Frozen Assets

So, we’re back and once again the Icelandic scandal blog has a brand-new home! We’ve been tarred and feathered and run out of town on a rail one more time, so this time we’re back stronger than ever in a delightful part of the world where they respect the power of Mr Visa to overrule the pathetic attempts of those-who-run- things to silence free speech. Hurrah for the Tiger economies! Free speech is there for those willing to pay for it!

Making friends and influencing people!

But anyway, folks, and we mean that most sincerely, our favourites are still up to their old tricks. Gunni Benedikts at the trade ministry, no doubt after a looong lunch with his old chum Oli at agriculture, has just decided to block imports of New Zealand lamb to our fair country. Now, some of you may find this a bit hard to stomach, what with all the claptrap these guys have been spouting over the years about free market economics, going for the most competitive bid, and all that shit. But let’s remember which party holds trade? And agriculture? Of course, it’s our old friends the Progressives, and we can’t go upsetting the farmers, or at least the half-dozen who are still in business and who vote for them, just by letting them be undercut by cheap foreign imports. That wouldn’t be fair, would it?

(Private) Power to (a few of) the People!

As for everyone’s favourite minister . . . ! Bjarni Jon, now just who are your new friends? And we don’t mean the guys at InterAlu, it’s their friends from further east we’re interested in this time. From what a little bird whispers in our ear, these are oil people. Energy people. Money people. Powerful people. Watch your back, BJB, and when you’ve shaken hands with them, you’d better count your fingers, just to make sure.

We’ve heard the rumours circulating around environment and trade, and the PM’s office, and we’re not going to believe it, as we know what a great guy you really are. We’re absolutely certain that you’d never sideline the National Power Authority by inviting a foreign company to build and run a private power station to sell electricity to InterAlu. So, please, BJB, tell us it ain’t true?

Watch this space, there’ll be more tomorrow!

B?jo!

Haddi firmly believed that a whirlwind of unwarranted attention had descended on Hvalvik and its tiny police station. By mid-morning the station’s older, but junior, police officer would have preferred to be making his accustomed tour of the village in the station’s better Volvo, taking in coffee, gossip and a doughnut or three with the lads at the net loft or maybe with one of his cousins in the saltfish plant’s canteen. Instead he found himself fending off a flood of questions through the phone and from the huddle of newspaper and television people outside.

Outside on the grass verge a serious young woman in a thick parka over a smart city suit presented take after take with the little harbour and Hvalvik’s pastel-painted houses in the background, as if to make sure that Reykjavik viewers understood this was a report from outside their city limits.

Teams from Morgunbladid, DV, Frettabladid, state TV and radio, Channel 2, Channel 3, and a few more that Haddi had never heard of had all demanded information, been told there was no statement yet and they’d just have to wait. Haddi was putting the phone down from telling the local paper the same thing when a young man with a mess of gelled fair hair that appeared to defy both gravity and the breeze outside pushed his way through the door into the station’s reception area.

‘Yes?’ Haddi asked brusquely, arms folded on the counter.

‘Er. Hi. I’m Skuli Sn?dal from Dagurinn.’

Haddi rolled his eyes ceilingwards. ‘Look, son, I’ve told all of you that there’ll be a statement this afternoon. Yes, we have found an unidentified person. No, I can’t tell you where. No, I can’t tell you any more than that.’

‘But I’m—’

‘Sorry. That’s all I can say right now.’

‘But that’s not what I’m here for. I’ve come to see Gunnhildur. I’m shadowing her for a while. For Dagurinn,’ he added.

Haddi took a deep breath ‘So you’re not here because of the body?’

‘No. What body?’

‘Never you mind. The chief’s not here right now, and I don’t suppose she’ll be back for an hour or two.’

‘Couldn’t you call her up? I’m expected.’

Haddi pulled his glasses down from among his curls and peered over them.

‘If it was something important, then I could call her up,’ he agreed. ‘But on a day like today, then it would have to be something more than usually important.’

Skuli tried again. ‘It’s all arranged. I can call the press representative at police headquarters and confirm with them again.’

‘Sorry. Not now. Look, we have a very serious incident to deal with, so I’d appreciate it if you’d call Reykjavik and sort it out with them. We’re a bit busy right now. Hm?’

Haddi’s frown and raised eyebrows made it plain that this was not a matter for discussion and the young man appeared to concede defeat.

‘All right then. But do you know when she’s going to be back?’

‘Normally, about now. Today . . .’ Haddi shrugged his shoulders.

The young man nodded glumly and made for the door. The look of disappointment on his face aroused a sudden pang in Haddi’s heart and he called across as the young man had the door half open.

‘Not from round here, are you?’

‘No. Reykjavik.’

‘D’you know Hafnarkaffi?’

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s the shop down by the dock. It’s getting on for lunchtime and odds are that’s where the chief’ll be. But you didn’t hear that from me, all right?’

The young man grinned in delight. ‘Thanks. That would be great. How do I recognize her?’

‘Gunna? Can’t miss her. She’s a big fat lass with a face that frightens the horses.’

Hafnarkaffi stands between the fishmeal plant and Joi Ben’s engineering shop. Originally a shed used for storing tarred longlines through the summer, Hafnarkaffi has grown gradually since it was turned into a drive-in kiosk thirty years ago, then expanded into a shop and had an extension built to add a small cafe for harbour workers and fishermen. The final addition was the petrol pumps outside, but by now hardly anything of the original corrugated iron shed is to be seen and the place has become an enduring nightmare for council planners who have visions of it spreading across the road.

Skuli looked through the steamed-up glass panels of the door and made out figures sitting at tables. Pushing it open, he ventured in, thought for a moment and decided that he really was hungry anyway.

At the end of the long counter he collected a tray and pushed it in front of him, picking up bottled water on the way and stopping before the row of steaming steel bins.

‘Fish or meat?’ a grey-faced woman behind the counter asked.

‘Er — what do you have?’

‘Fish or meat.’

‘What sort are they?’

‘It’s Tuesday. Salted fish or salted meat.’

Skuli’s heart sank and he began to wish he hadn’t bothered with a tray.

‘Saltfish, please,’ he decided, knowing that he would regret it.

The woman ladled fish and potatoes on to a plate. ‘Fat?’

‘Sorry? What?’

‘D’you want fat on it?’

‘Oh, er, no. Thanks.’

She dropped the spoon back into the dish of liquefied fat and pointed to a pot. ‘Soup?’

‘Oh, no thanks.’

‘It’s included.’