Harm E-Book

Sólveig Pálsdóttir

• Herausgeber: Corylus Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Ice & Crime
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 336

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

When wealthy doctor Ríkharður Magnússon goes to sleep in his luxurious caravan and doesn't wake up, detectives Guðgeir Fransson and Elsa Guðrún are called to the Westman Islands to investigate what looks like murder. Suspicion immediately falls on Ríkharður's young, beautiful and deeply troubled girlfriend – but there are no easy answers in this case as they are drawn into family feuds, disgruntled friends and colleagues, and the presence of a group of fitness-obsessed over-achievers with secrets of their own. As their investigation makes progress, Guðgeir and Elsa Guðrún are forced to confront their own preconceptions and prejudices as they uncover the sinister side of Ríkharður's past. Harm is the third novel featuring the soft-spoken Reykjavík detective Guðgeir Fransson to appear in English. Sólveig Pálsdóttir again weaves a complex web of intrigue that plays out in the Westman Islands, remote southern Iceland and Reykjavík while asking some searching questions about things society accepts at face value – and others it is not prepared to tolerate.

Leseprobe

Harm

Sólveig Pálsdóttir

Corylus Books

Copyright © 2022 Corylus Books

Harm is first published in English the United Kingdom in 2022 by Corylus Books Ltd, and was originally published in Icelandic as Skaði in 2021 by Salka.Copyright © Sólveig Pálsdóttir, 2021Translation copyright © Quentin Bates, 2022Sólveig Pálsdóttir has asserted her moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher.All characters and events portrayed in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or not, is purely coincidental.Published by arrangement with Salka, Iceland.www.salka.is ISBN: 978-1-917586-05-4

This book has been translated with financial support from The Icelandic Literature Center

1

Ríkharður felt his head spin as he stood up. He stumbled, his chair toppled and crashed against the next table, so that a grey-haired man sitting there dropped his wine. A burgundy stain spread across the pearl-white tablecloth.

‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’ the man snarled, suddenly on his feet. The woman sitting opposite shushed him.

‘Calm down. It was an accident,’ she said, making an effort to defuse the sudden tension. A waiter abruptly left off taking an order at another table and hurried across to them.

‘Really sorry, I didn’t mean to spill … Sorry … I just needed to…’ Ríkharður tried to explain, and realised that he was in no condition to say anything. A firm hand took his arm, steering him away from the table. He saw thick, dark hair, twisted into a bun. Diljá, his girlfriend. The word ‘girlfriend’ swam back and forth through his muddled thoughts. This was a ridiculous term to use at his age, and then he remembered that she wasn’t that any longer.

‘That’s about enough, isn’t it?’

Through the mist he registered the accusing tone of voice, and tried to give her a smile. He made a feeble attempt to stroke her back, but his hand went astray and he ended up patting her arm.

‘You’re so beautiful, my darling,’ he mumbled. ‘Let’s go to sleep. I just need to nip to the…’

He barely managed to make his way between the chairs and tables without crashing into anything or upsetting more glasses of wine, out into the passage where he found the toilets. Supporting himself with a hand against the wall, he peed as the world around him undulated. It was as well there was no nausea, not yet, at least. He staggered to the basins and let cold water gush over his wrists. An old trick from his younger days that still came in useful when he’d had a drink too many. Then he leaned down and put his head under the icy stream, scooping water in his palm to the back of his neck and behind his ears. Soaked to the shoulders, with his mind a little clearer, he cast around for towels, but all he could see were the hand dryers. Unsteady on his feet, he leaned against a basin and tried to work out how he could dry himself off. Then his head again began to swim. It would have to be toilet paper, and he reached for a roll.

‘Lightweight,’ he muttered to himself as he tried to pick off the scraps of toilet paper stuck to his face. ‘No endurance these days, old man. And this is a bit undignified,’ he told his reflection, making an effort to shake his head, but that again set the room spinning around him.

