‘Put it in a supermarket bag. You should be able to find one in the kitchen. So it looks like you’ve just been shopping.’

  Áróra nodded and took the key he handed her. For a second he touched her palm and it felt as if the tips of his fingers were on fire. He jerked his hand back.

  ‘What’s up?’ Áróra asked, noticing how fast he had snatched back his hand.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Take some indirect route both to my place and back here.’

  Áróra caught his eye, and he thought he could see a little levity in her expression. A smile seemed to be about to appear around her eyes, and he didn’t know if this was directed at him or elsewhere. Maybe she even wanted to laugh at him and the depth of feeling that enveloped him in her presence.

  He stood in the hall for a moment, waiting for the door to close behind her, took a deep breath and told himself to concentrate on his thought processes, which had become dull and needed sharpening. By the time he returned to the living room, he was his usual calm, collected self. The thoughts that Áróra triggered in him had settled.

  He could hear a murmur of conversation from Helena and Sara Sól in the kitchen. He had asked Helena to compile a family tree and a network of the family’s friends, with the girl’s help, and to put together a detailed picture of the last forty-eight hours leading up to Guðrún’s disappearance. Flosi slumped on the sofa, staring at the blank television screen, as if there was something there that called for his concentration. Daníel sat in an armchair opposite him and cleared his throat.

  ‘We have set up both the landline and your mobile to intercept calls. It’ll be either me or another officer listening in here, and all calls are also recorded. I know it’s not pleasant, but in a case like this it’s vital.’

  ‘Of course,’ Flosi muttered. He had looked terrified earlier in the day when Daníel had asked him to sign a consent form allowing them to listen in, but now he seemed to have accepted that as long as his wife remained unaccounted for, the police would be tracking his every movement. Flosi picked up a sheet of paper and handed it to Daníel. On it was a series of hand-written numbers.

  ‘That’s the password for Guðrún’s online banking. She was…’ He coughed awkwardly. ‘She is careful with money, and smart too.’

  Daníel took the paper. He would check the account later.

  ‘Did she work with you at your company?’ Daníel asked.

  ‘No,’ Flosi replied. ‘Garðvís is my world and Sara Sól’s. I tried to keep her and Guðrún as far apart as I could. They didn’t get on. Typical step-relationship.’

  ‘My experience is that relationships of that nature can be very varied,’ Daníel said, recalling how he would have preferred to hold on to at least two of his step-fathers, unlike his mother, who always seemed to tire of the latest boyfriend shortly after they moved in. ‘What’s the nature of this difficult relationship between Guðrún and Sara Sól?’

  Flosi sighed and waved a hand, as if he preferred to make out that it was of no importance. He clearly regretted having mentioned it.

  ‘Well, there’s the florist’s shop idea. Guðrún had wanted to open a shop, and I was looking at supporting her, but Sara Sól didn’t think it was a good investment, so I pulled back on it.’

  ‘And I imagine Guðrún wasn’t impressed?’

  ‘Not at all. It certainly fuelled the hostility between them.’ Flosi gasped as if he had emerged from deep water, and Daníel realised that he was struggling to keep himself from bursting into tears again. ‘I have huge regrets about not supporting Guðrún on it. I’ve no doubt she could have made a little flower shop pay its way.’

  13

  Helena was so elated as she left the house, she was almost floating. She had never heard of a case of kidnapping in Iceland before. There had certainly been instances of people being held against their will – when coked-up guys from gangs had plucked people off the street, held them prisoner and tormented them as payback for some underworld debt – and there were the domestic-abuse cases where men held their wives or exes hostage. That happened now and again. But a planned and executed kidnapping with a ransom demand was such a rarity that the chance to work on and learn from such a case would hardly come her way again.

  If ever there was a time to make use of the system, this was it.

  To be on top form for work in the morning she really needed to get some decent rest and respite this evening. It felt as if her feet didn’t even touch the ground as she glided to the car and started the engine, and before setting off, she had fished her phone from a pocket and tapped in a short message to the first one in the group she thought of as the system. It wasn’t so complicated a setup that it deserved a name, but she liked to call it that in her own mind, as it created a certain distance and reminded her that each of them was part of a greater whole. The system was a group of three women in the same circumstances as herself – unwilling or unable to be in a relationship, but who occasionally felt the need for an evening or a night with another woman. None of them knew about the others, but as far as Helena was concerned, they were a single network.

