She knew that she would have to react fast. It wouldn’t be long before the adrenaline rush would fade and her adrenal glands would start to pump out the hormones that would rob her of any strength. She could almost hear her father’s voice pronouncing the self-defence lecture that he never tired of repeating to his daughters: Use all the strength you have. Don’t hesitate. If you hesitate, you’re in danger.

  Áróra raised her hands to the man’s face and jammed her thumbs hard into his eyes, so that he backed far enough away for her to ram a knee into his crotch. That was enough to loosen his grip as he doubled up, then she took the opportunity to smash a knee into his face. Then she ran. First as if the devil himself were on her tail, and, once she could be sure that he wasn’t tailing her, she slowed down and puffed as she jogged gently the rest of the way home.

  She wondered if she should feel guilty for having hurt the man, but swatted away any such thoughts. He had attacked her instead of approaching in a civilised manner and asking what she might be looking for. That told its own story. People who reacted like that had things to hide.

  59

  They had just finished the case meeting in Flosi’s kitchen, and Daníel was about to tell Helena and Kristján to go home and get some rest when his phone rang. He answered without checking the number on the screen and was surprised to hear the commissioner’s serious tones.

  ‘A body has been found, just now,’ she said. ‘A group of tourists on a trail run of some kind found something on the beach below the south-coast road, west of Thorlákshöfn. The rescue squad is being called out to help the police recover the body, as the shoreline is rocky there. There’s a CID squad leaving for the scene now. You ought to get yourself over there and check it out, in case it’s the woman you’re looking for.’

  Daníel put his shoes back on as he ended the call.

  ‘Kristján, you’re on duty here. Helena, you’re coming with me.’

  He hurried out to the car and started the engine, with Helena close behind him.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

  ‘A body,’ he said. ‘Seems it’s a woman.’

  ‘Fuck,’ Helena said.

  ‘Yep.’

  That tiny nugget of doubt that had lurked and nagged deep in his thoughts had now grown huge. He quickly thought through all their procedures from the moment they had floated the theory that Guðrún had staged her own abduction. It was as if Helena could hear his thoughts.

  ‘We’ve done everything by the book,’ she said. ‘We continued to work on the assumption that she could be held captive. We kept the police involvement secret. Made sure nothing leaked out. Waited for events and prepared to nab the kidnappers on Monday. Even though we reckoned Guðrún herself would collect the ransom, or someone acting for her, we still carried on as if she had been abducted by a criminal gang. We’ve done everything right.’

  ‘I know,’ Daníel said, but Helena’s words still reassured him. It had been worth going through all this, being prepared.

  They were heading along Reykjanesbraut, past IKEA. He put his foot down to beat the lights. Helena held on tight to the handle above her seat so as not to be thrown to one side as Daníel swerved past one vehicle after another at a thoroughly illegal speed. Garðvís could expect complaints over the way its driver handled the van, and there would undoubtedly be a few speeding fines on the way if any speed cameras were to catch them. But he didn’t have time to worry about that now.

  ‘We can’t be certain it’s her,’ he said. There’s no indication at all that it’s Guðrún.’

  60

  Daníel knew better than anyone that death never appeared twice in the same guise. All the same, the vision that greeted him left him at a loss. This was such a desolate place, and the sight of it filled his heart with an aching emptiness. It was dusk when they arrived, which limited what they could see, but he guessed that even in broad daylight, there would have been little to observe.

  Not far from the south coast road was a track that hugged the shoreline. They drove along it listening to instructions from the Selfoss police until they saw their lights, then they parked at the side of the road and walked the rest of the way.

  Everything was grey, with a hint of drizzle in the air, dulling the flashing lights of the police cars, weakly mirrored in the wet ground. The floodlights that the CID team and the rescue squad had set up repeatedly tripped a fuse in the generator, shutting themselves down again and again, providing alternating spells of dark silence and noisy brightness, against the backdrop of the booming waves at the foot of the cliff.