He was feeling slightly better as he pushed open the door out into the passage where Diljá waited by the coat hooks. She took his arm and supported him down the steep steps to the deserted street.

The group had arrived the day before in the Westman Islands, and were booked on the next day’s ferry back. Ingi Thór, Eygló, Ásmundur and Katrín had checked into a hotel while he and Diljá were staying in the caravan he had bought a few days before in a fit of extravagance. At any rate, that was his explanation. The real reason was that he wanted Diljá all to himself and simply had no inclination to stay in the same place as her friends. Ríkharður had figured out that there was a good chance of being woken at some early hour to go and ride a bike, swim in the sea or even take an ice bath, or some such madness that he had no desire to be part of. He had already agreed to buy the caravan when Diljá announced that this trip would mainly be about enjoying the better things in life, although it went without saying that the featherweight racing bicycles would also come with them. So it didn’t seem worth cancelling the caravan.

They had stayed up well into the night, and the following day had been packed. Lunch had taken two hours, with delicious seafood at the restaurant, liberally accompanied by white wine. Then they had walked out to the famous graveyard with its ‘I live and you shall live’ legend over the gate, which had remained clear of the ash that blanketed the island in the 1973 eruption, then they had visited the museum. After that Ríkharður had meant to refresh himself with a swim, but time was pressing and there was a table reserved for them at seven-thirty. So he and Diljá had gone up to Herjólfsdalur to get changed in the magnificent caravan that was practically as smart as any five-star hotel suite. Ríkharður smiled at the thought as he ripped the plastic from a freshly laundered shirt, slipped it on and began to button it up. Diljá was wearing the colourful silk dress he had given her for the big day, but he could also see her wearing this when he took her to gatherings with his friends or colleagues. They would stare at her in fascination and envious glances would come his way. He stopped with the shirt half-buttoned and gazed at her in admiration. Diljá was so beautiful, with her long brown hair and dark eyes. She smiled, and kissed him gently on the lips. This sent a jolt of excitement coursing through him. His Diljá, young, petite and delicate, but as powerful and lithe as a cat. Her temperament followed the same pattern, enchanting, but liable to change as suddenly as the unpredictable Westman Islands winds, and that troubled him. But she was his, his alone. It was for her that he did things that wouldn’t have even crossed his mind before, such as being here with her friends, whom he found rather strange, although he was aware that she no doubt felt the same way about his friends. The difference between them in age and outlook on life made their relationship a complex one, and while she wasn’t exactly talkative, he’d occasionally have to ask her to talk less.

Now he yearned to be able to forget the others and give dinner a miss. He took her in his arms, running a hand down her back to cup a buttock.

‘Come to bed,’ he whispered breathlessly.

‘Not now,’ she said, drawing out her words. ‘We mustn’t be late.’

‘Come on. Why not?’

‘Afterwards. Promise,’ she said, slipping neatly from his arms, adding that she’d make them each a mojito, his favourite. She opened a cupboard to reach for a pack of cane sugar. ‘Why don’t you finish changing, and I’ll fix the cocktails?’

He did as she asked, pulling on his trousers and fastening the last shirt button just as she handed him his drink.

‘Cheers, my love,’ she said, looking deep into his eyes.

‘Here’s to us,’ he replied, leaning in for a kiss, but she had again slipped away.

‘Need to get myself ready. Time flies,’ she said, teasingly fluttering her eyelashes.

‘Are you worried about something, my darling?’ he asked, taking the opportunity as she pulled her dress over her head to put his arms around her from behind, holding her tight around her middle. ‘I know you’ll be with me tonight…’ he crooned into one neatly sculpted ear. She wriggled herself free.

‘Ach, stop it, will you, Ríkharður?’ she snapped.