  She drove along the gloomy Hraunbrún at a leisurely rate, and it happened that Beta, who wouldn’t necessarily be her first choice but was top in alphabetical order, replied before she reached the Hjallabraut junction.

  At work, Evening shift.

  Helena wrote a reply at the give-way sign, wishing her a good shift and sending a little heart and an xx. A heart and an xx came right back. All this was so straightforward and free from any drama that it was wonderful. Once she was past the two roundabouts and the junction leading onto Reykjavíkurvegur, she had decided who would be her next choice. Sirra was a night owl, always up for a long evening’s fun and never too worried about having to be up early the next morning. Helena’s thoughts lingered on Sirra. She had to be at least ten years older than her but kept herself in great form, and like many who discovered their inner self later in life, she needed a couple of glasses of wine before she’d take the brakes off, and then she’d be insatiable in bed; passionate, wild.

  There was a red light at the crossing by the filling station on Reykjavíkurvegur, although no pedestrian was anywhere to be seen. Helena took the opportunity to send Sirra a text.

  Wanna hook up?

  Sirra had made fun of her the first time she had sent such a message, finding it weird that she chose to send it in English. But Helena found it less clunky to use an English expression. Icelandic didn’t have the vocabulary that fitted her relationships with these women. ‘Hook up’ was perfect. To connect, link together. Somehow these foreign expressions reflected the casual nature of all this, that it was somehow arbitrary, free of any obligation.

  Helena had tried different routes to this before. For a while she had been constantly on Tinder, always trying out new relationships. But that wasn’t going to work for long. It was too stressful and there was too much uncertainty about the quality of the sex, on top of which she simply didn’t have time for all these coffee dates, take-it-slowly dinners and long-winded I-don’t-know-what-I-want conversations. But these three she had tracked down were perfect, all ready for a short-notice shag, and it was rare that they all had other commitments at the same time. Helena got what she wanted without having to go through explanations of why she worked such long days, didn’t take a summer holiday and had no interests outside her job. As well as that, she escaped deadly dull evenings in front of the TV, pretending to enjoy romantic comedies.

  Happy to hook up but it’ll have to be at your place, the message from Sirra read.

  Helena felt a wave of contented warmth flow through her. Sirra. This would be a Sirra evening. She could almost feel the aroma of her scent, see that beautiful smile. Normally they met at Sirra’s home in Laugardalur, but of course it wasn’t fair to have it that way every time. It was time to meet at Helena’s place. She mentally checked her flat. The bedclothes were clean, although she hadn’t bothered to make the bed that morning. There was white wine in the cooler, and if she was quick she’d be home in time to light candles and pick out some sweet music before Sirra arrived.

  She sent an OK, and a GPS tag for her address on Mánatún. No chatter or yakking between them. They knew each other well enough that there was no need. Although in reality they hardly knew each other at all. The perfect system.

  14

  Áróra drew a deep breath as she stepped inside Daníel’s apartment. It had that distinctive Icelandic smell that she couldn’t define but which had something to do with the Icelandic habit of always having open windows with radiators invariably directly beneath them so that they would heat up the air as it flowed in. The air inside the place was dry, and far, far too hot. She could make out a faint trace of Daníel’s aftershave in the air, and in the hall she couldn’t withstand the temptation to take his motorcycle jacket from its hook and breath in deep the aroma from the collar. The jacket smelled of masculinity and leather, and for a moment Áróra wanted to put it on and envelop herself in Daníel’s presence.

  She opened the hall cupboard and found the little grey overnight case he had asked her to collect. He seemed to have this ready if he were to be called away for a couple of nights. More than likely, detectives were called out to any part of the country at short notice when something came up.

  She took her shoes off in the hall before venturing onto the parquet, tiptoeing on stockinged feet into the kitchen. The charger was where Daníel had said it would be, and she coiled away the cable and put it in the case.

