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- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
Áróra becomes involved in the search for an Icelandic woman who disappeared from her home while making dinner, as she continues to hunt for her missing sister. The second breathtaking instalment in the chilling, addictive An Áróra Investigation series…'Icelandic crime-writing at its finest … immersive and unnerving' Shari Lapena'Chilly and chilling … Lilja Sigurðardóttir's terrific investigator Áróra is back for another tense and thrilling read. Highly recommended!' Tariq Ashkanani'Lilja Sigurdardottir is rapidly becoming my favourite Icelandic writer. She doesn't waste a word as she creates her twisty mysteries and her sly sense of humour highlights her clear-eyed view of human nature' The Times'The Icelandic scenery and weather are beautifully evoked – you can almost feel the autumn fog seeping up from the pages – but it is the corkscrew twists that make it both chilling and mesmerising' Daily Mail_____________________________When entrepreneur Flosi arrives home for dinner one night, he discovers that his house has been ransacked, and his wife Gudrun missing. A letter on the kitchen table confirms that she has been kidnapped. If Flosi doesn't agree to pay an enormous ransom, Gudrun will be killed.Forbidden from contacting the police, he gets in touch with Áróra, who specialises in finding hidden assets, and she, alongside her detective friend Daniel, try to get to the bottom of the case without anyone catching on.Meanwhile, Áróra and Daniel continue the puzzling, devastating search for Áróra's sister Ísafold, who disappeared without trace. As fog descends, in a cold and rainy Icelandic autumn, the investigation becomes increasingly dangerous, and confusing.Chilling, twisty and unbearably tense, Red as Blood is the second instalment in the riveting, addictive An Áróra Investigation series, and everything is at stake…_________________________________'Lilja is a stand-out voice in Iceland Noir' James Oswald'Sure to please Scandi noir fans' Publishers Weekly'One of my new favourite series … Áróra's brains and brawn, combined with the super-cool Icelandic setting, is a winning combination' Michael J. Malone'So atmospheric' Crime Monthly'Áróra is a wonderful character: unique, passionate, unpredictable and very real' Michael RidpathPraise for Lilja Sigurðardóttir'Another bleak, unpredictable classic' Metro'Intricate, enthralling and very moving – a wonderful crime novel' William Ryan'Three things we love about Cold as Hell: Iceland's unrelenting midnight sun; the gritty Nordic murder mystery; the peculiar and bewitching characters' Apple Books'Smart writing with a strongly beating heart' Big Issue'Tough, uncompromising and unsettling' Val McDermid'Tense and pacey' Guardian'Deftly plotted' Financial Times'Tense, edgy and delivering more than a few unexpected twists and turns' Sunday Times'The intricate plot is breathtakingly original, with many twists and turns you never see coming. Thriller of the year' New York Journal of Books'Taut, gritty and thoroughly absorbing' Booklist'A stunning addition to the icy-cold crime genre' Foreword Reviews
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PRAISE FOR THE ÁRÓRA INVESTIGATION SERIES
‘Tough, uncompromising and unsettling’ Val McDermid
‘A chilly and chilling follow-up to the wonderful Cold as Hell, Lilja Sigurðardóttir’s terrific investigator Áróra is back for another tense and thrilling read. Highly recommended!’ Tariq Ashkanani
‘Icelandic crime writing at its finest’ Shari Lapena
‘Lilja is a standout voice in Icelandic Noir’ James Oswald
‘Intricate, enthralling and very moving – a wonderful crime novel’ William Ryan
‘Lilja Sigurðardóttir just gets better and better … Áróra is a wonderful character: unique, passionate, unpredictable and very real’ Michael Ridpath
‘An emotional suspense rollercoaster on a par with The Firm, as desperate, resourceful, profoundly lovable characters scheme against impossible odds’ Alexandra Sokoloff