‘That’s a tune from here in the Islands, by a couple of famous…’

She cut him off sharply, saying,‘you know, I don’t find anything even slightly sexy about those ancient songs of yours,’ and softened her tone as he was unable to hide his disappointment. ‘You need to move with the times, my lovely old man. Won’t you finish your drink?’

She smiled quickly, and kissed the end of his nose.

‘I suppose so,’ he replied sulkily. He emptied his glass and noticed that hers had hardly been touched. These days Diljá drank little alcohol and he sometimes felt she was going through the motions to humour him. He could feel the hurt inside that her words had left behind. Why did she behave like this? He was far from being an old guy who made a habit of crooning old tunes. He was a highly-educated, well-off man with a glittering career, and Diljá should be thanking her lucky stars that she had been able to reel him in.

‘Don’t tell me you’re going to leave it like that?’ he said in irritation, waving a hand at the pile of clothes she had changed out of. ‘Can’t you fold these up and put them away? You’re like a badly brought up teenager.’ Diljá glanced at him and he saw the flash of anger in her eyes, reminding him that she was sensitive. He’d have to take care. ‘Just joking, my love. That’s all,’ he hurried to say, blowing her a kiss.

‘We’re going to be late for the aperitif. They’ll be waiting for us,’ Diljá said, picking up the clothes. He watched her clear up, and resolved to hold back with criticism. He didn’t want to upset her, but it irritated him to see how clumsily she went about this. Unbelievable, he thought, that an adult should be unable to fold clothes properly.

‘You’re not going to drive, are you?’ he said, shrugging on his jacket. ‘It’s only a short walk.’

‘I’ll drive. I’ve hardly had anything to drink,’ she replied. ‘The police have to be pretty laid back in a small place like this.’

She was right, and Ríkharður sighed with relief. He had no need of any more problems in his life, and he had to be careful of his reputation. Diljá parked and they hurried into the hotel. Ríkharður had hoped that the other couples would have given up waiting and gone to the restaurant, but a shout of laughter greeted them the moment he and Diljá appeared in the doorway. The bar was clearly buzzing.

‘About time! We were starting to think you two were dead!’ said Ásmundur, a tall man of around forty who had clearly been overdoing the weights. Like Diljá, he worked as a personal trainer, and at the same gym. His tailored white shirt was stretched over his broad shoulders and muscular biceps.

‘Dead! We couldn’t be more alive!’ he shot back, a little too loudly and with a bark of artificial laughter, as he sighed inwardly. He was starting to feel odd.

There was an open bottle of champagne in a silver ice bucket on the table. Ríkharður found it bizarre that they were all so fond of champagne and sparkling wine. He went to the bar and ordered himself a decent whisky. It took the barman a painfully long time to deal with this simple request, and Ríkharður decided that the guy had to be a little on the slow side.

The man’s waist was ridiculously narrow, he thought, as he took a breath and dropped into a seat next to Ásmundur’s partner Katrín, conscious that his own belly lapped over his leather belt. He made himself comfortable, and gave Katrín a smile. Of the group, she was the one he could most easily connect with. She was the director of some organisation with an acronym for a name that he couldn’t remember. Katrín was the one with the greatest passion for cycling, scrupulously documenting each excursion on social media. In fact, this was where a large part of her life was, and her social media pages never failed to reflect whatever opinions and trends were on everyone’s lips at that moment. Ríkharður found her rather superficial, but liked her nevertheless, unlike her partner Ásmundur who he was certain had at some point slept with Diljá. He had seen the glances that passed between them, and noticed how she became cool towards him whenever Ásmundur was present.

Ingi Thór and Eygló appeared to be a close couple. He was a builder, as well as being prominent on social media. Until recently, Ríkharður had been certain that his popularity was due to his work, and had been surprised to find instead that this was down to some spiritual awakening he had experienced. He hadn’t made any effort to find out more, but thought it hilarious that Ingi Thór could be some kind of spiritual guru. Eygló had worked for many years for an insurance company but now had become a full-time yoga instructor. They cycled with a group of people who were well known within the community, cycling more for the company than competitively.

