‘It is reported that aluminium conglomerate InterAlu has withdrawn from its provisional agreement with entrepreneurial company Spearhead and its power generation subsidiary ESC. Twenty-four Seven News was told by InterAlu’s Berlin office earlier today that there was no comment to be made and referred us to ESC, where phones were not being answered yesterday afternoon. Chief executive Sigurjona Huldudottir was today unavailable for comment due to other commitments, according to a Spearhead spokesperson a few minutes ago.’
‘Jon Oddur or Osk?’ Bjarni Jon asked.
‘Don’t know,’ Sigurjona replied in a bleak voice. ‘Is it all over?’
‘All over? Who knows?’ Bjarni Jon groaned. ‘It’s not just us that’s in the shit, if that’s what you mean.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘This week the Central Bank will get a visit from Glitnir to tell them formally that they can’t service their own loan payments. We’re discussing what to do. The old man may be prepared to bail them out using foreign currency reserves, but I don’t know. Or he may want to hang on to the cash as it seems there’s worse to come. At the moment it’s anybody’s guess. After that, it’s still anybody’s guess.’
‘This is going to be bad, then?’
‘Jona, this is going to hurt everyone. But after Monday, I think we can be fairly sure that nobody will be even slightly interested in Spearpoint or ESC.’
Sigurjona’s back straightened and the line of her mouth lifted. ‘And what did the Prime Minister say? Are you stepping down?’
‘Good grief, no. He wouldn’t hear of it. We all have to stand together in tough times.’
‘Have you told Larus Johann?’
‘Of course not,’ Bjarni Jon cackled. ‘I’ll let him think he’s being shifted upstairs for a few more days. Mind you, the treasury at a time like this is a poisoned chalice.’
Again the newsreader cut away to a clip, this time showing a red-haired young woman nodding to a microphone. Bjarni Jon groaned as she appeared on the screen.
‘Good grief, Ingunn Sverrisdottir. Just what I need now,’ he moaned, reaching for the remote control that Sigurjona whisked out of his reach.
‘I want to hear this,’ she snarled, increasing the volume.
‘. . . absolutely,’ the red-haired woman said, caught in mid-sentence. ‘On behalf of the Left-Green Alliance, I want to make it plain that there is every indication of completely unacceptable conduct from the Member of Parliament concerned and we will definitely be inquiring with the Prime Minister’s office as to when a full public hearing into Bjarni Jon Bjarnason’s conduct is due to be held.’
‘You’re referring to the collapse of the InterAlu project in his constituency?’
‘That and more,’ Ingunn Sverrisdottir assured the camera in a clear, clipped voice. ‘I’m talking about conflicts between the national interest and the Minister’s own personal business interests. I’m talking about a full Parliamentary inquiry into misappropriation of public resources. I’m talking about a man elected to Parliament to look after the interests of his constituents who has blatantly misused his position to enrich himself.’
‘Strong allegations from Left-Green spokesperson Ingunn Sverrisdottir. Thank you for your input and now back to the studio,’ a young man holding a microphone said as the camera swung back to show him and the red-haired woman standing outside the Parliament building.
Bjarni Jon Bjarnason closed his eyes and collapsed in a heap on the sofa. ‘Bitch. That’s totally unfair. The fucking bitch.’
‘What the hell do you expect from some stupid lesbian communist fuckwit? You can’t expect them not to stick a knife into you now they have a chance, not after the way you’ve treated them in the past,’ Sigurjona sneered.
‘It’ll be forgotten on Monday,’ Bjarni Jon said with satisfaction, levering himself to his feet to pour himself a hefty drink. ‘Want one?’
‘No,’ Sigurjona said with determination, standing up.
He poured a stiff vodka and brought the bottle with him to the table. Sitting down, he extracted a small cigar from an inside pocket and put it between his lips.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. You’re not going to smoke that in here, are you?’ Sigurjona demanded, scowling at him.
‘Yes, I bloody well am,’ Bjarni Jon replied airily.
‘In that case I’m going to the office.’
‘Do whatever the hell you like,’ he said, lighting up and contentedly blowing smoke towards the expensive abstracts on the walls for the first time. ‘You always have done, so why change now?’
He felt happier with the arrangements for his fall-back plan. The airport had been too carefully watched and the hours in the air would have been too dangerous, leaving too much time for him to be noticed, calls to be made and a discreet tap on the shoulder at the destination airport where security would be tight in these days of international terrorism. He wondered how the unfortunate Ib Torbensen was feeling. Probably being waited on hand and foot in an Icelandic hospital.
He stretched out in the narrow bed, extending his feet past the end of the heavy duvet that was made to suit someone twenty centimetres shorter, and wondered what time it was.
Late in the evening he had tucked the little grey Toyota away behind the unobtrusive tarred wooden shed set well back from the road but with a view through the rattling windows of rain-laden skies to the west. The back door had opened with the same piece of plastic he had used on the fat policewoman’s door, only even more easily. Weeks before he had scouted out the area, noting the locations of remote summer cottages in case he might need to disappear. It wasn’t something he expected might happen, being a respectable employee of an international company, albeit with a false passport, but he’d done it anyway out of force of habit.
He had two days to wait for Horst’s ticket off the island, two full days to lie low and stay out of trouble. Normally he would have relished the prospect of two days of solitude to spend watching a little TV, stretching and meditating, but this time Erna sashayed in front of him every time he closed his eyes, grinning as she peeled off her clothes.
The car would have to be dumped, he decided. The fat policewoman would certainly by now be aware of the number and make of the car rented on the Danish guy’s credit card, so sometime during the day he would need to replace it discreetly. He wondered about laying a false trail for the fat policewoman to follow, even a strike of some kind to give them something else that would overload the country’s tiny police force beyond being able to seek out a single person making a quiet departure.
‘It’s all right, Mum,’ Laufey said. ‘I don’t mind staying with Sigrun.’
Sprawled in an armchair, she returned her attention to Facebook and Gunna gave up.
Sigrun leaned on the door frame with folded arms and grinned. ‘Don’t worry. She’s fine here.’
‘Well, if you’re sure,’ Gunna said fretfully.
‘It’s all right,’ Sigrun said soothingly. ‘Is it that bloke who was on the news yesterday that you’re after?’
‘Yes, it is,’ Gunna admitted.
‘Then don’t worry about it. She’s fine here for a few days.’
‘Thanks, Sigrun. I owe you a huge favour,’ Gunna said, turning up her coat collar as close as it would go to her cap to trot the hundred metres uphill through the rain to her own house.
She threw herself through the front door. Inside, she shook rain off her jacket, took it off and hung it on the door before kicking off her boots. Although the place felt empty without Laufey, it had a feel of habitation about it.
‘Hello!’ she called out loudly, striding to the kitchen to look around. Plates and dishes that she had not used were stacked on the draining board. In the living room, an empty wine bottle stood on the table.
Gunna cast about, called again and went over to look at the sofa, rearranging the scattered cushions with swift movements. Spotting something white peeking from under a cushion in the corner, she pulled at it gently.
‘Hi, Mum.’
A towel tied around his waist, Gisli rubbed his eyes as he emerged from his room to find Gunna sending a wry half smile towards him as she held up a lacy white bra.