‘Best-selling Icelandic crime writer Sigurðardóttir has built a formidable reputation with just four novels, but here she introduces a new protagonist who is set to cement her legacy’ Daily Mail
‘Another bleak, unpredictable classic’ Metro
‘Atmospheric’ Crime Monthly
‘Three things we love about Cold as Hell: Iceland’s unrelenting midnight sun; the gritty Nordic murder mystery; the peculiar and bewitching characters’ Apple Books **Book of the Month**
‘Lilja Sigurðardóttir doesn’t write cookie-cutter crime novels. She is aware that “the fundamentals of existence are totally incomprehensible and chaotic”: anything can and does happen … Isn’t that what all crime writers should aim for?’ The Times
‘Smart writing with a strongly beating heart’ Big Issue
‘Tense and pacey’ Guardian
‘Deftly plotted’ Financial Times
‘Tense, edgy and delivering more than a few unexpected twists and turns’ Sunday Times
‘The intricate plot is breathtakingly original, with many twists and turns you never see coming. Thriller of the year’ New York Journal of Books
‘Taut, gritty and thoroughly absorbing’ Booklist
‘A stunning addition to the icy-cold crime genre’ Foreword Reviews
‘A good, engaging read, and the quick chapters make it perfect as a pick-up and put-down story for the beach’ The Book Bag
‘A beautifully crafted mystery, powered by authentic characters, an atmospheric setting and top-notch storytelling’ Jen Med’s Book Reviews
‘Short, snappy chapters with an exquisite plot meant I quickly lost myself in this world until the very last page. Seamlessly translated by Quentin Bates, this is a series you all need to be watching for!’ Chapter in My Life
‘A dark, suspenseful crime thriller with a bleak setting, Cold as Hell belongs on your must-read list. In a similar fashion to Ragnar Jónasson … Lilja Sigurðardóttir makes you feel as though you’re in Iceland while reading the story. I can’t wait for the next book in the Áróra Investigation series’ Crime Fiction Critic
‘Cold as Hell continues to see Lilja Sigurðardóttir’s development as a writer … Kudos to the author, her publisher and translator for another memorable and superbly crafted novel!’ Fiction from Afar
SHORTLISTED for the Glass Key Award for Best Nordic Crime Novel
RED AS BLOOD
Lilja Sigurðardóttir
Translated by Quentin Bates
Contents
PRONUNCIATION GUIDE
Icelandic has a couple of letters that don’t exist in other European languages and which are not always easy to replicate. The letter ð is generally replaced with a d in English, but we have decided to use the Icelandic letter to remain closer to the original names. Its sound is closest to the hard th in English, as found in thus and bathe.
The letter r is generally rolled hard with the tongue against the roof of the mouth.
In pronouncing Icelandic personal and place names, the emphasis is placed on the first syllable.
Guðrún – Guth-ruen
Flosi – Flow-si
Áróra – Ow-roe-ra
Sara Sól – Sara Soul
Hraunbrún – Hroyn-bruun
Garðvís – Garth-vies
Kristján – Krist-yown
Gúgúlú – Goo-Goo-Loo
Ísafold – Eesa-fold
Sigurlaug – Sigur-loyg
Bergrós – Berg-rose
Oddsteinn – Odd-stay-in
Tækjakistan – Tie-kya-kistan
Garðlager – Garth-lager
Miklatún – Mikla-toon
Laxaslóð – Laxa-slowth
Thorlákshöfn – Thor-lowks-hoepn
Rannveig – Rann-vayg
We have your wife, Guðrún Aronsdóttir.
The price for her freedom is two million euros, to be delivered in two-hundred-euro notes before the end of this week.
You will be told where to deliver the cash.
We do not wish Guðrún to come to harm, but we will kill her if you contact the police.
We will kill her if you don’t pay.
Her life is in your hands.
MONDAY
1
The letter lay on the kitchen table, a single A4 sheet of paper, inkjet printed. These few lines in the middle of a mostly blank page failed to explain what had happened, but at the same time their meaning was so terrifying that Flosi was left weak at the knees, certain he was about to collapse. He sank onto a chair and read the message again, a tense knot forming in his gut as he fought for breath and surveyed the chaos in the kitchen.
