Frozen Assets

‘No problem,’ Albert said gratefully, already making his way along the pontoon and throwing off the boat’s mooring ropes in the process. ‘See you later, Gunna,’ he called out as the boat surged from the quay.

And I’ll stay here and wait for the professionals to turn up, Gunna thought, opening the squad car’s boot to get out a roll of tape to cordon off the area. She wondered if the tape had ever been used before in Hvalvík, a village where a speeding ticket or an uncooperative drunk were the most serious crimes she or Haddi normally had to deal with.

26-08-2008, 0944

Skandalblogger writes:

You can’t keep a good blog down!

So, we’re back and once again the Icelandic scandal blog has a brand-new home! We’ve been tarred and feathered and run out of town on a rail one more time, so this time we’re back stronger than ever in a delightful part of the world where they respect the power of Mr Visa to overrule the pathetic attempts of those-who-run-things to silence free speech. Hurrah for the Tiger economies! Free speech is there for those willing to pay for it!

Making friends and influencing people!

But anyway, folks, and we mean that most sincerely, our favourites are still up to their old tricks. Gunni Benedikts at the trade ministry, no doubt after a looong lunch with his old chum Óli at agriculture, has just decided to block imports of New Zealand lamb to our fair country. Now, some of you may find this a bit hard to stomach, what with all the claptrap these guys have been spouting over the years about free market economics, going for the most competitive bid, and all that shit. But let’s remember which party holds trade? And agriculture? Of course, it’s our old friends the Progressives, and we can’t go upsetting the farmers, or at least the half-dozen who are still in business and who vote for them, just by letting them be undercut by cheap foreign imports. That wouldn’t be fair, would it?

(Private) Power to (a few of) the People!

As for everyone’s favourite minister. .! Bjarni Jón, now just who are your new friends? And we don’t mean the guys at InterAlu, it’s their friends from further east we’re interested in this time. From what a little bird whispers in our ear, these are oil people. Energy people. Money people. Powerful people. Watch your back, BJB, and when you’ve shaken hands with them, you’d better count your fingers, just to make sure.

We’ve heard the rumours circulating around environment and trade, and the PM’s office, and we’re not going to believe it, as we know what a great guy you really are. We’re absolutely certain that you’d never sideline the National Power Authority by inviting a foreign company to build and run a private power station to sell electricity to InterAlu. So, please, BJB, tell us it ain’t true?

Watch this space, there’ll be more tomorrow!

Bæjó!

Haddi firmly believed that a whirlwind of unwarranted attention had descended on Hvalvík and its tiny police station. By mid-morning the station’s older, but junior, police officer would have preferred to be making his accustomed tour of the village in the station’s better Volvo, taking in coffee, gossip and a doughnut or three with the lads at the net loft or maybe with one of his cousins in the saltfish plant’s canteen. Instead he found himself fending off a flood of questions through the phone and from the huddle of newspaper and television people outside.

Outside on the grass verge a serious young woman in a thick parka over a smart city suit presented take after take with the little harbour and Hvalvík’s pastel-painted houses in the background, as if to make sure that Reykjavík viewers understood this was a report from outside their city limits.

Teams from Morgunbladid, DV, Fréttabladid, state TV and radio, Channel 2, Channel 3, and a few more that Haddi had never heard of had all demanded information, been told there was no statement yet and they’d just have to wait. Haddi was putting the phone down from telling the local paper the same thing when a young man with a mess of gelled fair hair that appeared to defy both gravity and the breeze outside pushed his way through the door into the station’s reception area.

‘Yes?’ Haddi asked brusquely, arms folded on the counter.

‘Er. Hi. I’m Skúli Snædal from Dagurinn.’

Haddi rolled his eyes ceilingwards. ‘Look, son, I’ve told all of you that there’ll be a statement this afternoon. Yes, we have found an unidentified person. No, I can’t tell you where. No, I can’t tell you any more than that.’

‘But I’m-’

‘Sorry. That’s all I can say right now.’

‘But that’s not what I’m here for. I’ve come to see Gunnhildur. I’m shadowing her for a while. For Dagurinn,’ he added.

Haddi took a deep breath ‘So you’re not here because of the body?’

‘No. What body?’

‘Never you mind. The chief’s not here right now, and I don’t suppose she’ll be back for an hour or two.’

‘Couldn’t you call her up? I’m expected.’

Haddi pulled his glasses down from among his curls and peered over them.