‘Do you really think some twitcher stole a jeep to go bird-watching and then rolled it off the quay at Sandeyri?’
‘Haven’t a clue. We’re up to our ears in it here and I’m going to have to leave it with you. I’ll email you the report. All right?’
‘All right. What are you so busy with over there, if you’ve got better things to do than give us a hand?’
Bjössi groaned. ‘Don’t ask.’
‘Go on. What is it?’
‘The usual, trying to interrogate dodgy Eastern Europeans who don’t speak Icelandic and pretend they don’t speak English either.’
‘Fair enough. Rather you than me.’
‘You said it. See you tomorrow morning if you’re here for the briefing.’
‘Briefing? On a Saturday? Nobody’s told me.’
‘Vilhjálmur Traustason’s new efficiency review procedures. You’re better off out of it, believe me,’ Bjössi told her. ‘Bye, sweetheart.’
Gunna sat back again with her hands behind her head as she thought. She looked at the clock, saw that she had time in hand and prodded the computer into life. Ten minutes later she locked up behind her, nodded to the woman in the post office next door and walked up the hill towards home with a thick printout under one arm.
05-09-2008, 0216
Skandalblogger writes:
Don’t say we didn’t tell you.
It seems it’s all starting to unravel at last, and don’t forget we warned you all a long time ago that these guys weren’t to be trusted.
We know that the Ministry of Environmental Affairs set up a small think-tank a few years ago, under the innocuous name of Energy Supply Consultation, otherwise known as ES Consult, or just plain old ESC. But has anyone noticed that ESC is now a limited company listed on the stock exchange?
Have a look, click here* for the stock exchange website and dig a little further to find out who the main shareholders are. It’s enlightening reading.
But the really interesting reading would be the internal report commissioned a month or two ago by the major lender set to bankroll ESC, which it now seems is too explosive for anyone but a couple of the top dogs to see. Come on, guys, what did the economists from London have to say about you? And why don’t you want your shareholders to know about it?
Well, enough of the corruption in high places, as we can hear you baying for us to get back to the usual filth. So here it is, in an easily digested format.
Which owner of a fashionable downtown tanning parlour has been laying off some of her staff, replacing them with fit young things from further east? It seems that some of the local staff weren’t too happy about the ‘executive happy finish’ service that the place likes to offer its exclusive (for ‘exclusive’, read ‘rich’) customers, and walked out. Luckily, Eastern Europe is awash with leggy beauties who can’t afford scruples. So business as usual, even with the krona taking a dive!
And which presenter of a primetime popular slot on national TV was this week observed making his way along Laugarvegur in odd socks and bumping into walls, people, parked cars, etc? There’s nothing unusual about this extremely thirsty motormouth, well known for a flamboyant lifestyle, becoming . . . what shall we say, overwrought after extensive hospitality, but at 10.30 on a Tuesday morning? Incidentally, it seems that the odd socks were particularly visible, as our presenter friend was clearly wearing someone else’s trousers and the someone else must be a good bit shorter than our flamboyant friend.
It’ll all come out in the wash . . .
Bæjó!
‘Can I go out, Mum?’
‘No, my love. It’s late.’
‘But the others are out.’
‘I know, but it’s gone ten.’
‘Aw.’
Laufey Ragnarsdóttir frequently found it difficult to be a police officer’s daughter. Other parents could let their children stay outside until after dark. But Gunna knew that there would be whisperings and complaints if she were to do the same and she wondered how long her authority would remain unchallenged.
‘Half an hour, Mum? There’s no school tomorrow.’
‘Laufey, I said no. All right? Come on, you’d better be off to bed soon. Aren’t you going riding with Sigrún tomorrow? Get your stuff ready now and you can have the TV on for a while,’ Gunna added as gently as she could.
Laufey shrugged and began slowly picking up schoolbooks scattered across the living room.
‘Make sure you’ve got clean clothes for the morning,’ Gunna instructed.
‘I’m not thick, Mum.’
Gunna bit back a sharp reply. She left Laufey to get on with it and went to the kitchen to read the report on Egill Grímsson which she had printed out from the police records and which had been waiting for her all evening on the table.
She scanned the first page of the printout, frowning as she saw that the investigating officer was Helgi Skaftason. They had been recruits together at training college where Helgi had been a latecomer to the force and the oldest man in that year’s intake. He was now a painstaking but unimaginative officer.
Egill Grímsson had been run down and killed, crossing the road outside his own house, by an unknown vehicle, possibly blue according to some neighbours who had racked their brains to remember seeing any unfamiliar cars in an otherwise quiet neighbourhood of Grafarvogur.
There had been no witnesses and death was judged to have been instantaneous, although Egill Grímsson could have been lying in the road for as long as an hour before he had been found by the neighbour who called for an ambulance.
Routine questioning of people living in the street revealed nothing beyond the fact that the man had been a clean-living, rather private person, a middle-aged schoolteacher at a comprehensive college. An odd person for a character in his twenties such as Einar Eyjólfur to be associating with, Gunna thought, until a burst of sound from Laufey’s room had her jumping to her feet.
‘Turn it down, will you?’ she demanded, banging on the door before opening it. Inside, the music stopped abruptly as Laufey turned the stereo down to a whisper.
‘Sorry, Mum.’
Back in the kitchen, Gunna returned to Egill Grímsson. The man had been out all day on Sunday, 9 March and it appeared he had just parked his own car on the other side of the road when the accident had occurred at between seven thirty and eight that evening. There had been no other traffic along the dead-end street and the man’s glasses, some notebooks, maps and a camera had been found scattered near his body. All of these had been identified by the distraught widow as being the dead man’s property.
According to Helgi Skaftason’s report, there had been no progress in finding out who had been responsible for what was regarded as a tragic accident. Nobody had seen anything and the assumption was that this was a hit-and-run accident in which the perpetrator had panicked and fled. The only unusual aspect of the case was that the driver of the car had not been found. The description of a possibly blue car, according to a bored petrol station clerk on the main road a kilometre away, was far too broad for any kind of search. Although the case was still open, it was clear from the text that little was being done to take it any further as there was no indication of any kind of foul play.
Gunna sighed out loud. She decided against calling Helgi Skaftason, knowing that he would resent what she was sure he would see as interference. She stood up, leaving the report on the kitchen table, and went to the bathroom to brush her teeth, noticing as she did so that Laufey had gradually increased the volume of the music in her room so that it could again be heard throughout the house.