That evening’s dinner lay uncooked on the island unit. The export-grade Hornafjörður langoustines had clearly been on the worktop for a long time as the shells were starting to blacken. Guðrún had obviously been in the middle of preparing dinner: there were herbs on the chopping block, and in the pan on the stove was a knob of butter, over which Guðrún had squeezed a lemon, as she always did. Her langoustines were always fantastic, and to his astonishment, Flosi felt his mouth watering at the thought of langoustine á la Guðrún. He could almost taste them, flash-fried in the pan with lemon garlic butter, fresh herbs and freshly ground black pepper.
As if it was some new discovery, the thought came to his mind that he was fortunate to be married to a wizard of a cook. Some husbands had to put up with food cooked as a duty rather than as an art. Others had to cook for themselves. He should have been aware after twelve years that she was a fine cook, but it was suddenly obvious that he was lucky in so many ways to be Guðrún’s husband. But now a catastrophe had befallen them.
Sometimes he had wondered when misfortune would come crashing into their lives. He was fifty-five and had seen his contemporaries having to deal with cancer, bankruptcy or car crashes. One had even lost a child. Everyone seemed to get their share of trouble and sorrow. Except for him. He had sailed on a tide of good luck, hoping to escape the storms that life, almost at random, seemed to make everyone else endure.
Of course, he had been through a divorce and all the drama that went with that, and it went without saying that Sara Sól’s behaviour had been challenging when she had been a teenager, plus he had often had to put in the hours to keep the company afloat. It had also been a disappointment he had been forced to swallow when he and Guðrún couldn’t have children of their own. But nothing genuinely bad had ever befallen him. Until now.
As he sat, fighting to draw breath, it occurred to him that this was what he deserved. Recently he hadn’t appreciated Guðrún properly. He had even begun to find her tiresome, and she also seemed to have lost interest in him. She kept the house spick and span, and still put her heart and soul into cooking, and they chatted about this and that over dinner, until, when everything had been put away, routine took over – the sofa awaited them. It was as if nothing could dislodge her from lying there, in front of the TV, until she fell asleep, while he sat in his chair and hopped between channels as she snored softly, her mouth open and her face lolling against the cushion.
She wouldn’t be dozing in front of the television tonight. There was no doubt about that. She had clearly resisted those who had taken her away. There was a broken glass on the floor and puddles of white wine around it. She must have poured herself a glass while she was preparing dinner, as she so often did. A red pepper and a fork also lay on the floor, and one of the stools was on its side, as if it had been kicked out of the way as she was dragged from the room. The fridge stood wide open. Guðrún would never have left the fridge open.
As he looked over the scene, his sense of smell seemed to come to life. He could smell burning. He stood up and sniffed. The oven was switched on, and it hummed, telling him that the fan was running. Guðrún had persuaded him to buy this ruinously expensive oven precisely because of the fantastic fan that she had to have.
Flosi opened the oven and saw a long baking tin inside. Without thinking, he reached in and grabbed it, and it took his brain more than a second to process the pain. He yelped, snatched his hand back and hurried to pick up an oven glove so that he could take the bread out. The top was black, and while the tin’s contents resembled burnt embers, he recognised it all the same. This had been Guðrún’s mountain-herb bread, which was always so delicious with langoustines. He switched off the oven, and then his legs finally gave way as he sank to the kitchen floor, his eyes brimmed with tears and he could feel the pain flood through him at the same time as he felt the sting of the burn on his hand.
