Things are getting serious, boys and girls. It’s just like the movies, only this is real life. Real life, people, just to remind you, is what happens right after you select Shut Down.
We understand that there’s a price on the Skandalblogger’s head. We hear there’s corruption and skulduggery afoot. We hear that there’s (whisper it!) money in the kitty to get our fingers broken one by one. We hear that there are respectable people in high places who want us shut down, so obviously we’ve been doing something right, especially if our hit stats for the last month are anything to go by. Maybe we should start selling advertising space?
But seriously, folks, who’s the tough guy who visited a computer communications consultant Skandalblogger has never met or heard of, on the same day that the poor man had a fatal heart attack and unaccountably broke his own arm in the process? Is it the same hardnut who may or may not have driven a dead-drunk Einar Eyjolfur Einarsson off to an out-of-the-way harbour and rolled him into the water to drown quietly? Isn’t it time we had a few answers?
But just so as you sad people can have your fill of filth and revel in the misfortunes of your elders and betters . . . Excuse us, did we say elders and betters? Of course we didn’t mean that, what we meant to say was the rich and morally bankrupt, maybe even genuinely bankrupt if the tales of panic we hear from our financial friends have a grain of truth . . .
Anyway, beware, ladies, and especially gentlemen. If you go for the little blue pills that help with a certain problem down below, then watch out, as Skandalblogger is reliably informed that there’s a duff batch on the streets. Right size, right shape, right colour, right price. But no trade. You pay your way, pop your pill, and the lady’s still looking at a night with Mr Floppy.
You pays your money and takes your choice!
B?jo!
Gunna returned from what she felt was an entirely wasted trip to the InterAlu compound, cursing the waste of an afternoon on what was little more than assuring the site manager that there would be no more demonstrations outside his gates.
She emptied the Co-op shopping bags into the fridge and the cupboards, hummed as she swept the kitchen floor for the first time in days, cleared the debris from the fridge and bagged it ready to go in the bin before deciding that the bathroom could wait for its birthday. Something to grapple with put Gunna into a detached frame of mind that allowed her to do mundane chores she would normally put off, leaving her free to turn things over in her mind while cleaning the flat on autopilot.
She recognized her own symptoms and resigned herself to the fact that she would have no peace until she found some kind of conclusions. She brewed coffee and sat down at the kitchen table to read through her notes, as well as the printouts she had made of Clean Iceland’s web pages that included a lengthy obituary of Egill Grimsson.
She was startled when the doorbell buzzed. At the door she looked through the frosted glass to see Snorri still in uniform outside, looking a little uncomfortable.
‘Come in,’ Gunna said with an unaccustomed cheerfulness, swinging the door aside.
Snorri grunted a greeting, bent down to pull off his shoes, padded behind her into the kitchen and sat down in the chair against the window without needing to be asked. Scanning the papers scattered across the table, he picked a mug from the window sill and automatically held it out to be filled.
‘I stopped off at the station, but Haddi said you’d gone home. So here I am.’
‘Laufey’s supposed to be home from her trip today, so I ought to be here for her.
‘Another trip?’
‘Work experience, which she managed to wangle at a stable near Olafsvik, the cheeky thing. Her grandmother lives up that way so she’s been there for the weekend and she should be back any minute. Now, young man, there’s something I wanted to talk over with you without any curious ears listening in.’
‘You’re not up to anything dodgy, are you?’
‘Don’t talk like a daft old woman.’
‘All right, I just don’t have long before my lesson.’
‘What lesson?’
‘Joi Ben’s daughter.’
‘Silla Sjofn or the other one?’
‘Silla Sjofn.’
‘And what’s she supposed to be teaching you?’ Gunna asked, mystified for a moment before she remembered that Snorri had begun to supplement his modest police salary by giving driving lessons. The tips of Snorri’s ears glowed pink.
‘I’m teaching her,’ he said lamely. ‘To drive.’
‘Sorry. Slipped my mind.’
‘And you were about to say something unladylike as well.’
‘Me? Come on.’
Snorri slurped coffee and looked at the papers on the table with curiosity. ‘And?’
Gunna took a deep breath. ‘I’m convinced there’s more to all this than meets the eye.’
‘I thought that the moment we saw the film of that bloke stealing the jeep,’ Snorri admitted. ‘Very professional, only took a couple of seconds. But if you’re going to steal a car, why nick an old crate like that?’
‘An old heap is unobtrusive. I’m sure there’s a link between the jeep and Egill Grimsson and I wouldn’t be even slightly surprised if our body in the dock wasn’t part of the story as well.’
‘I know it’s unusual and suspicious, but what makes you think there’s a connection?’
‘What it boils down to is that Egill Grimsson was the motivator behind getting this Clean Iceland Campaign off the ground to start with. Clean Iceland organized that march up at the InterAlu compound. My guess is that Einar Eyjolfur was feeding information to Egill, and Einar Eyjolfur was working for Spearpoint.’
‘Which is that bunch who are bringing in all these Poles and Portuguese to work up at the Lagoon?’
‘Right first time, young man. There’s certainly a bit more to this can of worms than meets the eye.’
She decided not to mention that Spearpoint was owned by a minister’s wife, while Snorri rolled the empty mug between his hands.
‘So, have you found anything out?’ Gunna asked. But the front door opened before Snorri could answer, banged against the wall and brought a gust of cool air with it before slamming shut again.
‘Mum? You home?’
‘In here, sweetheart.’
Laufey swung a backpack on to the floor. Her face was drawn with fatigue, but shone with excitement.
‘Have a good time, did you?’
‘It was brilliant, Mum, brilliant. We went riding every day. Who’s this?’ she asked, staring straight at Snorri.
‘This is Snorri, one of the policemen from the station. Snorri, this is my darling daughter, Laufey Oddbjorg.’
Laufey wrinkled her nose. ‘Laufey Obba,’ she said with decision. ‘I don’t like Oddbjorg. Mum, can I have a horse?’
Snorri snorted as he stopped himself from laughing.
‘What’s so funny?’ Laufey demanded, nose in the air.
‘Sorry. Nothing.’
‘Laufey, my love,’ Gunna said patiently. ‘Look, I’m a bit busy right now. Can you put all the clothes that need washing in the basket? I’ll get dinner soon.’
‘We had great food at the farm, meat soup like Grandma makes only not the same and all sorts, and there were pancakes—’
‘Laufey, please. Ten minutes, OK?’
‘All right,’ she conceded, dragging her rucksack by the shoulder straps to her room and shutting the door behind her.
‘Enough to put you off having kids, isn’t it?’
‘She can come out to the stables and ride one of my horses if she wants,’ Snorri said shyly.
