‘Very suspicious.’
‘It’s beyond suspicious,’ Gunna said grimly. ‘This deserves some looking into, whatever Vilhjálmur Traustason thinks.’
‘I see. You’re not going to pass this on to CID?’
‘No. Not for the moment. Bjössi doesn’t have any spare time to do anything on top of what he’s already doing and I can’t see Helgi Skaftason welcoming us telling him to dig the case notes out again.’
‘Which means?’
‘That we’re going to do a little discreet investigation of our own until there’s more to work on, especially if I tell you that Egill Grímsson was a close friend of Einar Eyjólfur Einarsson.’
Snorri’s eyebrows knitted together in a frown of concentration. ‘Sounds very suspicious.’
‘Doesn’t it just?’
Snorri admired the scenery as Gunna slowed to take the turnoff for Hvalvík.
‘I thought that chap was going to have a heart attack when you said something about confiscating his computer,’ he said with admiration.
‘So? You’ve just done your first aid refresher, haven’t you? Now, you’re in tomorrow. Haddi’s off so I’d like you to maintain law and order for an hour or two in the morning while I have another little jaunt to the airport.’
12
Monday, 8 September
What their editor liked to think of as the key elements of Dagurinn’s editorial team crowded, yawning, around Jonni Kristinsson’s laptop as he scrolled through Skandalblogger’s latest page, reading out the choicest nuggets of gossip.
Dagurinn’s third full-time reporter, a diminutive, rotund and permanently cheerful young woman called Dagga, stretched to look over Jonni’s shoulder while Skúli crouched down to see past the other.
‘The host of which television quiz show has a predilection for dirty baby-talk in the sack?’ Jonni asked, reading off the screen in a mock-serious news anchor voice.
‘No idea. Does it say which show?’ Dagga asked.
‘Nope. That would be taking it a bit far.’
‘That looks interesting there.’ Skúli pointed, reading out loud. ‘A political gunslinger and former ‘‘non-paying guest’’ at Kvíabryggja prison has just come home from a three-week stay in California. Friends say that he has come home with a west coast accent, a deep belief in the power of crystal energy, a tan and a suspiciously fuller head of hair than he left with.’
‘Only one person that can be!’ Dagga whooped.
‘Hell, yeah. Everyone’s favourite.’
‘He’ll be furious.’
‘He’ll be on the warpath over this one. His lawyers would already be choosing themselves second homes in the Canaries on this one if they knew who to sue,’ Jonni guffawed, reading further as he scrolled down. ‘Friends are concerned and speculation in the Parliamentary canteen is rife. Has he gone for a transplant, or has he just bought a succession of wigs so that he can wear a short one after having a ‘‘haircut’’, then a slightly longer one, then a full-length hairpiece so he can comment loudly that it’s about time for a trim? Bets are being taken on the transplant theory. Click here for the before and after pics. Skandalblogger welcomes inside info — anonymity guaranteed!’
Jonni clicked the page shut, sensing the approach of the editor without having to look behind him, a skill that Skúli and Dagga had been trying unsuccessfully to cultivate.
‘Five minutes!’ Reynir Óli Vilhjálmsson snapped as he swept past and into a vacant meeting room, papers under one arm and a sleek laptop under the other.
The three looked from one to the other. Jonni raised an eyebrow.
‘He looks smart today. Anything special happening?’
‘He doesn’t look happy, though, does he?’ Dagga said.
‘We’ll see . . .’
‘Good morning. Margrét?’ Gunna asked. ‘I spoke to you this morning.’
‘Yes.’ The fresh-faced woman behind the desk wore a hoodie sweater and looked as if she would be more at home in a stable than manning a car rental desk at an international airport.
‘I’d like a word, if that’s OK,’ Gunna said in a voice that indicated anything else would not be acceptable.
In the small back office Margrét spread out the rental agreements that Gunna had already asked for. ‘Right, here they are. It was one of our BMW X3s I think you’re asking about. You said the ones you want to know about have JA in the registration and the date was the twenty-fifth of August. Right?’
‘That’s it.’
‘We have four vehicles that fit the description, they all came together so the numbers are consecutive, but only two of them were in use on that date.’
‘Can you account for the other two?’
‘Yup,’ she said with confidence, opening a desk diary and pointing out entries. ‘One was returned the previous day and was still being valeted. The other one was being serviced.’
‘Right. Carry on.’
Margrét slid the rental agreements across. ‘This one was rented by an Ian Donegan, arrived on the twenty-fifth of August on an Icelandair flight from Manchester and he returned it on the thirtieth. All the details are there, passport number, credit card number, driving licence, et cetera.’
‘And the other one?’
‘Rented on the twenty-fourth, returned on the fourth of September, name of Gunnar Ström, arrived from Stockholm with Iceland Express.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘The flight number’s there on the request. We always ask for that so we can match the vehicles to the flights people are arriving on.’
‘Of course. OK,’ Gunna said, looking at the photocopied passport page and into the face of the man she had seen on the car park’s CCTV system at the wheel of the blue jeep.
‘Well, the same information’s there, name, address, passport and all that stuff. I’ve photocopied it all for you,’ Margrét continued.
Gunna shook herself back to reality. ‘Thanks. Do you recall either of these people?’
‘Maybe. It’s hard to say. We see so many faces, but I might recognize a person if I saw them again.’
‘Would you recognize either of them?’ Gunna asked, holdingup one of the passport photocopies with its blurry photograph of the holder.
‘Yes,’ Margrét responded instantly. ‘The face rings a bell. Good-looking guy,’ she added appreciatively.
‘Which one is it?’
‘Ah, not sure.’ Margrét looked through the rental notes. ‘He’s the Swedish guy. The Englishman’s too old. Look, he’s fifty-five,’ she said, finger on the date of birth on the photocopy of the man’s driving licence. ‘The Swede returned the vehicle very clean, it hardly needed valeting. But the English guy we had to bill extra because he’d been smoking a pipe in the car. It stank and there was ash everywhere.’
‘Fine. We have a clean Swede and a smoking Englishman. Anything at all you remember about Donegan or Ström? Anything at all? Any details about the rentals? Did either of them mention where they’d be going?’
Margrét shook her head. ‘I can’t recall anything about him at all. He must have been polite. You tend to remember the rude idiots because we don’t get many of them. Most of our rentals are businessmen who all look the same, sound the same. You know what I mean?’
‘Didn’t you see them when the cars were returned?’
‘Not that I recall. Normally we just ask people to leave the car in the lot outside and post the keys through the box if there’s nobody here.’
‘Do you have a record of the mileages?’
‘Yup. Donegan was just over six hundred kilometres, fairly low for a six-day rental. Ström did twenty-two hundred kilometres over eleven days, which is average.’
‘Good. Then that’s everything, thank you. My colleague will get a statement from you later. Now, I only need the paperwork for both of them.’