TUESDAY
2
Áróra had to keep a firm grip on the wheel of the jeep as it bounced down the gravel road that led away from the Hafnir road. It was an exaggeration to call it a gravel road, as this was one of these pitted tracks that had neither a number nor a name. Shortly, this little detour through the lava fields would undoubtedly rejoin Highway 44, the Hafnir road. When she had started investigating, back in the summer, she could hardly believe how many of these tracks there were leading off into the wilderness from every numbered road in the south-west corner of Iceland. Highway 44 alone had more than a dozen of these trails leading this way and that. A few of those that meandered off to the north led to the service road for the airport runway or towards the Svartsengi geothermal plant. But most of them didn’t end up anywhere. They just faded away out there in the lava, becoming dead-ends. Just like her efforts to find her sister.
Áróra glanced over her shoulder and up through the jeep’s open top. The drone followed obediently, keeping an altitude of twelve metres, just as she had programmed it to do. This was high enough to capture images a few metres either side of the road, but low enough for the pictures to be clear – and to get anything worthwhile out of this, she would need clear images.
She was surprised when the track came to a sudden end, as she had been certain that this was one of those that lay in a half-loop away from the Hafnir road and back to it, but when she compared the drone footage against the map, she found that she wasn’t where she had thought she was. Not that it mattered. She could take that particular half-loop next time. This was the first calm day for a week, and she was determined to use the few days she had to fly the drone. She’d heard that the weather would worsen before long, bringing with it high winds, and she recalled from her childhood in Iceland that apart from a few breaks, these could last all winter long, and on top of that there would be falls of snow that would cover the ground and hide anything that might be there.
She got out of the car, landed the drone, folded it away and placed it carefully in the front seat. Standing by the car, she scanned the drone’s footage on her phone. She could see that the lava fields had taken on their autumn colours, which you couldn’t make out from close by; the drone’s point of view, however, showed patches of rust red and mixed shades of brown where plants had established themselves among the grey-green moss that looked to be the black lava’s only covering.
Her heart lurched as she saw something blue on the screen. It looked to be about two metres from the track, not far from where it ended. She zoomed in but couldn’t make out anything other than a sky-blue surface, half buried under a lava outcrop. Further back, not far from where she had turned off the Hafnir road, there was something white. Considering how large and pale it was, she was surprised that she hadn’t noticed it earlier.
She got back in the jeep, turned it around and went back the way she had come, now irritated at not being able to go faster. But putting her foot down wasn’t an option, as that could lead to shredding a tyre on the razor-sharp lava, and changing the wheel would take effort and time. Time better spent continuing the search.
Without bothering to shut the car door, she jumped out and strode over a bulging lava dome towards the outcrop that hid whatever she had seen on the drone footage. The regular warning pings from the car to tell her she had left a door open accompanied her heart beat, which grew faster the closer she got. The blue shape was plastic, and she felt disappointment blending with the relief that always came when something the drone had picked up turned out to be garbage. This time it was the broken lid of a bin.
Áróra sighed and tugged at the plastic. It had clearly been there a long time as it was as good as fused to the lava and she had to pull hard a few times to free it, so that she could drag it to the car and dump it with the rest of that morning’s junk. The white object the drone had seen turned out to be the remains of a tarpaulin, and Áróra folded it away in the boot. At any rate, collecting rubbish was a worthwhile thing to do, she thought, as usual preventing her thoughts from wandering too far in the direction of what she would do if she were to stumble across what she was searching for – if she were to find her sister’s remains.
She had made herself comfortable back in the car when her phone rang. Usually when she was on these trips, she made a point of not answering the phone. It seemed wrong to pollute the time spent searching for Ísafold with anything else, but as it was her friend and colleague Michael calling from Scotland, she allowed herself an exception to her rule.
‘Hi, Michael,’ she said cheerfully, but he seemed so preoccupied that he wasn’t able to reply in kind.
‘I have an extremely strange favour to ask,’ he said, and it was clear to Áróra from his tone that this wasn’t a request that she would be able to refuse.
3
Anyone who has experienced such a shock knows the moment of mercy between the end of sleep, when your mind is just beginning to come alive but it’s still so quiet, and the instant reality comes flooding back, ice cold and harsh, like a deep plunge. Flosi lay for a while and stared upwards, wondering why he was in the living room. And then it came to him. The previous day. Guðrún.
