‘Hello?’ a woman’s voice answered.
‘Good morning. This is Gunnhildur Gisladottir at Hvalvik police. Could I speak to Eirikur Emil Eiriksson?’
‘He’s not here,’ the voice answered sharply.
‘Could you tell me where I could find him?’
‘You’re not his . . .’ There was a pause. ‘You’re not his bit on the side, are you?’ the voice continued with suppressed fury. ‘Because if you are—’
‘I’m an investigating officer with Hvalvik police and I assure you I’ve never met the man, but I’m trying to eliminate certain people from an inquiry. Can you tell me where I can find him? This is a serious matter.’
The voice on the line sighed. ‘He’s at sea as far as I know. But sometimes he doesn’t bother to come home when they’re ashore.’
‘And you’re his wife?’
‘I don’t know about that. I’m his kids’ mum at any rate.’
‘I see. I apologize, but I have to eliminate a series of people from an incident. Could you describe him for me? Height and hair colour?’
Gunna could hear the click of a lighter and a long exhalation.
‘Eirikur’s about two metres, a bit over. Dark hair, going a bit bald at the back, big nose.’
‘In that case I don’t think I’ll have to trouble you any more as that doesn’t fit the description of the person we’re looking for. But can I have your name, please? It’s just in case I need to follow this up later.’
‘Aldis Gunnarsdottir.’
‘And is that an Akureyri phone number?’
‘Dalvik.’
‘OK. Thank you for your help. I don’t expect we’ll need to trouble you any further.’
‘What’s he done?’ Aldis asked sharply.
‘Excuse me?’
‘What’s he done, the bloke you’re looking for? Eirikur gets up to all sorts.’
‘Nothing as far as I know. It’s a missing person inquiry.’
‘Oh. Shame.’ The woman’s disappointment was palpable.
Gunna ended the call with relief, carefully noting names, numbers and the time of the call. She looked back at the list and dialled again.
‘Good morning. This is Gunnhildur Gisladottir at Hvalvik police. Could I speak to Elmar Einar Ervik, please?’
It was long past midday when Gunna realized that she would have to be quick getting back to Hvalvik before the station closed its doors at six. But she consoled herself with a job well done that left only one name unaccounted for on the list she had started with. One person had not answered his home phone or the mobile number that the telephone company’s website listed. She reflected that this was nothing out of the ordinary, as the person could be out of the country, at sea, a meeting or simply asleep. Out of curiosity, she opened a search engine on the computer, typed in Einar Eyjolfur Einarsson and clicked the search box.
The personnel page of a company website was at the top of the list that appeared within seconds. Gunna followed the link to the site and scrolled down the list of staff to the name she was looking for. Some entries had a picture alongside the staff listing, but there was no picture of Einar Eyjolfur Einarsson, just the name and the mobile phone number she had already called unsuccessfully twice.
She scrolled back through the list until she found the company’s personnel manager. Gunna pulled the phone over and dialled again.
‘Good afternoon. Spearpoint,’ a soft voice purred.
‘Good afternoon. This is Gunnhildur Gisladottir at Hvalvik police. I’m trying to contact Einar Eyjolfur Einarsson.’
27-08-2008, 2114
Skandalblogger writes:
So what’s going on here with the health service? We hear whispers from the inside that times are hard at the coalface of government and plans are being floated to open ‘areas of health provision’ to the ‘private sector’ as we’ve been told.
Excuse us? Isn’t this Iceland, not some tinpot banana republic run as the President’s personal bank account? Or is it? We’re supposed to be the pinnacle of well-being and happiness. So what’s gone wrong? Why is government floating these proposals in secret and coming over coy when anyone asks about it?
It seems uncomfortable to contemplate, but all the signs are there that the parts of the health service that actually produce a few quid for the state coffers are likely to be flogged off cheap to friends of the party, while the taxpayer continues to prop up the bits of it that aren’t profitable.
So let’s cast our minds back a year or two to when the guys at the top sold off our state-run telephone system to their golfing buddies. Now, wasn’t the rationale at the time that the proceeds would be used to give us, the Icelandic taxpayers, a second-to-none health service? In which case, did the fat guys in suits simply trouser the cash they got for the phone company, considering health is now in such a poor financial state that the only option is to privatize?
Flummoxed . . .
B?jo!
3
Thursday, 28 August
Gunna drove into Reykjavik late in the morning when the roads should have been fairly quiet, but still found herself caught up in a straggle of traffic crawling along main roads. In spite of the falling housing market and the jittery business environment that dominated the news, things seemed busy enough as the second-best Volvo swung on to Miklabraut and down towards the city centre. New buildings and cranes dotted the skyline.
Passing L?kjartorg, she reflected that while much had changed, there were undoubtedly more changes to come. The city had altered out of all recognition. What had been a quiet town centre when she moved south and joined the Reykjavik force all those years ago had become a buzzing sprawl of boutiques and bars. Stopped at the lights, she checked what had once been the quiet restaurant with dark wooden tables and solid food where she and Raggi had celebrated their secret wedding. The place had gone entirely, replaced with three storeys of steel-framed opaque glass.
The lights changed and Gunna pulled away along S?braut, passing the Ministry buildings at the corner of Skulagata now dwarfed by the rows of new offices and apartment blocks facing the sea and the shell of the huge Opera House rising where the fish auction had stood. She wondered which of the glass-fronted giants housed the offices she was looking for.
The top of the building wasn’t quite as smart as the ground-floor entrance had indicated, and the back of it, overlooking building sites and car parks, wasn’t as exclusive as the front with its view over Faxa Bay and the brooding presence of Mount Esja in the distance.
Gunna found the office suite and was about to push open the door emblazoned with a Spearpoint sign, its curved logo ending in a sharp point, when a raised voice inside made her pause. She stood still and listened carefully. It was clearly a woman’s voice, in a state of fury she would normally have expected to hear outside a nightclub in the early hours.
The voice ranted with hardly a break, occasionally pausing, possibly for breath, before continuing with its tirade. No answering voice could be heard. Although few distinct words could be made out, Gunna was caught between concern and admiration for a woman who could rant at quite such length and volume.
Eventually, tired of waiting for the tirade to come to an end, she shoved at the door and heard a buzz inside as it swung open. The voice came to an abrupt halt and Gunna found herself in front of a high reception desk where a young woman with a pinched face looked up in surprise to see a police officer in uniform.
‘Morning. I’m looking for Sigurjona Huldudottir. I believe I’m expected.’
