‘Take those. I’ve already copied them for you.’
‘Thank you. If I ever need to rent a car, I’ll come straight to you.’
‘Ideas, please?’
Reynir Óli had a pad open next to his laptop. Jonni lounged back in his seat, while Dagga and Skúli sat upright and attentive.
‘Now,’ Reynir Óli said sharply. ‘Jonni. Politics?’
‘Power’s still the big issue that everyone’s trying not to mention by hiding behind the City Council and the opera house rumpus. Maybe we should just short-circuit the whole thing and go for the power issue?’
Jonni sat back. Reynir Óli rubbed the almost invisible strand of blond fuzz that straggled down his chin. ‘Risky. Is that all?’
Jonni sighed and pretended to make some notes. Skúli glanced down to see Jonni had written, ‘Look at his chin. Told you so,’ on his pad.
‘Bjarni Jón Scumbagson has called a press conference this afternoon. No real idea what it’s about yet, possibly something to do with that Hvalvík smelter project, or it might be about endangered spotted eider ducks for all I know. Could be something for tomorrow,’ Jonni drawled.
‘OK. You’d better be there. Do four hundred words for the website straight away and a piece for tomorrow’s edition if it’s any good.’
‘I was going to take the lad as well,’ Jonni said, jerking a thumb at Skúli. ‘He hasn’t had the pleasure of a ministerial press call yet.’
‘Whatever. What do we know about this Skandalblogger?’ Reynir Óli demanded. ‘He’s upsetting a lot of people. Is this guy a story?’
‘Or girl,’ Dagga said. ‘He or she would be a story if we could find him.’
‘Or her. Or them,’ Jonni added.
‘It’s incredibly popular, but it’s dangerous. There’s so much there that’s libellous. Even if it is true,’ Dagga continued, ignoring him.
‘I know that’s not what they teach you at university, but truth and journalism are pretty dangerous bedfellows,’ Jonni sighed as Dagga and Skúli looked pained. ‘No need to let the truth get in the way of a good story.’
‘But this blogger,’ Reynir Óli butted in. ‘Like Dagga says, everyone reads the blog and nobody has a clue who writes it. It’s a massive story if we find out who it is.’
‘There are plenty of scores waiting to be settled and there are a good few people who would be very pleased if we could track Skandalblogger down. That Spearpoint woman is going completely apeshit over what he’s being saying about her.’
‘That’s the obnoxious PR bimbo married to the environment slimeball, right?’ Jonni asked.
‘Right,’ Reynir Óli said, ignoring Jonni. ‘So where do we go from here? Skúli, you’ve been trying to dig something out on this, haven’t you? How far have you got in tracing who’s behind it?’
‘Nowhere. Now it’s hosted by a service provider in some obscure former Soviet republic where they take the cash and don’t ask questions, or bother answering them.’
Jonni coughed and scratched his head. ‘Maybe this is the wrong way round. Whoever the Skandalblogger is, and speaking personally I say good luck to them, they’re getting some top-quality information, not just what days the Minister of Health’s secretary wears a pink thong, but real stuff, like all that about Bjarni Jón and the Russian connections. Good stuff, right on the nail.’
Reynir Óli raised both eyebrows. ‘Meaning?’
‘This is a person, or people, on the inside, with access to real government and financial information, not just recycled salacious gossip.’
‘So what are we looking for?’
‘Not sure,’ Jonni admitted. ‘My guess would be a Parliamentary secretary, a researcher, someone with access to government but not necessarily right at the top. Maybe a party official?’
‘Or how about a top political journalist?’ Dagga asked sweetly.
‘Don’t talk such rubbish, girl,’ Jonni growled. ‘It’d have to be someone at board level who goes to the right parties, not a grunt like us.’
Reynir Óli sensed the switch in mood and brusquely changed the subject.
‘This week? What do we have? Jonni, you’re working on the finance bill issue, aren’t you? I need that today and I’d like you to do the editorial comments this week as well.’
Jonni’s eyes rolled up to the heavens, but he kept quiet and Reynir Óli continued.
‘Dagga, fashion pages, for the Saturday supplement. Commission freelancers to do some if there are gaps left to fill. The same with the travel pages. Gossip?’
‘Get it from Hot Chat and rehash it if that’s OK? The usual agency stuff from London? The Beckhams? Paris Hilton? Madonna?’
‘Whatever. Fine by me. The others use it, so we’ll have to do the same. Skúli, crime reports for the Tuesday and Thursday editions, and something a bit meatier for Saturday? How are you getting on with your redneck cop profile?’
‘Fine. It’ll be a good series. I’d like it to run over a couple of weeks if that’s OK with you?’
‘If it fills up the inches, it can’t be bad,’ Jonni grinned.
‘That’ll be fine, Skúli,’ Reynir Óli said primly. ‘I’d like you to keep tabs on this blogger and dig up what you can. Get on to the Ministry of Justice, someone like that. Can you do that? Get an angle on how they’re managing to keep him on the run all the time.’
All three of them pretended to take notes for the week ahead. Jonni was drawing a series of boxes across the page of his notebook, while Dagga typed straight into her laptop.
‘Er, Reynir? A question?’
‘Yes, Skúli.’
‘I just wondered — if we track down the blogger, then what do we do?’
‘Why do you need to ask?’ Reynir Óli asked in astonishment. ‘We’d splash it across the weekend edition.’
‘Well, it’s just that without the Skandalblogger there, we’d struggle a bit for stories. I mean, he’s such a great source of material.’
Gunna dispatched a relieved Snorri to the InterAlu compound to discuss a wide load that the construction contractor wanted to bring in. Snorri was only too pleased to escape the confines of the station and Gunna reflected that maybe she was asking him to do too much.
She shrugged and decided that as long as Snorri wasn’t complaining, she wasn’t going to feel sorry for him, knowing that he was relishing the responsibility. With the office to herself, she spread the two rental agreements out on the desk and read carefully through all of the details for both of the men.
Gunna frowned, pulled the phone across and dialled Stefán Jónsson’s number from memory, peering at the photocopied passport photos as she listened to it ring.
‘Hi, Siggi? It’s Gunna the Cop. Is your grandad home?’
‘He’s asleep on the sofa,’ the thirteen-year-old replied guardedly.
‘Now, young man, I need you to do something for me. All right?’
‘Yeah . . . ?’
‘I want you to go on the internet and find pictures of BMW X3s. Got that? It’s a big jeep.’
‘Duh. I know what an X3 looks like,’ the boy replied with disdain.
‘So much the better. I’d like you to find a couple of pictures and show them to your grandad. Then tell him that Gunna wants to know if this is the model of car he saw that night. OK?’
‘Yeah. What’s it for?’
‘Can’t tell you. But it’s important. Don’t tell anybody else, but I really need you to call me back as soon as you can and tell me what your grandad says. OK?’
‘Is it, like, a criminal car?’ There was a new note of excitement in the boy’s voice.
‘I’m not sure. It could be. Can you do that for me?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Oh, Siggi. Ask your grandad as well if he remembers what colour it was. All right?’