More than likely he had passed out on the sofa sometime after his conversation with the accountant in Britain who he’d called to ask him to make cash available to pay the ransom. He had told him the whole story. He had to. He’d had to tell someone. Michael had told him to keep calm, pour himself a double and try to relax; he would send someone to him, to support him. Flosi had just gone along with it. He needed some kind of support. He felt that he was on the brink of a well of despair, and if there wasn’t someone or something to hold on to him, he’d be sucked deep into it in a flash.
He snatched up his phone and sent a message to Sara Sól:
Come now, my darling. I need you.
She’d be there in less than an hour if he knew her right. They had always been close, and she would do anything for him. It had been Guðrún who complicated things, a typical step-parent situation. Maybe that was why Sara Sól had been so keen to be at his side in everything to do with the company. When it came to the business, Guðrún was nowhere to be seen.
The thought of Guðrún brought him out in a cold sweat. Under what conditions was she being held? How was she feeling? Was she frightened? Had she been hurt? Mental images flashed through his mind. He had no idea where they came from – maybe from crime movies or news items about kidnappings. He visualised Guðrún in manacles on a filthy, cold floor, and then on an unmade bed with a cord of some kind around her neck. But the worst was the thought of her shut in a tiny, windowless room. In his mind the room wasn’t dirty and everything necessary was there – even a television; but this was the worst thing he could imagine for Guðrún. She suffered from claustrophobia, to the extent that getting in a lift was a challenge.
He still had his phone in his hand and for some reason he selected Guðrún’s number from the memory. Flosi heard her phone ring out in the hall, where it had been when he had come home. He tried to stand up, but it felt as if the sofa dragged him back down. It was a cruel irony that he now sat and longed for her in precisely the spot that had irritated him so much because she preferred it to him in the evenings. He missed her so much that it was painful – he missed her so desperately much. What wouldn’t he give to have Guðrún snoring on the sofa this evening, and every evening, while he fought his usual battle with the remote as he searched for something worth watching.
He had shed all the tears he had when he finally heard the front door open and Sara Sól’s voice from the hall.
‘Dad!’
He tried to call out to her that he was in the living room, but the sound he made was more like the howl of a wounded beast. Sara Sól came into the room and stared at him.
‘Dad, what’s the matter?’
4
The house was one of the smartest on Hraunbrún. It wasn’t immediately visible from the street, hidden away along a drive leading off from a cul-de-sac that three detached houses shared. The appearance of the house itself was magnificent, as if it had been designed with wonderful events in mind, the best dinner parties, dances, visits from illustrious guests. There was nothing whatever about the place that was everyday. There were no garden tools by the garage, no broom left handy by the door, to sweep away the leaves that were piling up along the street and the pavements in shades of russet, and there was no shelter for bins anywhere to be seen.
The drive was paved, as was the pathway that curved to the front door. On each side of the path were outdoor lights, spaced a metre or so apart, and a thick birch hedge, clipped into neat domes that showed off their red-brown autumn foliage.
Áróra rang the bell, and it occurred to her that she should have gone home first to get changed, but the thought was forgotten as soon as the man opened the door. His face was so wracked with desperation that she doubted he would notice minor details, such as her faded jeans and windcheater.
‘You’re Flosi?’ she asked, extending a hand. His palm was sweaty and she could feel the faint trembling as he took her hand and squeezed it. ‘My name’s Áróra. I’ve been sent by Michael, your accountant in Edinburgh.’
She followed Flosi inside, through the entrance lobby and a spacious hallway where stairs led to the upper floor and a whole row of mirror-fronted cupboards stretched all the way to the ceiling. In the kitchen Flosi pointed at the floor where a broken glass and some vegetables lay, and then snatched up a printed sheet of paper from the kitchen worktop and handed it to her.