Diljá was the youngest in the group of friends and Ríkharður had never remembered to ask how this friendship between the five of them had developed, although he was certain that they were neither school friends nor childhood neighbours. He was easily the oldest, and only partially accepted. He was increasingly aware how little he had in common with this group and the jokes about middle-age directed his way were becoming tedious.

That evening he did his best to be pleasant, but it wasn’t easy, not least after they arrived at the restaurant. He became more and more tired, and increasingly muddled as the evening drew on.

He was so sleepy that he dozed off as they drove back into Herjólfsdalur, and it took a monumental effort to open his eyes when he heard the car door slam. Diljá helped him out and he felt slightly better. He tried to put his arms around her, failing miserably. He made a feeble attempt to kiss her, but she fended him off.

‘You’re so wonderful,’ he slurred.

‘And you need to sleep,’ she said, not hiding the irritation in her voice. ‘Go to bed and behave.’

She helped him unbutton his shirt and supported him as he undressed.

‘Here, a couple of painkillers,’ she said, dropping a couple of tablets into his palm. She handed him a glass of water. ‘Go on. Swallow.’

He did as he was told. Then he crawled into bed and didn’t wake up again.​

2

Day was dawning and it was almost four o’clock when Diljá returned. Even this late in August the nights still retained some of their midsummer brightness, but it was as dark as night inside the caravan and she trod carefully to avoid waking Ríkharður. Fortunately, he was sleeping soundly and didn’t move as she crawled into bed. She sighed to herself, relieved that she had got into bed without disturbing him, and wrapped the duvet around her. It had been a wonderful night, energising, tranquil and beautiful. It was a delight to close her eyes and let sleep take over, knowing that before long her life would change for good. That night they had planned to undertake the big journey again, and this time they would go together. She would look her past in the eye and shrug off the burdens that had weighed her down for far too long. She would finally be free. A bird sang in the distance and she fell asleep to its sweet song.

A few hours later, Diljá was woken by the sound of voices, a cheerful chatter disturbing her sleep. She got up, lifted the blackout curtain and looked out. The voices were from a group of tourists, young men with backpacks, sauntering past the caravan and deep in conversation. One of them held a leaflet in his hands and she automatically assumed that they had to be deciding what to look at today. Maybe they were going to try their luck on the sheer rock faces, or take a boat trip around the Islands. She let the curtain fall back into place and dropped back onto the bed. The voices faded into the distance and everything was quiet again. She thought of how powerful silence could be in nature; nothing could be heard, not a single note of birdsong or the sound of a breath being taken. She listened and heard nothing. Was this too eerily quiet? She opened her eyes and glanced over to Ríkharður, but it was too dark to see him clearly. Diljá wriggled closer to him, but he appeared to be deep asleep, so she closed her eyes and decided to force herself to go back to sleep, to think of something beautiful and pleasant. This would be about her future and how wonderful it would be to finally shake off the ghosts of her past. María Líf would be proud of her mother, and when she had grown up they would be close friends who would travel together and… and… She tried to visualise images of their travels together, but she was unable to lose herself in her dreams and fall asleep again.

There was too much silence, practically a deathly silence. Ríkharður wasn’t one of those people who sleep in silence, in fact, he would shift in his sleep and snore, sometimes deafeningly. A terrible thought grew in her mind. Had she given him too much? She went over the doses. No, surely not! It hadn’t been that much… but maybe he had a heart problem that he hadn’t known about? Was he … could he be … was he maybe dead? Hell, that couldn’t happen. He wasn’t supposed to die, just to sleep soundly, very soundly. She felt herself struggling to breathe and fear surged through her.