  Tape had been strung between the posts of an electric fence and closed off a large area from the track to the edge, where there was a drop of a few metres to the sea. Daníel could see Baldvin and Gutti at the edge of the cliff, looking down at the shore below.

  ‘Helena Úlfarsdóttir and inspector Daníel Hansson from CID,’ Helena told a uniformed officer.

  ‘Quite a team they’re sending from Reykjavík,’ he said as he let them past the yellow tape. ‘We’re about to move her. Looks like a middle-aged woman.’

  ‘Hell,’ Daníel muttered from between clenched teeth. He fought to hold back the fear that his doubts had triggered inside him, and which now threatened to break out with full force. What if this was Guðrún and she had been murdered by the kidnappers because of a procedural error on his part? Maybe because he had come to the wrong conclusions? Had they relaxed things too early, once they had decided that Guðrún had staged her own abduction, instead of pushing the investigation with even greater urgency? Had the kidnappers seen the police and carried out their threat? Had they not been cautious enough?

  Beyond the tape barrier stood a group of ten or so people in bright rain anoraks and jogging trousers, speaking to two police officers, who conscientiously made notes of everything they said. Some of the group had their head torches switched on, which seemed at points to dazzle the two officers, and two of the group had started jumping around, either to keep themselves warm or ready to continue their run.

  This was something to which Daníel could never become accustomed, that life could go on moments after death had called. Before long the wild runners would continue on their way, the police officers would go home to their partners and children, as would the rescue squad, the forensics people and the divers. Without doubt, most of them would have something to eat, watch a little television, kiss their sleeping children where they lay in their warm beds, before going to their own beds and sleeping soundly. But he and Helena, or Baldvin and Gutti, would have to inform someone of this death, and see that someone crushed beneath a burden of grief.

  ‘The commissioner said that if you recognise her, then it’s your case, otherwise Gutti and I will be looking after this one,’ Baldvin said as Daníel came to stand beside him at the cliff edge.

  ‘Yes,’ Daníel said. ‘If she’s linked to the case we’re working on, then you can leave us to it. Our team will get some additional manpower to deal with it.’

  ‘What’s that? Is this some top-secret thing you’re working on?’ Baldvin asked, chewing so energetically that Daníel guessed it had to be nicotine gum.

  ‘You could say that.’

  They stared down into a sea that was so dark, nothing could be seen except for a dinghy that hovered offshore, occasionally flashing the narrow cone of a searchlight beam across the surface of the water.

  The generator chattered for a few seconds and then the floodlights flashed into life and bathed the sea below them in brightness. And this little illuminated world filled with colour, the grey gloom dispelled and the protective clothing of the rescue teams in the dinghy reflected a dazzling orange. It was calm and there was little wave movement, just a languid rush and retreat at the foot of the cliff beneath them. A little way off, the dinghy edged closer to the corpse floating in the clear green sea. The swell gently lifted the body, so that its arms moved like wings in the dark-red slick of blood around the woman. The movement was reminiscent of someone lying in the snow, playing at making snow angels.

  The forensics team photographed everything from the clifftop, and finally the diver slipped from the dinghy into the water and approached the body with a stretcher just as the faint clatter of a helicopter could be heard approaching.

  Daníel had spent long enough over the past few days carefully examining the family pictures on the walls of Flosi’s home to be able to make out, without the slightest doubt, and even at this distance, that the body floating like a bloodstained angel in the sea below was Guðrún.

  SUNDAY

  61

  Áróra’s back was so stiff that she had to move cautiously so as not to groan with pain. Either being slammed against a wall by the guy from Tækjakistan had left her bruised, or else these were over-stretched muscles, the result of giving him a dose of his own medicine. It was a long time since she had been in a real fight. Her exercise routine over the last few years had been centred around weights, and that meant careful, precise movements.

