Frozen Assets

‘First get on to Akranes and ask them to get themselves out to Grundartangi and check on. .’ She consulted the list of shipping movements on the wall. ‘Starlight. OK? And it wouldn’t do any harm if customs could give it an extra going over. The same goes for the reefer docking in Grindavík tomorrow.’

‘What about the other shipping?’ Bára asked.

‘I’m not too worried about fishing vessels, especially the Russian ones, unless our man wants to spend three months on Flemish Cap.’

‘Shall I check out the one at Skarfanes, Gunna?’ Snorri asked. ‘It looks interesting.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s just along the coast. There’s only the fishmeal plant there and nothing else. Nobody ever goes there except the staff. It’s pretty busy during the capelin season, but that was over months ago and it’s probably quiet now.’

‘How do you know all this?’

‘My dad worked there until he retired.’

‘Bára, I’d like you to come with me to grill Sigurjóna and we’ll look in at Skarfanes on the way.’

‘Sure,’ Bára yawned.

‘Snorri, my boy. Man the barricades, will you? Won’t be long.’

Sigurjóna was late. She normally made a point of keeping people waiting for a minute or two, as it reinforced the image she liked to project of being constantly busy. This time traffic had held her up and she was later than usual stepping from the lift and punching in the code to open the office door.

She could hear the hum of voices from her own office and frowned.

‘Good morning, can I help you?’ asked a girl she didn’t recognize from behind the reception desk.

‘I’d like to know who’s in my office,’ Sigurjóna snarled back.

‘You must be Sigurjóna?’ the girl asked sweetly, not waiting for a reply. ‘Ingólfur Hrafn is here and he’s waiting in your office for you.’

Sigurjóna’s anger deflated. She could hardly bawl out the man who had stepped in to keep her company afloat. ‘All right. Your name is?’

‘Bergdís,’ the girl replied and Sigurjóna filed the name away for future reference before adjusting her winning smile. She swept into her own office to see Ingólfur Hrafn, Ósk Líndal and a skinny man she knew but couldn’t place sitting there.

‘Golli,’ she trilled as the bear-like man in a fashionable suit over a brilliant white T-shirt rose from her chair to meet her. ‘So sorry I was held up, you know what Friday traffic is like.’

They went through the formality of exaggerated air kisses before the big man stepped back.

‘Delighted you could make it,’ he said in a tone devoid of any delight. ‘I thought we’d better meet straight away to get things on track again, so I’ve asked Ósk and Reynir Óli to join us.’

The thin man with a scrap of beard in the middle of his chin rose to his feet and extended a hand.

‘Great to see you again. We met at the PR awards a few days ago,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’m looking forward to working alongside you.’

‘Alongside?’ Sigurjóna mouthed soundlessly.

The big man grinned. ‘You know Reynir Óli? I’ve brought him across from Dagurinn and he’ll be reporting to me on progress at Spearpoint,’ he said.

‘But I thought-’

‘You know what it’s like when you take on a company, Sigurjóna. A new owner always wants to have his own eyes and ears about the place to get the feel of things. Don’t worry about it, business as usual, darling. I’m staying in the background.’

Sigurjóna caught the despair in Ósk’s eyes as she looked about the room.

‘Nice office,’ Reynir Óli said appreciatively, taking in the view. ‘I’m going to like it here and I’m sure we’ll get on just fine.’

Sigurjóna pulled herself together with an effort and her steely smile returned.

‘I’m sure we will,’ she purred.

The figure in black overalls and black helmet walked along the quay in the loose-hipped manner of a man carrying a weapon to where a maelstrom of water was being kicked up by the Juno Provider’s propeller going half ahead with the rudder hard over. The ship’s stern inched away from the quayside and suddenly the roaring of the engine died away. The man in black walked further along the quay towards where the bow was still anchored to the land by a forespring and a bow rope. A tall deckhand in an orange survival suit and helmet stood looking over at the man in black and beyond him at the track leading down to the little factory from the main road.

The squad car bumped down the track and came to a halt yards from the top of the dock, as another black-suited figure in a helmet stepped in front of it with one hand held up.

‘Who are you?’ the figure asked gruffly.

‘I could ask you the same,’ Gunna replied. ‘What’s going on here?’

‘Who are you? What’s your authority?’

‘Gunnhildur Gísladóttir, Hvalvík police. And who might you be?’

The man stepped back and moved quickly in front of the police car, muttering into a microphone built into his helmet. Gunna drummed her fingers on the wheel, gradually losing patience as she could see Juno Provider’s funnel dribbling smoke at the quayside below.

‘I’m sorry. This is a security zone and I have no authority to let you through.’