She jumped to her feet, switched on the lights and looked around. Everything was exactly as it had been the night before, with Ríkharður’s clothes in a heap on the floor, while he was in the bed, in more or less the same position where she had left him the night before. She went closer. He had to be breathing, had to be. She leaned over him, trying to feel his warm breath, but felt nothing. He had to breathe! She placed shaking fingers on his throat, searching for the right spot under the jaw. She could feel the clammy, cold skin, but no heartbeat.

‘No!’ she burst out, her hands going to her mouth. The terror that enveloped every fibre of her was so forceful that she could barely draw breath. She stared at the man in the bed, snatched at him and shook him.

‘You can’t do this to me!’ she howled, as she fought to draw long, gasping breaths. ‘Ríkharður, my love, you weren’t supposed to die.’

She let go of him, and rocked herself back and forth in confusion. Her breathing was shallow and she was close to losing control. She told herself to focus, to take deep, long breaths, to stay in control and not to give way to panic that would leave her helpless. She had to be able to think, to do what was needed.

What was she supposed to do? Call 112 and ask for an ambulance? Or a doctor? She looked in desperation at the man in the bed. There was no doubt that he was dead, and she was sure she had heard that if someone died at home, the police would always attend. Would a caravan count as well? She was certain of it. The police would come, there would be an autopsy and the drugs in Ríkharður’s bloodstream would be identified. Everything would point to her, since he was a doctor and of course would know better than to take that mix of drugs. How could she explain that she hadn’t meant to kill him, but had simply wanted him to fall into a deep sleep while she went out during the night? Who was going to believe that? No, she’d been down that road before, telling the truth to authority. They wouldn’t believe her any more than they had believed her back then. Nobody would take any notice of a woman with a past like hers. No, society would ostracise her. Crazy Diljá would be behind bars, or else locked away in a psychiatric ward. That dreadful place! She trembled with horror at the thought, shivering as if she were standing naked on a glacier.

Being locked in was the worst thing she could imagine. Nothing could be worse. She would lose custody, and she might never get to see María Líf ever again. That couldn’t be allowed to happen. No, not again! He mind was a whirl of thoughts, none of which she could bear to follow to a conclusion. All she knew was that she had to get away from here as soon as possible – get away and give herself space to think logically. The clothes she had worn the night before were in the wardrobe and she hurried to pull them on. She wiped her face with a towel, picked up her sports bag and jammed a baseball cap on her head. She was being stifled here – she had to get away, far from this nightmare.​

3

Diljá watched from the ferry Herjólfur as the Islands faded into the distance. She wished that the last twenty-four hours could be wiped out and totally forgotten. If only she and Ríkharður had never gone on this lousy trip, and had instead stayed in to watch Netflix in his smart house in Reykjavík. They could have curled up on the grey-green corner sofa, his arms around her, guarding her and making her feel secure. But now he was dead. She could feel sobs rise in her throat, and she swallowed them back again and again. She couldn’t let herself tremble like this, or do anything that would attract attention. In just one day, everything she had so painstakingly built up had collapsed. Just as she had been about to get a proper grip on life and do well. The old feelings of shame cascaded over her yet again. She was worse than useless, what had she been thinking, trying to drag herself up? Ríkharður had been good to her, yet she hadn’t appreciated it and screwed everything up yet again. Diljá Sigurðardóttir was an ungrateful failure, a crazy bitch who couldn’t be trusted.

She summoned what little energy she had left to stand up and spend the forty-minute crossing to the Landeyjarhöfn wandering from one place to another. The longest spell was spent on the ferry’s upper deck, with the baseball cap, sunglasses and a mask obscuring her face. In the middle of a pandemic there was nothing unusual about someone wearing a mask, and right now this served her well. As soon as land was in sight, she hurried down to the car deck, squeezing between the rows of vehicles of all types and sizes, until she reached the jeep. Sitting inside, she let the seat drop back and pulled the cap down. From under the brim she could watch as Herjólfur’s crew prepared to dock at Landeyjarhöfn while drivers made their way to their cars.