  Daníel had explained to her that they had decided it was best to wait for the body to be brought to the city and for the pathologist to complete the initial examination and compare the remains to photographs of Guðrún before they informed Flosi of her death.

  It was almost seven on Sunday morning when they stood ready on the steps outside Flosi’s house. Kristján answered the door and let them in. He had done as requested and woken Flosi, who waited for them in the kitchen in his pyjamas, with a mug of coffee in his hands. Áróra was shocked at his appearance. It was as if he had already heard the bad news. His complexion was grey and he was unkempt and unshaven, and looked dispirited.

  ‘I have bad news for you, Flosi,’ Daníel said as they entered the kitchen. It was as well to get straight to the point. Áróra knew there was nothing that could soften such a blow.

  ‘Well, then,’ Flosi said in a low voice, and went to the kitchen table and sat down.

  Daníel took a seat next to him and Áróra sat at his other side, ready to provide support and comfort, to be the family friend who would help Flosi in his dealings with the police – or something along those lines, as Daníel had suggested.

  ‘A body was found in the sea west of Thorlákshöfn last night,’ Daníel said gently. ‘There will have to be a formal identification, but I can confirm that it’s Guðrún. You have my deepest condolences.’

  Flosi looked down into his coffee and his head rose and fell a few times, as if he were nodding.

  ‘According to the pathologist who carried out an initial examination, she hadn’t been in the water for long, and the only injuries to be seen so far appear to be serious trauma to the head caused by heavy blows, so until the post-mortem has been carried out, we will assume this to be the cause of death.’

  Flosi didn’t look up, but continued to nod his head as he stared into his mug.

  Áróra laid a hand on his arm.

  ‘My condolences,’ she said quietly, her voice strangely hoarse, stinging her vocal chords as if she had been screaming at the top of her lungs. She knew her body would continue to give her reminders of yesterday’s scuffle over the coming days.

  ‘Is there anything you want to ask us?’ Daníel said, and Flosi shook his head. ‘OK. That can come later,’ Daníel continued. ‘And you’re welcome to ask me or any of us. Anything at all, at any time.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Flosi mumbled.

  ‘Should I call anyone for you?’ Áróra asked as gently as her sore throat would allow. ‘A relative or a friend? Or maybe a priest?’

  Again Flosi shook his head.

  ‘Sara Sól is here,’ he said. ‘She stayed overnight. I need to tell her about this.’

  Daníel watched Flosi for a long moment, and Áróra could see from the look in his eyes that Flosi’s reactions had taken him by surprise. Maybe this subdued response was something unusual.

  ‘Of course, there’s no need to conceal the police involvement in this case any longer,’ Daníel said. ‘But Kristján will remain here in case the kidnappers make contact. He’s here to support you, and you can go to him for anything you want to discuss. You have my number as well and can call me at any time.’

  Flosi finally looked up and Áróra saw that his eyes were puffed, as if he had been weeping before their arrival. But now his eyes were dry and numb, as if the only thing he wished for was to be able to go back to sleep. He got slowly to his feet and went to the kitchen door, standing beside it. His demeanour suggested that he wanted to show them out. He wanted them to leave. Áróra understood this perfectly. When she had lost her father in her teens, her sister Ísafold had sought solace in their mother’s arms, while Áróra had wanted be alone to sob into her pillow.

  Daníel’s hand was on the door handle when Sara Sól came down the stairs.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she asked, glancing from her father to Daníel and back.

  ‘It’s Guðrún, my love,’ Flosi said. ‘She’s dead. They found her body in the sea last night.’

  Sara Sól sat on the stairs, crumpling as if all the strength had been drained from her legs.

  ‘Was it the kidnappers?’ she asked. ‘Did the kidnappers throw her into the sea?’