‘It was like this when I came home yesterday. And this letter was here on the table. So I called Michael to ask him to make the money available and … and … well.’
His words petered out and he looked helplessly at Áróra.
‘If that’s what it comes to, then I’ll be the one to travel to the UK and fetch your money,’ she said.
Flosi nodded, and for a moment Áróra thought he was going to crumple, but he coughed and rolled his shoulders as if holding himself back.
‘Michael also asked me to give you what support I can, considering you don’t want to go to the police. He felt that you shouldn’t be dealing with kidnappers alone,’ she said.
‘Good. Yes. Thank you, thanks,’ Flosi muttered. ‘To be honest, I don’t know where to turn. But I need to have the money ready when they get in touch. I can’t wait for days on end for a bank transfer and all the bother that goes with it. I’ll have to have the right amount ready. So they’ll release Guðrún.’
Saying his wife’s name out loud seemed to upset the delicate equilibrium he had fought so hard to maintain since Áróra had been here, and tears trickled from both eyes and down his cheeks. He sniffed hard, reached for a kitchen roll, pulled off a sheet and wiped his face.
‘It’s unbearable, not knowing how she is, whether they are treating her well, if she’s frightened.’
Áróra reached out and placed an encouraging hand on his arm.
‘Considering there’s a ransom demand, I think you can be confident that they value Guðrún highly.’ She glanced again at the letter. ‘They seem to think she’s worth two million euros. So that means they must be looking after her well.’
‘You’re right,’ Flosi said, as if snatching in desperation at the hope this thought offered. ‘Of course you’re right.’
Áróra scanned the note again, and then realised what it was about the ransom demand that had been troubling her.
‘It’s strange that they ask for euros, and not krónur,’ she said. ‘Who would know that you have money in an overseas account?’
Flosi stretched to take the note, looking at it as if he was seeing it properly for the first time, although he must have read it a hundred times since finding it on the kitchen table.
‘I suppose it’s one of those foreign crime gangs we keep seeing on the news? They must demand money that doesn’t need to be changed.’
He shrugged as he spoke, handing the note back to her. She placed it on the kitchen table where he said he had found it, and took a picture of it with her phone. It bugged her that Flosi hadn’t answered her question about who could have knowledge of his overseas accounts, and she wondered if he was simply too upset to think straight, or if he had purposefully dodged the question.
Whichever it was, it confirmed her feeling that this man needed more help than she could provide.
5
This was a tall, muscular woman Michael had sent him. Flosi felt she exuded a calming influence that he wasn’t able to define. Maybe it was simply the relief at being able to discuss things with someone who might be able to help him – at sharing the burden of all this with someone.
Once the woman had been through the living room and the kitchen, checking behind paintings and pictures, climbing on chairs, examining the light fittings to check for surveillance equipment, she sat down and looked intently into his eyes.
‘I know a cop who I’m sure would be prepared to meet and give us advice,’ she said. ‘You wouldn’t have to tell him who you are, you’d just have to say you know me and tell him about the situation.’
‘But the letter said that they would kill Guðrún if I go to the police,’ Flosi said. ‘I can’t take the risk. I can’t take any chances with Guðrún’s safety.’
Despite his clouded thinking, this one thing remained clear in his mind. He would do nothing that could risk Guðrún’s life. He would do everything he could to bring her back safe and well.
He smiled bitterly as he recalled how for months he had felt that Guðrún had him caught in a rut, a day-to-day routine that he had longed to change – break up, re-evaluate, maybe even reject outright. But now circumstances had quite literally swept his feet from under him and he would give anything to be looking forward to one of those mundane evenings: Guðrún dozing off on the sofa after dinner, two glasses of white wine, him sitting on his own, trying to fix his attention on the television screen. Now he could see that loneliness wasn’t the most awful thing that could happen. The terror that had him in its grasp right now was worse – much, much worse.