It went without saying that she should have spent the whole crossing down here, she realised that now. She could have tilted the seat back and closed her eyes. But, no, she dispelled that thought. She had probably done the right thing by going up to the passenger area, as she was sure that Herjólfur’s crew would check every vehicle. She was sure that there was a sign somewhere stating that passengers should leave the car deck during the crossing.

Elbow against the window and one hand hiding her face, Diljá picked up her phone and scrolled through news websites. There was no mention anywhere of a fatality in the Westman Islands. Maybe the body hadn’t been found yet…? But it would happen soon enough when the others started to wonder what had become of them. There was a chance that the rest of the group would think that they had decided to skip lunch, as Ríkharður would need to sleep off the effects of last night’s drinking. But what about her? She had been practically completely sober and the others would think it odd if they didn’t hear from her. It occurred to her to send the group a message to say that she and Ríkharður were unwell, and that they were going to stay on the Islands until Monday, thanks for a great trip and see you soon… But then she’d have to take the ferry back, and how would that look if the body had been discovered? That was also completely contrary to the other story she had been taking pains to create, something along the lines that she had needed to head back because of something that she hadn’t quite figured out yet… It was getting difficult to think and she was already regretting having fled in a panic. She couldn’t trust her own thoughts. Indistinct fragments of the last twenty-four hours flew through her mind. She felt the tears begin to flow down her cheeks and she struggled to think straight. She fought as hard as she could to stop herself from panicking. There was no question of losing control, but where could she go? Once the ferry had docked, she would have almost no time to decide whether to go to the nearest police station and give herself up, or to hide away somewhere until she could work out what her next step would be.

She reached for the sports bag she had taken with her and felt inside it. Apart from a swimming costume, a towel and some cosmetics, she had clean underwear, socks, a shirt and trousers. They had meant to go for a swim once everything had been squared away, leaving nothing but to hitch the caravan to the jeep. She longed for that to have been the reality, but now she was sitting here in Ríkharður’s jeep and had put herself in a terrible position. Diljá unzipped the pocket on the outside of the bag. As well as her pool membership card, she found a creased 5,000 krónur note, and a faint smile spread across her worried face. On this terrible day, finally something had turned out right.​

4

After detective Guðgeir Fransson became a grandfather, he found himself revelling more than ever in time off, and this Sunday had been a special pleasure. He and Inga had been swimming, taking the little boy with them, while their daughter Ólöf took the opportunity to immerse herself in her studies. She was in the third year of a law degree, determined to follow in her mother’s footsteps, and had even worked at her legal practice during the summer. Guðgeir was immeasurably proud of his daughter who was so adroitly managing motherhood and a demanding course of study. He hadn’t yet heard her complain, which was something he felt today’s youth did too much. Or maybe that wasn’t quite right, he decided, maybe the voices of complaint were simply loudest in the world of social media, amplified by the general media. There was a toughness to Ólöf and those friends of hers he knew. But what he found less easy to understand was her relationship with Smári, the little boy’s father. Right from the start, Guðgeir’s concern had been that he wasn’t good enough for her, that he wasn’t a strong enough personality, and that turned out unfortunately to be true.

By the time the baby was barely six months old, the cracks had begun to emerge, and over the ensuing months Ólöf and Smári were in an on-off relationship until they decided that it was time to go their separate ways. To begin with, he and Inga had hoped that the young parents would be able to resolve their problems, as it would be better for the lad to grow up in a home with both parents, but now he was beginning to feel that the present situation might be better for the boy. Since parting with Smári, Ólöf was blooming like never before. The energy that he had sucked from her was now going into herself and the little boy. Recently she had little to do with him, as Smári had been in Spain for a month, working remotely. So the little lad knew his father best as a voice on the phone or a face on the screen.

‘Grandad, more,’ little Guðgeir said, and his grandfather slipped half a rolled-up pancake onto his grandson’s plate.

