pocket and scribbled her phone number on a napkin. ‘Will you give me a call if you hear anything?’
‘I’ll do that.’
Gunna stood up, ready to leave. Baddi looked at her squinting into the bright sunshine that lit up every crease and wrinkle in his lined face.
‘You might try where he lives.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Not sure. I think it’s one of those old houses in Flókagata that was split up into flats years ago. He rents a room from a couple who seem to rent out most of their flat, live in their own living room and drink the rent. Anyway, he’s always moaning about the landlady. Ugly Tóta, he calls her.’
‘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
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
‘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.