‘What do you mean — in a way?’
‘He doesn’t know about it yet.’
Matti pulled up outside what looked like a dilapidated farmhouse. The building needed a coat of whitewash and the windows on the seaward side were caked with grime and salt.
‘This is the place?’ he asked Hardy doubtfully.
‘It should be. Wait here for me, will you?’
Matti switched off the engine and opened the door. There was almost perfect quiet outside. Only a few songbirds and the distant chatter of a brook broke the silence.
Matti levered himself out of the car and perched his backside on the bonnet, listening to the faint tick of cooling metal under the bonnet as he lit a cigarette. He watched Hardy walk purposefully up the path and open a garden gate that needed both oil in its hinges and a coat of paint.
He was halfway to the front door when it opened and a man appeared with spectacles perched among sparse hair that nevertheless curled about his shoulders.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked vaguely. ‘I heard your car pull up outside.’
‘I’m looking for Arngrimur Orn Arnarson,’ Hardy replied, hurrying to reach the man before he came too far from the house’s front door. ‘I’ve been told you can help me out with some information.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ the man said doubtfully.
‘Ah, but I’m sure you can. Einar Eyjolfur said you would be able to give me some answers.’
‘I’m sure I don’t know who that is,’ the man said quickly.
‘But you are Arngrimur Orn Arnarson?’ Hardy asked softly, hoping his voice would not carry as far as where Matti was basking in the sunshine. ‘Can we sit down and talk for ten minutes? I know you’re a busy man and I won’t take much of your time.’
The man cast about as if unsure and gestured towards an iron table flanked by a barbecue and a pair of garden seats near the door of the house. Matti looked lazily across at the two men sitting face to face outside the house and wondered what could be so important that it was worth driving all this way when a phone call could have done the trick. He hauled himself forward and sauntered around the back of the car to get a cloth. He busied himself polishing dead flies from the car’s windows while he caught snatches of the conversation that carried in the still air. In spite of himself, he couldn’t help straining to hear more.
‘You’re telling me you’re unaware of this?’ Hardy asked.
‘It’s not something I’m involved with,’ Matti heard the man say.
‘But how easy would it be to set something similar up? It would have to be secure and in an environment where interference is not easy,’ Hardy asked casually.
‘It can be done easily enough. Full access and any questions are ignored as long as suitable payments are made in the right places.’
Matti willed himself not to be nosy and straightened up from polishing the windscreen. As he did so, the two men at the table also stood up and came forward a few paces. He saw Hardy stretch out a hand and the man uncertainly put forward his own hand to shake it, while Matti hastily dropped the cloth and the cleaning fluid back in the boot to be ready to move off.
As he closed the boot, he heard a howl that set his teeth on edge. Looking up, he could see the two men with their hands locked, but by now Hardy was on his feet over the man who cowered on his knees, his right arm extended and twisted unnaturally into Hardy’s grip.
Hardy whispered something that the man clearly missed as Matti stood transfixed.
‘This is a message to your friend the Skandalblogger that it has to end and it has to end now,’ Hardy repeated. ‘Do you understand?’
The man nodded furiously.
‘This is just to make sure the message is taken seriously,’ Hardy added, leaning forward sharply as he put his weight behind his grip on the man’s arm. Although no stranger to a little persuasion himself, Matti shuddered at the sharp crack of the man’s wrist snapping and the thin screech that followed it.
Hardy stood up and dusted himself down with a smile.
‘I hope that’s all in order,’ he said to the whimpering man on his knees, one shattered arm cradled in the other. ‘I wouldn’t like to come back and do the same to the other one. Ready, Matti?’ he asked with a smile.
14
Thursday, 11 September
The percolator spat and hissed while Gunna spread slices of bread with butter and then layers of ham. Forcing her thoughts elsewhere, she wondered how long S?valdur would be able to hold Gusti the Gob with no real evidence to back up his suspicions.
With Laufey away from home for the week, Gunna found that she hated being in an empty flat and wondered when Gisli would be back. Although Gunna worried about him working at sea, she reflected that the trawler was a fine ship with an unbroken safety record and that crossing a busy street was probably more hazardous than working on deck among an experienced crew. She debated whether or not to call Laufey, but decided that the girl would probably see it as interference.
With nobody else in the house, cooking was too much trouble. She toyed with the idea of a takeaway, but felt slightly revolted by the idea of the stodgy pizza that was all Hvalvik could offer.
She placed four sandwiches on a plate and opened the fridge to search for mustard. Right at the back, a half-full bottle stared at her. It called suddenly, sweetly, insistently, telling her that one glass would be fine, that she could handle a small one.
Gunna quickly picked up the mustard jar and shoved the door closed, but the image of the cognac bottle remained with her as she ate at the table while the TV news reported four people escaping from a house fire in Akureyri.
She ignored the whisper from the fridge when the next item appeared. This time the chairman of a union commented that housing conditions for overseas workers employed to build a power plant in the east of Iceland were far below standards required and the work camp would have to be shut down if things did not improve. The camera swung and she recognized the young man she had interviewed at Spearpoint’s offices, now sporting a goatee and almost invisible frameless glasses. She turned the sound up quickly as the banner at the bottom of the screen read ‘Jon Oddur Finnbogason, Spearpoint’.
‘. . . really can’t comment on these allegations,’ blustered the pale young man with the fringe of ginger beard.
‘But surely you must have checked the accommodation that these people were going to be living in before they arrived?’ a reporter asked.
‘Of course. Everything was vetted at the project’s preparation stage. We carried out extensive checks.’
‘And did you do this personally?’
‘We have representatives on the ground who do this kind of work on the company’s behalf and this was entrusted to them. As far as I’m aware, this was all done satisfactorily.’
‘But your company didn’t send anyone personally?’
There was silence for a moment. ‘No. As I have already said, we have representatives who—’
‘Jon Oddur Finnbogason of Spearpoint.’ The reporter had cut the young man off in mid-sentence as the camera tracked to a huddle of sorry-looking sheds crowded between the half-built steel skeleton of a hangar and a gaggle of trucks. A second later the picture flashed back to the studio.
‘And now, a light aircraft made an emergency landing this afternoon at Bildudalur. There were no injuries, but the aircraft has been badly damaged. Investigators are already on the scene and the airstrip at Bildudalur is closed until flights hopefully resume tomorrow . . .’
She quickly muted the sound as the phone rang beside her. ‘Gunnhildur.’
‘Ah, good evening. Gunna?’ a gruff voice asked.
‘That’s me.’