‘No, Dad. Don’t give him sugar,’ Ólöf admonished.

‘Sorry. Of course,’ Guðgeir said, retrieving it. The little boy wailed heart-wrenchingly. ‘Can he have a grape?’

‘If you peel it and cut it in half.’

Guðgeir followed the instructions to the letter and the little one soon calmed down as he happily chewed the grape. The boy had been christened Guðgeir Jökull, and his grandfather found the middle name a handsome one, even though it was rarely used. On the other hand, he felt there was no need for the boy to be Smárason, and it would be more fitting for him to carry a matronymic with Ólöf’s name.

Guðgeir gazed happily at his family. Their son Pétur Andri was still living at home and still at high school. The boy who had spent most of his early adolescence asleep was now finally emerging from hibernation, taller than his father, who was himself above average height. Pétur had decided to return to basketball training, and Guðgeir approved. He had been a useful player himself as a young man and had made some good friends through basketball. The phone buzzing in his pocket interrupted his thoughts. The number on the screen showed him the caller was Særós, who ran the Reykjavík CID department he was part of.

‘Sorry, my darling. Work’s calling,’ he said, standing up from the table and going into the bedroom to take the call.

A few moments later he returned and announced that he was going to the Westman Islands, as a doctor there had called in a fatality that merited investigation, and the local force had requested support, with half of their manpower either off sick or away on holiday.

‘But this is your weekend off, Dad,’ Ólöf said, wiping Guðgeir Jökull’s mouth with a damp flannel. The little boy scowled and backed away from the cloth.

‘I know, but it doesn’t look like anything big, so I shouldn’t be away long.’

‘You haven’t even had any pancakes yet,’ Inga said, sounding disappointed. ‘Shall I roll a few up and put them in a bag for you?’

‘It’s all right, my love. I’ll get something to eat on the ferry.’

He stuffed some essentials into a bag, said goodbye and drove off to Kópavogur to collect his colleague Elsa Guðrún. They would have to move fast to get to Landeyjarhöfn in time to catch the afternoon ferry to the Westman Islands.​

5

Cars rolled off Herjólfur and a nose-to-tail line snaked through the black dunes. Diljá sat in the dark grey jeep, still uncertain which turning to take when she reached the junction. If she were to head eastwards she would have to sleep in the car or find a place to stay, and that certainly wouldn’t be easy. The other direction led to more familiar territory, but that road was busier so there could be more chance of her being picked up. She was startled from her thoughts as the impatient driver of the car behind sounded his horn a couple of times. Decision made, Diljá took the turning to the west. She drove for a quarter of an hour along Highway 1 without having any idea of where she meant to go. Her thoughts and memories of the last two days were a whirl of confusion in her mind, until something came to her. She recalled that Eygló and Ingi Thór had travelled to the Westman Islands after spending two weeks in their summer cottage. Diljá had been there with them several times and had a rough idea of the way. The cottage was among the foothills of Mount Hekla, around an hour from the main road.

Ingi Thór and Eygló had told the group that their holiday was over and they were both due to go straight back to work the next day, and considering it would be far out of their way, it was hardly likely that they would stop off at there on their way to Reykjavík. Diljá’s heart beat a little faster and she smiled to herself for the second time during this strange day. She even remembered where the key was hidden. She glanced in the mirror and saw that the car behind her was some distance away. She took a spur-of-the-moment decision, snatched up her phone and pulled the car off the road and onto the verge. She fiddled with the phone for a while, eventually managed to extract the SIM from it, and dropped it into her sports bag. Then she wound down the window and hurled the phone out.

It wasn’t easy to keep to the speed limit, but she forced herself to drive carefully so as not to attract attention. Just before Hvolsvöllur she found herself rigid with fright and hardly able to breathe as a police car came hurtling towards her. Its lights flashed and the siren howled as it hurtled past. Her heart hammered in her chest and her fingers were locked so tightly on the wheel that her knuckles turned white. It took her a while to calm down, and she could feel herself shaking.