  ‘Going by what the pathologist has told us after the initial examination,’ Daníel said, ‘and this could change following the post-mortem, it’s out of the question that she could have hit her head falling from the rocks. It appears that she received a blow to the head that was the cause of death, and the body was then disposed of in the sea. A large floor mat was also recovered from the water and as it was heavily bloodstained, it supports this theory. It still has to be confirmed that the blood on the mat is Guðrún’s, but it seems likely it was used to transport her.’ Daníel paused, looking at the father and daughter in turn. ‘A small amount of blood was also found on the rocks at the shore, which supports the theory that she had been thrown off the rocks at precisely that point, just south of Laxaslóð.’

  ‘Laxaslóð?’ Sara Sól echoed, her glance suddenly sharp and her interest sparked. ‘Laxaslóð near Thorlákshöfn?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Daníel said. He was intrigued and stared at Sara Sól.

  Flosi also appeared to have lost the ability to stay on his feet and sank down onto the steps too.

  ‘So how could she have abducted herself, if she’s been found murdered?’ Sara Sól asked, her voice rising, tense and agitated.

  It occurred to Áróra that the calming presence of a priest would be more use to Sara Sól than to Flosi. He seemed to have accepted that this whole affair would inevitably end badly. But Sara Sól had clearly been more hopeful of a better outcome.

  ‘We don’t know,’ Daníel said gently. ‘We don’t know what the sequence of events could have been. But we will do everything we can to find out.’ He coughed, and then he spoke again, his voice even softer. ‘Can I ask you, Sara Sól, how you’re familiar with Laxaslóð? Do you know the area?’

  ‘Only because of our summer house,’ she said.

  ‘Summer house?’ Daníel asked, and any trace of gentleness had disappeared from his voice. ‘What summer house?’

  62

  Daníel sighed with relief as he closed the door of his apartment behind him. He dropped his bag and pulled off his clothes on the way to the bathroom, where he stepped into the shower and let the hot water beat a tattoo on his head as if this could wash away all the events of the last few days.

  There was no longer any need to hide the police involvement in the case, so a patrol car was now stationed outside Flosi’s house and the phones were still being tapped. He had left Kristján on duty there, with instructions to be discreet. Flosi would need space to mourn. When Sara Sól had come down the stairs just as he and Áróra were about to leave, she appeared to have been more upset by the news than Flosi.

  After Daníel had explained everything as clearly as he could and managed to extract information from them about the summer house, without letting his irritation show, Sara Sól had burst into tears and demanded to know if there was any doubt that the dead woman was in fact Guðrún. She had levelled accusations at the police for not having searched effectively, demanding answers that he was unable to give her about what had actually happened. In fact, her reactions had been normal, more or less what would be expected when people were informed that a loved one had died under suspicious circumstances.

  But Flosi had been oddly calm. He had been subdued, nodding repeatedly as he and Áróra spoke, an occasional tear escaping from the corner of his eye to run down his cheek. He asked nothing, blamed neither himself nor the police out loud, but simply sighed deeply and continued to nod his head. It was as if he had expected such news, and this troubled Daníel deeply. He knew from long experience that people can react in different ways to bad news, but he had got to know Flosi pretty well over the last week, and this was not the reaction he would have expected from him.

  What had the wretched man been thinking, not mentioning the summer house? If it hadn’t been inappropriate at that moment, Daníel would have given him a furious piece of his mind. How often had he made it clear to Flosi that he should tell him everything, that he shouldn’t hold anything back? But that hadn’t seemed to make any impact. Flosi let fall information reluctantly, and only when pushed into it.

  Daníel got out of the shower, wrapped himself in a towel and went into the living room, without caring about leaving wet footprints on the parquet. He could clean that up later. He opened the doors to the garden and went out onto the decking, the cool outside air fresh against his body, still hot from the shower, so that steam rose from him. He looked out over the garden and realised that the grass still seemed to be growing. He’d have to mow it one more time this autumn to stop it becoming overgrown. He glanced at the untamed patch by the rocks at the end of the garden that both Lady Gúgúlú and the invisible inhabitant that she assured him lived there seemed to protect.