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 Margret 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.’
Margret 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 Strom, 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,’ Margret 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,’ Margret responded instantly. ‘The face rings a bell. Good-looking guy,’ she added appreciatively.
‘Which one is it?’
‘Ah, not sure.’ Margret 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 Strom? Anything at all? Any details about the rentals? Did either of them mention where they’d be going?’
Margret 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. Strom 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.’
‘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 Oli had a pad open next to his laptop. Jonni lounged back in his seat, while Dagga and Skuli sat upright and attentive.
‘Now,’ Reynir Oli 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 Oli 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. Skuli glanced down to see Jonni had written, ‘Look at his chin. Told you so,’ on his pad.
‘Bjarni Jon Scumbagson has called a press conference this afternoon. No real idea what it’s about yet, possibly something to do with that Hvalvik 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 Skuli. ‘He hasn’t had the pleasure of a ministerial press call yet.’
‘Whatever. What do we know about this Skandalblogger?’ Reynir Oli 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 Skuli looked pained. ‘No need to let the truth get in the way of a good story.’
‘But this blogger,’ Reynir Oli 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 Oli said, ignoring Jonni. ‘So where do we go from here? Skuli, 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 Jon and the Russian connections. Good stuff, right on the nail.’
Reynir Oli 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
