Quentin Bates - Frozen Assets

Gunna scribbled notes in a pad as Sigmar spoke. ‘So he was alive when he hit the water?’

‘Oh, yes. But apart from that, there’s not much to tell. He was in good health, didn’t smoke, or at least not often, wasn’t overweight. He clearly didn’t do any kind of manual work as his hands are as soft as a baby’s bottom.’

‘Any distinguishing marks?’ Gunna asked.

‘Ah, yes. We have a tattoo. On the left upper arm.’

Sigmar tapped at his computer keyboard and swivelled the monitor round so they could both see it.

‘There you are. Wonderful things, computers,’ he said appreciatively as Gunna looked at the magnified image of the young man’s pale skin and the stylized motif of a book with E3 on one open page and V2 on the page opposite.

‘Will you email me these pictures? E-three?’

‘E cubed, EEE. Someone’s initials, maybe?’ Sigmar mused. ‘Who knows? It could be anything. But that’s your job, sergeant.’

‘Of course.’ She made a note and moved on. ‘Any DNA evidence?’

Sigmar frowned. ‘This isn’t CSI, you know. If he has a criminal record, we’ll know in a couple of days. But if he’s an honest man, then the answer’s no.’

‘We’ll see, then.’

‘A little conundrum for you, sergeant?’ Sigmar smiled. ‘Now, I’ll give you my mobile number in case you have any more questions. But if you don’t mind, I’d really like to not be here when the financial controller calls back.’

27-08-2008, 1339

Skandalblogger writes:

Keeping our end up!

We’re still here, ladies and gentlemen, and we know how much you all appreciate the Skandalblogger’s efforts to keep youup to date with the great and the good.

The latest is that our last gem of gossip, brought to us by word of mouth from someone who knows, has resulted in the abject fury of a certain recently re-elected former jailbird, who has been going apeshit over our revelation that he’s had a hair transplant.

Strangely, he didn’t seem to mind too much about being called a disgraced convicted criminal. Well, you can’t argue with the truth. . But, no, it’s the rug thing that’s really got his goat. That’s putting his priorities in the right place.

Bæjó!

An hour later Gunna was at the police station in Keflavík. Like Sigmar at the hospital, Chief Inspector Vilhjálmur Traustason had a surprisingly small office and, at more than two metres in height, he seemed to fill most of it. No lightweight herself, Gunna felt that the room could burst if a third person were to try and squeeze in. She sipped weak coffee and placed the cup awkwardly on the corner of his desk.

‘Sorry about yesterday. It was something of a busy day,’ she apologized without a shred of remorse in her voice.

‘Understood. Investigation has to take precedence,’ he said stiffly. ‘Now, resources.’

‘Indeed. How much is there in the kitty for me to spend?’

‘Less than ever,’ he replied with a tiny sigh, finally looking up from the screen of the laptop on the desk.

‘I need-’

‘I know what you need.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because you tell me at every available opportunity exactly what you need, as does every other station officer in the county. And I have to keep telling you that there are fewer financial resources available. But. .’ Vilhjálmur Traustason tailed off, attention on his screen.

‘But what?’

Throughout her career, she had been mildly irritated by Vilhjálmur Traustason, as well as occasionally tempted to punch his prominent nose. Promotion had sought him out in the same way that it had steadfastly avoided Gunna. She was fully aware that only an unusual set of circumstances had made her a sergeant in a rural area instead of still being a constable in the city force, and that further promotion was less than likely. The chief inspector’s steady rise put them at odds when it came to the increasingly frequent issue of funding.

‘I know how you love figures, Vilhjálmur. So I’ve prepared some for you,’ she said, passing a sheet of paper across the desk to him.

He looked doubtful and scrutinized the list of requirements.

‘You don’t really need all this, do you?’ he asked, aghast.

‘Probably not. But I’m sure we can strike a happy medium somewhere.’

‘But — all this? Why? How can you justify it?’

‘Since the smelter construction started on the far side of the harbour we simply have so much more to do. Traffic through Hvalvík has increased by around four hundred per cent and virtually all of that is heavy goods. Basically, trucks going to and from that new aluminium plant. The place is awash with heavy traffic and Polish labourers.’

‘But you’re coping well.’

‘For the moment, Vilhjálmur, for the moment. There’s only me and Haddi, and Haddi doesn’t speak enough English or anything else to deal with these people.’

‘You can call for additional manpower when you need it.’

‘I can call and it’s not going to come half the time. That’s why I’m putting in for two additional officers for the Hvalvík station.’

‘Two?’ Vilhjálmur squeaked. ‘There’s a request for an additional car here as well. You have two cars already and normally a station like yours has only one vehicle.’

‘It’s a big area we have to cover. The Volvos are getting old and we could do with a jeep for the winter.’

Vilhjálmur consulted his laptop again, scratched his head and sucked his teeth while Gunna watched him carefully while pretending to make notes on the pad resting on her knee.

Eventually he sighed heavily. ‘Gunnhildur. What do you really need? What are your priorities?’

‘Manpower. Then an additional vehicle. Then all the other bits and pieces.’

‘Well, you’re in luck, actually, as I have a very experienced officer who has asked for a transfer and I’m sure he’d suit you.’

‘Not Viggó Björgvins?’

‘How did you know?’ he snapped.

‘Because the man’s being transferred all the bloody time. No. I want someone a lot younger than that idiot.’

Sour-faced, Vilhjálmur consulted his laptop. ‘You can have one officer on permanent secondment.’

‘Who?’

‘You can have Snorri Hilmarsson or Bára Gunnólfsdóttir. They’ve both been seconded to you occasionally, I believe.’

Gunna thought quickly. She knew and liked both officers. Bára was small, fair and quick-witted with an ability to get straight to the heart of things, while Snorri was the beefy, likeable young man with an endless reserve of good humour who was normally the one sent to help out at Hvalvík. Gunna knew him as tenacious but without Bára’s spark of fierce intelligence. She had seen plenty of both of them and paused over a less than easy choice.

‘Snorri,’ she decided.

‘Why?’

‘He’s a plodder. Methodical, gets on with it. Country copper material. Bára has a great future in CID, as long as you can keep her on the force.’

Vilhjálmur winced at the reference to the police force’s retention rate.

‘All right. I’ll interview Snorri when he comes on duty and we’ll see if he’s prepared for a transfer to Hvalvík.’

‘Oh, he is. He lives in Hvalvík anyway, so he’s happy with it.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I’ve already asked him.’

‘Gunnhildur, you know you shouldn’t bypass procedure,’ Vilhjálmur admonished grimly. ‘Now, vehicles.’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s August now. How long are these vehicles you have going to last?’

‘Search me. I’m not a mechanic.’

‘I don’t have a vehicle for you. I can’t justify it.’

‘Come on. That old Volvo’s going to fall apart soon.’

He tapped his teeth with the pencil. ‘Make it last the summer. I’ll allocate you a jeep, but not until October.’