‘Let’s try and put aside the anxiety you must be experiencing now,’ Áróra said. ‘It’s logical to think that they wouldn’t rush to kill a woman they reckon is worth two million euros.’
‘But that risk isn’t worth taking,’ Flosi replied. ‘If they find out that I’ve been in touch with the police, then I’ve broken one of the conditions. And I couldn’t live with myself if…’
He was unable to finish his sentence as the misery that had been with him since he woke up again forced its way to the surface and stifled his words before they could be spoken.
‘If I ask the cop I know to wear plain clothes and meet us at a coffee shop, would you be prepared to come? We’d have a chance to get his advice, and there’d be no obligation and nothing to say that you’ve approached the police.’
‘How does that work?’ Flosi said when he finally managed to force out a few words. ‘Wouldn’t the police force their way in and take over? Then the kidnappers would see all the police cars outside, and Guðrún’s days would be numbered.’ And he realised that this was what he feared more than anything: the complete loss of control, being rendered powerless. That was exactly what he had never been. He had managed his life with determination; some might even say he’d been ruthless in his approach. And he had never curled up and waited to see what would happen next. He was too strong for that, too determined.
‘It could be worth finding out if this is something the police are familiar with. Maybe you’re just one of a bunch of people in the same situation.’
This hadn’t occurred to him. Perhaps he was just one of many who had been attacked like this. He had seen on the news that criminal gangs came and went in waves, were a plague for a short while, and then disappeared until another one came along. There had been the contractor swindle, in which skilled workers were offered at a cheap rate, and as soon as an advance payment had been made, they vanished. Or there were the computer hackers who conned people into downloading software that gave the thieves access to their bank accounts. But there hadn’t been a word about kidnappings in the news. Maybe this was just the latest development. He could be just one victim of some ruthless group that the police were about to nab.
Sara Sól brought a cup of steaming tea into the living room to him. She placed a coaster beneath the cup as she put it on the oak table and laid a comforting hand on her father’s shoulder.
‘Dad and I don’t want to take any risks,’ she said to Áróra. ‘Probably the best thing would be for you to go right away to the accountant to fetch the money so that it’s ready when the kidnappers make contact.’
Flosi nodded and patted the back of his daughter’s hand. She was his greatest joy and support. She was twenty-two and next year would graduate with a degree in business studies, and then he would appoint her to manage part of the company. She deserved it. She was a hard worker and had always been good to her father, although that behaviour hadn’t extended to Guðrún. To be blunt, she had often been downright unpleasant to Guðrún. But that was the way relationships with a step parent often panned out – marred by suspicion and jealousy. But she seemed to have the same outlook on all this as he did. Something as shocking as this often served to clarify things, decluttering emotions. Sara Sól appeared to be as devastated as he was.
6
Áróra’s name appearing on the screen was such a surprise that Daníel almost dropped his phone. It had been a long time since she had last called. If he recalled correctly, he hadn’t heard from her since sometime in the middle of the summer. Maybe that was because he had been on the sharp side when he’d told her that he’d call if the investigation into her sister’s disappearance made any progress. There had been no need to take that tone, and the moment he had hung up, he bitterly regretted his abruptness. All the same, he had been no less frustrated than she was that the investigation had ground to a halt. But she had been pushy, asking the same questions over and over again, and hinting that the police – which included him – were failing to do their job. He understood – knew that these reactions were normal for relatives of victims of violent crime when a case didn’t come to a neat conclusion, so he should have been more patient through all the phone calls, paying no heed to her implied criticisms. But there was something about Áróra that upset his usual balance. Her presence had such an effect on him that he wasn’t in complete control. He was as nervous as a teenager around her.
‘My dear Áróra, there have been no developments,’ he said as he picked up, using his gentlest, warmest tone.
‘I know,’ she replied after a moment’s hesitation. ‘You said you’d call if there was anything new.’
‘Yes, that’s right. Unfortunately, nothing new has come to light. Which is why I haven’t called.’