There were now more police cars to be seen, and when she reached the Landvegur junction where she would head inland, she saw the tarmac yard in front of the shop there was empty. She parked directly outside the shop and put on her mask and sunglasses. Then she went inside with the 5,000 krónur note in her hand. A teenage girl sat at the cash desk. Immersed in her phone, she didn’t even look up as Diljá entered the shop. She only appeared to notice the presence of a customer when Diljá dropped bread, skyr and hot dogs on the counter.

‘You don’t have a card or a phone?’ the girl asked in surprise at the sight of cash.

‘No. Forgot both at home,’ Diljá answered and glanced outside. The car park was still empty.

‘All right,’ the girl said and started to add up a total on her phone. It seemed to take forever. She finally opened the cash register with an exhausted look on her face. ‘I’ll have to give you change,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ Diljá said and it felt like an age before the girl finally put the money on the counter. She wanted to leave the change, but knew that would look strange.

‘It’s best to pay by phone,’ the girl called out to her as she left. ‘Notes can give you diseases. They’re covered in bacteria and germs.’

‘I’ll remember that next time,’ Diljá assured her as she hurried out.

There were no more than a handful of cars coming the other way on the hour’s drive from where she had turned off Highway 1. She slowed down and paid attention to her surroundings as she approached the cottage. This wasn’t an area with many such summer houses, and she saw neither people nor any traffic. She had to drive along a stretch of unmade road before she turned into the drive to Eygló’s and Ingi Thór’s place. She parked the jeep behind a leafy birch spinney and hurried up to the green-painted house.

On the decking behind it was a large iron cool box that she quickly pulled open. At the bottom was a pack of long-life milk cartons, the plastic wrapping around them ripped. She picked up the pack to take a closer look and was relieved that her memory hadn’t failed her. One of the cartons had been carefully resealed, and contained no milk. She had found the key. She put the milk cartons back in their place and shut the cool box. Then she went to the front door and opened it.​

6

Elsa Guðrún felt a growing urge to push her way past people, to shove her way through and to be down the steps and off the ferry as soon as possible. A couple in front of her stopped to kiss and take selfies. It took them a minute or two to find the right look, while Elsa Guðrún felt the unease swelling inside her. She had felt odd ever since getting out of the jeep at the Landeyjarhöfn terminal. She had meant to walk the short distance to the terminal building while her boss Guðgeir sat in the queue of cars waiting to board. But she had hardly shut the car door behind her before an Arctic tern dived at her.

‘Hey, take it easy!’ she yelled as she cowered from the squawking bird. Further off, she could see more birds approaching. With their featherlight bodies and strong wings, they swooped to peck at the top of her head. It was past mid-August and their chicks should be long hatched, so what was wrong with them? Elsa Guðrún held her bag over her head to ward off the attacks and jogged as fast as she could over the black sand. She didn’t relax her pace until she was inside the Herjólfur ferry terminal where the birds could no longer persecute her, but the discomfort stayed with her.

During the crossing she had sat outside on deck while Guðgeir had been in the cafeteria with coffee and a croissant. He hadn’t taken a single bite as he was constantly on the phone, either to Leifur from forensics who was already at the scene, or going over the situation with Særós, their superior officer. Only a few years ago, Guðgeir had been in her position and for a while it had looked as if he would resume his former role. But it hadn’t happened, and Elsa Guðrún was sure that he was quietly pleased. Guðgeir was a detective by nature and he was far more at home at a crime scene searching for clues and evidence than shackled to a desk writing reports and checking budgets. On the other hand, this was where the über-organised Særós and her famous knowledge wall were perfectly at home. Year-round, every Friday a new aphorism or nugget of wisdom would appear on the wall behind her desk, and every week a case of beer would be wagered on whether or not her system would fail. It hadn’t happened yet.