Frozen Assets

Hårde felt numb. He had not been happy about using the international airport, the only route off this weird island, he reflected. Creating a diversion may have been what was needed to get him away from the airport, but it would undoubtedly have spurred the amateurish Icelandic police into even more efforts to locate him. Hårde took a deep breath and reminded himself that no adversary should ever be underestimated — that way lay complacency and errors of judgement.

At a petrol station in Reykjavík he bought sandwiches and calmly ate one over a plastic beaker of gritty coffee while he looked through the phone book. Matti had shown him how to find virtually anyone in the country — and there she was: ‘Gunnhildur Gísladóttir, police officer, Hafnargata 38, Hvalvík.’ Sigurjóna had described her as the fat policewoman. Even though he knew the woman’s name and had seen at the airport as she disappeared inside the building that Sigurjóna’s description had been less than kind, he still thought of her as the fat policewoman.

The anonymous Toyota sprang eagerly into life and he sat in thought with his hands on the wheel. Horst had done his best, but even a man with influence can hardly work miracles, so this gave him a couple of days to lie low before he could make an exit. He wondered if it would be better to hide away, if somewhere suitable could be found, or if it would be worthwhile trying to derail the search for him.

Without having consciously made a decision, he swung the little car on to the main road and followed it for a short distance before slowing to take the exit road that would take him through the lava fields towards the coast.

Outside the station, Gunna puffed a hurried Prince cadged from Bjössi with her phone at her ear.

‘Sigrún? Hi, Gunna.’

She waved Bjössi away as he appeared through the fire door, mugs in one hand, a cigarette packet in the other.

‘Sure. Yup. Thank you, Sigrún, that’s very kind of you. Yup, something of a panic right now and I can’t begin to tell you anything about it. Top secret.’

Bjössi held out a mug and Gunna took it in her free hand.

‘OK. Thanks. No problem, I’ll see you in the morning. I’ll speak to Laufey and let her know. Great, bye.’ She thumbed the red button and finished the call with relief.

‘All right, sweetheart?’ Bjössi asked with concern.

‘Yeah. Nothing that can’t be sorted out. Just fixing up childcare.’

‘Laufey? How old is she now?’

‘Thirteen.’

‘Teenager yet?’

‘Getting there, but I’m sure there’s worse to come.’

‘You could send her to us if you need to. Dóra wouldn’t mind at all.’

‘Thanks, Bjössi. I might well take you up on that.’

She took a gulp of coffee. ‘But Gísli came home yesterday and he’s got ten days off, so Laufey thinks that big brother is all the supervision she needs and the two of them will rub along just fine without Mum.’

‘And can’t they?’

‘Bjössi, my old and dear friend. Gísli is nineteen and he’s been at sea for weeks. I’m sure you can imagine that babysitting his little sister is not his top priority right now.’

‘Sorry. Should have known. The boy probably has beer and girls on his mind.’

‘Exactly. Now, if you’ll excuse me I’ll call Laufey and try to explain that to her and why she’s staying with Sigrún down the street until Mum’s little panic at work is sorted out.’

Darkness was starting to fall as Hårde parked the Toyota outside the deserted school and waited without being sure what he was waiting for. There was no car parked outside the terraced house, although there were tyre tracks in the mud. No lights could be seen at Hafnargata 38 and Hårde decided to leave it until it was fully dark before making a move.

He huddled low in the seat and was sure he was unlikely to be observed as a woman in a heavy coat and rubber boots splashed up the street and went direct to number 38, opening the door and stepping inside without having to unlock it. Hårde waited and wondered if this were the right house, or if the new arrival were a friend or a relative, or even the fat policewoman’s girlfriend? It wouldn’t surprise him, he thought with a dark smile.

The door swung open again and this time the woman walked back down the street, accompanied by a gangly teenage girl with a schoolbag under one arm. This time Hårde stepped from the car and followed at a discreet distance, observing as the pair walked downhill, clearly enjoying a lively conversation, before disappearing into a low-slung house set back from the road behind an untidy garden of stunted trees.

Hårde smiled to himself and walked back in the growing gloom of the evening. Warm lights appeared at most of the windows in the street and he could make out television screens behind most of them. This was reassuring, as people who are busy watching a soap opera don’t tend to look out of their own windows.

He opened the door of Hafnargata 38 with a single swift movement of a strip of flexible plastic and stepped inside, clicking the door to behind him.

***