Frozen Assets

‘Hell, I don’t know,’ Jón Oddur said wearily. ‘The barmaid might recognize us, I suppose. But it was a busy night. I got talking to a group of tourists and there was some really drunk bloke who bumped into Einar Eyjólfur and wanted to start a fight, but nothing out of the ordinary.’

Jón Oddur transferred his attention from the keyboard to a rubber band that he wrapped repeatedly around his fingers.

‘You seem nervous,’ Gunna said as the rubber band flew off his hand and hit the wall.

‘You would be if one of your best mates had just drowned,’ he snapped back. ‘What the fuck was he doing in Hvalvík, anyway?’

‘Like I said, that’s what I’m trying to find out and the more you can tell me, the more likely it is I’ll be able to get to the bottom of it all.’

‘Sorry,’ Jón Oddur apologized with a sigh. ‘That’s it. That’s all I can tell you.’

‘Thank you. Now I’d better have a word with Dísa. She was his girlfriend, right?’

‘Sort of. They kind of split up when he moved out, but they were still sort of together.’

Sort of, thought Gunna as she stood up to leave Jón Oddur to his fidgeting.

‘If you recall anything else that might be useful, then I’d appreciate a call,’ she said, placing a card on the desk.

Jón Oddur nodded vaguely, his attention split between her and the laptop in front of him.

‘Yeah. I’ll let you know,’ he said half-heartedly, his attention back on his computer screen. ‘Dísa’s at reception. She normally leaves at four, so you’d better be quick.’

Dísa sat behind the reception desk and Gunna could see that she was watching her approach.

‘What did Jón Oddur say?’ she asked before Gunna could speak.

‘That you knew him better than almost anyone. Is that right?’

‘What’s happened to him?’

Gunna could see the anxiety and waited to see tears well up in those wide eyes.

‘Do you know who killed him?’ Dísa whispered.

‘Why do you say that? There’s no indication of foul play.’

‘How did it happen?’

‘He drowned, in the harbour at Hvalvík.’

‘What was he doing there? He’d been taken off the smelter project,’ Dísa said angrily.

‘That’s just what I think I need to find out,’ Gunna replied grimly. ‘Have you finished for today?’

Dísa nodded, eyes awash with tears.

‘In that case, do you need a lift home?’

28-08-2008, 2041

Skandalblogger writes:

It’s our birthday! Two years down the line and we’re still here. It’s been two whole anonymous years of providing the nation with completely reliable, totally unsubstantiated and extremely libellous gossip about the great and the good of Icelandic entertainment, business and politics. So happy birthday to us! We’d like to ask all our readers — and there are plenty of them! — to raise a glass to the Skandalblogger tonight and wish us plenty more years of risking our necks bringing you malicious libel for your delectation. We know you love us and you’d hate to see us go. .

Just to keep in the spirit of things, we’d like to know who says gentlemen prefer the real thing?

Here are Skandalblogger’s top five falsies. Here we are, for your delectation, in reverse order, the top five society ladies who have gone under the knife in the noble cause of chest enhancement.

5. A certain notorious fitness expert who went from 32A to 34C overnight. She must have been getting a discount for bulk, so to speak, as she had her schnoz done at the same time.

4. The lady who looks after the extramarital needs of a particularly needy businessman who owns a newspaper, a record store, a chain of grocery shops and a transport company. Judging by his girlfriend’s impressively upholstered new frontage, he can’t be quite so needy any more.

3. A well-known PR guru had hers done in the States. There’s nothing like mixing business with pleasure, is there, Sugarplum?

2. Pop stars have to look a million dollars, but our guess is that, this warbling national treasure’s boob job was a cut-price deal, as it looks like her arse has simply been sliced off and stuck to her chest. We like it, though.

And number 1. . is, tan-tan-tara. Sorry, but it has to be our favourite newsreader. They looked better before, darling. And we decided to put you at number one for outright daring. Who do you think you’re fooling?

See you soon!

Bæjó!

Dísa’s flat was in the basement of a large house in Vogar, twenty minutes’ drive out of the city on the road to Keflavík, among the black lava crags of the peninsula that ends with the airport and was until recently the NATO air base.

Much of the main room was filled by an ornately framed double bed stacked with neatly folded clean laundry and piles of magazines. In the corner a light winked on a computer with a darkened screen.

‘Let’s sit in the kitchen,’ Dísa said, dropping her bag on the kitchen table and draping her jacket over the back of a chair.

Gunna sat down and scanned the room. There were film posters on the walls, but she had the impression that the kitchen didn’t get used often.

‘No problems at work?’