‘I knock off in an hour or two, so the young lad can get on with the evening shift. I recall seeing Matti last week, but not since.’
‘And I take it you’d normally see him about?’
‘Normally, yes. On the rank at L?kjargata, or around town. We Icelanders don’t like to think so, but our island’s only a goldfish bowl,’ he said gravely. ‘You see everyone sooner or later.’
‘That’s odd. I’ve been looking about for Matti, and I haven’t seen him.’
The old man frowned. ‘What’s the boy done this time? If you can tell me, that is?’
Gunna upended her mug and drained the last bitter drops of coffee while there was still a little warmth in them. ‘Y’know, Baddi? I’m not sure and I’d tell you if I did know. I have a nasty feeling he’s tangled up in something deeper than he’s used to this time . . .’
‘And you don’t want him getting into any real trouble again? Dodda, my girl, you’re soft.’
‘Ach. Family and all that. Matti’s a pain in the arse, but he’s a good sort at heart, and I did promise his mother years ago that I’d keep an eye out for him.’
‘Well, some days he’s not about at all. Our Matti always keeps busy, and from what I’ve heard, he’s been running some foreign business chap about. Cash in the back pocket and no questions asked.’
Gunna extracted a pen from her top pocket and scribbled her phone number on a napkin. ‘Will you give me a call if you hear anything?’
‘I’ll do that.’
Gunna stood up, ready to leave. Baddi looked at her squinting into the bright sunshine that lit up every crease and wrinkle in his lined face.
‘You might try where he lives.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Not sure. I think it’s one of those old houses in Flokagata that was split up into flats years ago. He rents a room from a couple who seem to rent out most of their flat, live in their own living room and drink the rent. Anyway, he’s always moaning about the landlady. Ugly Tota, he calls her.’
‘Ah, thank you, Baddi. That rings a bell or two right away.’ ‘Hope that helps. I’ll let you know if I hear something.’ ‘Do that.’ Gunna straightened her cap and left Baddi as he lifted and opened that day’s
As far as Dagga could see, Sigurjona Huldudottir was a model of sobriety, good nature and sparking health on a fresh Monday morning. Her hair fell in a shining blonde curtain to her shoulders in a way that was both fashionable and practical, her understatedly expensive suit said business, while showing just a hint of enhanced cleavage.
‘You’ve seen all this shit that Skandalblogger has been publishing? I mean, not just about my husband and myself, but about a whole host of other prominent people as well?’ she asked.
‘No, not all of it,’ Dagga lied, wishing she had dressed more smartly for this interview.
‘Then you’re not as well prepared as you ought to be,’ Sigurjona said mildly.
‘Well, I am here at short notice, and personally I don’t spend time digging into other people’s dirty linen.’
‘Pleased to hear it. Well, what do you want to talk about, now that you’re here? You’re from
‘That’s right. I wanted your opinion on this blogger, and on blogging in general.’
Sigurjona sat back behind her vast desk, empty but for a closed laptop, a neat pile of papers in a wire cage and a few tasteful trinkets, artfully distributed. Dagga could see a reflection of Sigurjona in its highly polished surface and she concluded that the desk’s owner probably didn’t do a great deal of paperwork at it.
‘Blogging has become a huge part of the Icelandic way of life,’ she began. ‘I’m probably right in saying that there are now more blogs here than there are Icelanders, so there is certainly a measure of overkill.’
‘Blogs that nobody reads?’
‘Exactly. Plenty of blogs nobody reads, a lot that are dormant, and also plenty of blogs that have a limited set of readers. You know what I mean, ones that have plenty of traffic but within a small group of friends or classmates or work colleagues. Then there are some that become enormously busy, generally for a limited time before they disappear again.’
‘Like Skandalblogger?’
‘Yes,’ Sigurjona said without a trace of the sour anger she felt at the mention of the name. ‘It’s something that isn’t going to go away. This is more than a passing fashion. Blogging has become enormously important, especially to the younger generation. Don’t you have a blog yourself?’
‘No, actually I don’t,’ Dagga lied again.
Sigurjona looked quizzical.
‘But I know you have your own blog and I’ve read some of it,’ Dagga added hurriedly.
‘It’s rubbish,’ Sigurjona said airily. ‘Only don’t quote that. It’s got to the point where everyone has a blog, even government ministers. It’s part of the PR machine. We advise our clients to have a blog and to update it regularly, and of course I’d prefer you to not mention that piece of information either.’
Dagga smothered her irritation. Surely someone so expert in dealing with the media would know better than to say something and then ask for it to be kept quiet?
‘But on the record — are you prepared to tell me about Skandalblogger?’
Sigurjona looked pained. It was something that she had practised in front of a mirror along with the winning smile that made clients feel they could trust her with their children’s lives.
‘Of course. But there isn’t a lot to tell that isn’t already well known. This blog started up about a year and a half ago. It’s completely anonymous. Some of us who have been on the receiving end of this particular brand of poison have made a study of it and it’s our opinion that there’s one person who writes not all, but certainly much of it, and the information seems to come from several different sources.’
‘So this is a group effort?’
‘Certainly. One person would hardly have access to so much information — and misinformation, as a great deal of what appears on this blog is absolutely false. If you were to publish this kind of story in
Dagga desperately wanted to ask if the story about the Heathrow sex marathon and Sugarplum were true, but didn’t want to be thrown out, at least not quite yet.
‘And have you tried to track down this person? Or persons?’
‘Naturally. The police computer crime division is also working on it and I’m sure that every newspaper in Iceland — yours included — has had a crack at finding whoever is responsible for this blog. Am I right?’
‘You’re right,’ Dagga admitted. ‘Our internet whizzes had a try but couldn’t get very far. It’s hosted in South America somewhere, isn’t it?’
‘It comes and goes. It’s on a server in some central Asian republic at the moment, as far as I’m aware.’
Dagga checked the red light on her recorder. ‘Returning to the personality actually behind this blog, do you have any ideas, any clues as to who it may be?’
Sigurjona raised her hands, palms upwards, by way of reply.
‘Is there anything that can be done?’
‘Probably not. If the person or persons ever surface, there will be a good few people who will undoubtedly have grievances they will want to obtain damages over, but there could be huge problems in establishing proof,’ she said, flashing the smile again.
‘Is this an issue of free speech?’
A spasm of anger passed over Sigurjona’s face and Dagga was sure that asking about boob jobs would probably mean the end of the interview.
‘Of course it’s not about bloody free speech,’ she said with irritation. ‘It’s about the right of ordinary, honest people to live their lives without being slandered in a hideous and hurtful way, without being able to refute all kinds of awful, untrue allegations.’
‘I take it there’s no truth in any of the allegations that Skandalblogger has put forward?’
Sigurjona’s voice rose in pitch and volume. ‘Certainly not. It’s all spiteful fabrication, pure lies.’
