She rose to her feet as the door banged behind him and, seething with suppressed anger, rinsed out her own mug and placed it carefully by the sink, ignoring Sævaldur’s.
8
Wednesday, 3 September
03-09-2008, 2315
I’ll be your back door man . . .
Maybe the government’s hippest young gunslinger should be paying more attention to his über-fashionable old lady, as rumour has it that she’s already signed up for a week’s conference in Miami next month at the International Federation of Arse-Lickers and Bullshitmongers (known otherwise as the PR Practitioners’ Guild). But is she going alone? Of course not . . . And why should she when there’s a whole stableful of eager young hunks manning her office for her to pick from for a little companionship, just in case she needs a little manning herself?
So, in case you’ve popped by to read the latest — and we know that you have, guys — this is just to let the lucky stud know that he needs to stock up on some lube at the airport, as we hear the lady has some unusual preferences. Hmmm, tasteful . . .
Check back soon . . .
Bæjó!
9
Thursday, 4 September
A burst of sunshine broke through the bank of tattered clouds rolling in from the west and glinted first on the wavelets lapping at the harbour walls, and then on the blackened concrete of the crumbling quayside at the tiny village of Sandeyri.
Gunna leaned on the breakwater and puffed a Camel as two young officers watched a crane taking up position on the dockside. To her satisfaction, Sævaldur had still failed to extract a confession from Gústi but had charged him with an array of offences relating to Einar Eyjólfur’s credit cards. Added to a morning’s drive out to Sandeyri, this made the day a good one and she basked in the warmth of the autumn sunshine.
She was grateful for a brief respite in the routine at Hvalvík, where managing heavy traffic and relations with InterAlu were increasingly occupying her working hours even with the addition of Snorri to the station. Construction work continued at the new smelter at the far side of Hvalvík harbour and the long trucks taking earth movers and heavy gear had begun the trek up the Sléttudalur road to the new site that would become the Hvalvík Lagoon power station.
She looked down at the shimmering water, and what at first appeared to be the slick head of a seal among the miniature waves lifted itself from the water and hauled a mask up its face. The diver hung on to a rusting ladder and called up to one of the officers on the quay.
‘Going to be long?’
‘Two minutes.’
The diver nodded and waited patiently while the crane was jacked up on to its lifting plates and the jib lowered out over the water. As heavy canvas slings dropped to the surface, the diver pulled his mask back down and slipped below the surface with hardly a ripple. A minute later he reappeared, dropping his mouthpiece to shout.
‘Away you go!’
Gunna stood up straight, stamped on the cigarette butt and walked smartly to the quayside. The diver sculled gently away from where the crane’s wire disappeared into the water.
The engine roared. Black smoke belched from the crane’s exhaust and drifted lazily down the quay in the still air. Wire spun on to the drum and scattered shining droplets where it left the water until the slings appeared and finally the roof of a car broke the surface. Clear water sparkled and streamed from its open windows as it was raised high into the air, turning in slow circles.
The car swung over the dock, was gently lowered on to its wheels and crouched there, a small jeep with paintwork covered in a thin layer of green growth. One of the officers detached the slings that the diver had passed through the car’s windows so it could be lifted by its roof. The diver clambered up the ladder and sat on a bollard to remove some of his equipment. Gunna helped him unhitch the tank from his back and put it down carefully.
‘See anything else down there?’
The diver pulled his hood off to reveal a shock of grey hair and an older face than Gunna had expected to see, adorned with the kind of walrus moustache that had gone out of fashion with bowler hats.
‘Not much to be seen down there. The bottom’s all sand — if there was anything big, it would probably show up well enough. The tide’s pretty strong around here, so anything small tends to get swept out anyway. You’re Raggi Sæm’s wife, aren’t you?’
‘Was. And you are?’ Gunna responded in surprise.
‘Unnsteinn Gestsson. Your Raggi and I sat for our tickets together, bloody years ago it seems now.’
‘Unnsteinn? I don’t recall him mentioning you.’
‘Steini the diver?’
‘Of course. You were on Ægir as well for a while, weren’t you?’
‘A good few years, actually. I think Raggi must have been second mate about the time I joined the ship, and then he transferred to Tyr and . . . Bloody shame.’
Gunna looked down at the cracked concrete at her feet. Raggi was in her thoughts every day, often at the most uncomfortable moments. For the first time in many months she felt the familiar stab of grief behind her breastbone and ruthlessly blocked back tears that threatened to bully their way down her cheeks. ‘So. You left the service, then?’
‘Yup. Retired a couple of years ago with twenty-five years’ undetected rule-breaking and skiving behind me. Now I just do a bit of work for the harbour authorities. That’s how we found this old heap. After the earthquake in the spring the town surveyor asked me to have a look at the pilings under all the quays to see if it’s all solid. I’ve only just got round to Sandeyri. Down I went and there it was, sitting on the bottom minding its own business. On its wheels, windows wide open, just as if it had been shoved off the edge and into the water. Very neat.’
‘Thank you. That all helps.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he replied, hauling himself to his feet. ‘If there’s anything else, give me a call,’ he added in a tone that indicated a call would be welcome.
Gunna left him to pull himself out of the old-fashioned wetsuit, sitting in the back of a van that had seen better days. She turned to the forlorn jeep squatting on its wheels on the quayside.
‘Good man. That would have been me otherwise,’ she called to the young officer who opened the car’s passenger door to release a flood of water that engulfed his feet. She ran a finger along the bonnet to expose a streak of blue paint under the green algae. As the policeman who had opened the door stood to one side in embarrassment, she peered at the sodden interior, looking carefully at the ignition with the key still in it.
‘Right, then. Plain clothes will be here any minute to have a look over this and I’ve already asked for forensics to see what they can find,’ she told the uniformed man.
Gunna ran practised eyes over the sodden interior of the car. There was nothing to be seen apart from drifts of fine sand in every corner.
‘We’ll get the tyres checked and see if there’s anything there that might link it to something useful,’ Gunna muttered to herself. ‘Right then, young man. What can you tell me?’
‘I’ve already checked the number through the computer. It belongs to Rögnvaldur Jónsson, address in Akranes.’
‘How did you do that so quickly?
‘The diver already gave me the registration number, so I checked it.’
‘Good lad.’