Part 19 (2/2)

She put one mug on the bench where Petur could reach it and cradled the other in her hands. 'How's it going?' she asked, nodding at the stack of newly turned bowls on the bench.

'Not bad.' He smiled. 'A dozen so far and I'll do a few more before I start polis.h.i.+ng them up.'

Hekla picked up a bowl and admired the pattern of grain that swept across its broad base, lost in the twists and whorls.

'They're lovely, Petur.'

'I like to think so.'

'It's just a shame that you can't get more for them.'

'I know,' he sighed. 'But there's only so much people will pay for these things.'

'I still reckon that wholesaler's ripping you off.'

Petur shrugged. 'Probably. But he has overheads to pay as well.'

'Come on. He pays you twelve hundred for each of these bowls or cups and he sells them for at least eight thousand. I've seen his website. We should be selling these ourselves, not giving them to someone else to make all the money on them.'

'I know. But what can I do? I can either make these things or I can stand behind a counter and wait for someone to buy them. I can't do both.'

'You could get a stall at the flea market.'

'We could get a stall there, maybe.'

Hekla decided to let it drop. The idea of standing behind a stall at the Kolaport flea market with half of Reykjavik walking past was not an idea that appealed to her, not that any of her former customers would be likely to recognize her without one or other of her wigs. Then the face of the corpulent man from the swimming pool came rus.h.i.+ng back to her. He must have recognized her, or else made a mistake and thought she was someone else.

'We could get a stall, I said,' Petur repeated. 'You're daydreaming again.'

'Sorry. Yeah, I suppose we could try it and see what happens,' she said dubiously. 'I'll see if I can find out how much it costs.'

'Even if we only sell a few ourselves, it would make a difference, I expect. Especially if we can charge gift-shop prices for them.'

Hekla scanned the s.p.a.ce under the bench on the far side of the workshop and wondered what was missing.

'Where's that laptop bag that was over there?'

'What laptop?'

'The one I picked up cheap before Christmas. I left it under the bench.'

'I don't know,' Petur shrugged, his mind already on the lathe again as he clamped a section of wood into it. 'You're sure it was there?'

'Gunnhildur,' ivar Laxdal told her, appearing in the doorway. 'A word, if you don't mind.'

Gunna wanted to laugh at the 'if you don't mind' that was an instruction rather than a suggestion. Not sorry to leave the clutter on her desk, she joined him in the corridor, wondering why the man always liked to walk when he was talking.

'It's the ministry again,' he said. 'It's about this laptop they've managed to lose somewhere.'

'They really think we're going to find a laptop that someone left in a taxi?' Gunna asked and was rewarded with a scowl.

'There's more to this than meets the eye, Gunnhildur, and I don't know what they're playing at either.'

Gunna wondered if the scowl had been directed at her remark or at the ministry. 'What do they expect, then?'

'They expect us to find the d.a.m.ned thing, that's what. I have the serial numbers and a description.'

'That's something, I suppose. But who lost this computer, and where?'

ivar Laxdal grimaced. 'That's just what they don't want to tell me.'

'This really is a needle in a haystack, in that case?'

'Exactly.'

'Can I ask how this request came to you?'

'You can ask, but I'm not supposed to tell you. Between ourselves, it comes through a ministry official called Mar Einarsson. I've checked him out as far as I can and he has, naturally, a clean record. He deals with foreign relations, apparently. He's listed simply as an adviser, whatever that means.'

'And I can speak to him?'

'h.e.l.l, I don't know. Leave it with me for the moment and I'll have another word. I'll see if I can get these jokers to agree to a meeting this afternoon. The whole thing sounds fishy to me.'

Gussi's head whirled. He was trying to work out how he had managed to end up with the hard-faced man who both frightened and fascinated him sitting in the only chair in his flat looking quizzically at him.

He looked around appreciatively. 'Nice place.'

'It'll do. It's a bolt-hole really.'

'How come?'

Gussi didn't want to be reminded, but he had to come up with an answer. 'I had a larger place. I still own it, actually, but I can't afford to live there and it's rented out.'

'Came out of the crash badly, did you?'

'I did.'

Gussi poured a little brandy into a tumbler and handed it across to his guest, the only guest the little apartment had ever seen.

'Sorry to hear that. I missed out on all that stuff.'

'You were abroad?'

He nodded and smiled in a way that set Gussi's stomach doing somersaults. 'Back to business. Four hundred thousand is on the table for the information I'm after. Cash, no comebacks, no questions. No reason to see me ever again as long as your information is accurate.'

Gussi grimaced and started to shake his head as he sat down on the three-legged stool that belonged in the tiny kitchen.

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