  She opened the bottom drawer and smiled to herself at the sight of the rolled-up carrier bags. This was one thing her parents had squabbled over. It irritated her father that British people, her mother included, organised their kitchens as they saw fit, while most Icelanders regarded it as an inviolable rule that plastic bags should be in the bottom drawer, the bin should be under the sink and the eggs in the fridge. Áróra took one of the Króna supermarket bags and dropped the overnight case into it.

  This brought her errand to Daníel’s home to an end, but before she knew it she was looking around in his bedroom. This was the only room in the place that she hadn’t been in before, and it was more stripped back than she had expected. The walls were bare, there was no cover over the imposing American-style bed, just a simple white duvet cover, and a bedside table on only one side. All in all, it was less welcoming than the average hotel room.

  Áróra was startled by a sharp bang on the floor-length window and let out a yelp of surprise. Outside in the darkness stood a broad-shouldered woman, pointing angrily at the handle, indicating that Áróra should open it.

  ‘What are you doing in Daníel’s place?’ the woman asked in a deep voice, and Áróra realised that there was some male physiognomy beneath the imposing wig and false eyelashes.

  ‘I’m fetching some things for Daníel as he’s spending some time away due to work.’

  ‘And you are?’

  The glare that accompanied the question was arrogant and suspicious in roughly equal measure.

  ‘My name’s Áróra and I’m—’ she began, but was interrupted by a loud whoop.

  ‘Oh, my God. You’re Áróra? Finally, darling!’ Áróra was stunned at this outpouring of joy that came with kisses on both cheeks and a hug. ‘At last. I’ve heard so much about you, darling, and you’re nothing like I imagined. Gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous! I’m so sorry, I’m smudging make-up on you. I’ve just come from an appearance. So pleased to meet you. I’m Lady Gúgúlú, the sexiest and also the most daring queen to be found north of the Alps. My mental state is all right, but it comes and goes.’

  Áróra grasped the offered hand and laughed at the theatricality of it all.

  ‘I’m the absolute best, bestest friend Daníel has. I live over there in the garden and he tells me everything. And that includes everything about you.’

  Áróra lifted a questioning eyebrow but Lady Gúgúlú didn’t seem inclined to share anything more of the discussions she and Daníel had had about her. She couldn’t imagine that their short acquaintance could have provided material for any detailed conversations, though. He had been kind to her at the outset of the investigation into her sister’s disappearance, and they had spent an evening together when something had almost happened between them, but she had halted, backed off. She had made it plain that she wasn’t the type for romance, that she preferred being single. Everything had gone wrong after that when she had been with another guy down town and had run into Daníel, and hadn’t been able to explain to him that it had been just a quick fling; nothing serious, no affection there. Over the summer her vexation over her desire to explain herself to Daníel had grown – as had her disappointment at the police’s lack of progress in solving the mystery of her sister’s disappearance. Her and Daníel’s calls had become shorter and colder as the summer passed.

  Having happily waved goodbye to Lady Gúgúlú, Áróra went to the hall to put on her shoes, and noticed that there was a lamp switched on in the living room. This was an Icelandic habit that annoyed her. They wasted energy like irresponsible children. They left lights burning for days on end, and allowed water to gush from the taps while they brushed their teeth or washed up. This had been another bone of contention between her parents.

  Áróra went into the living room, and as she reached for the lamp on the desk to switch it off, the warm feeling inside, which had begun when she heard that Daníel had talked about her to this odd friend of his, came close to boiling point as she saw what was on the desk. A folder marked Ísafold Jónsdóttir lay there, surrounded by papers – evidence files and scrawled notes. He hadn’t forgotten her sister. He was still investigating her disappearance.

  15

  ‘Lovely flat,’ Sirra said as she walked in. There was a note of surprise in her voice that made Helena laugh.

  ‘What did you expect?’ she asked as she poured white wine into a glass and handed it to Sirra. ‘That I’d live in a slum?’

  Sirra grinned, walked around the living room so that her heels clacked on the parquet, and stopped at the window. She hadn’t offered to remove her shoes and it hadn’t occurred to Helena to ask her to do so. Sirra was the only woman Helena knew who always wore heels and a skirt. It was as if she were determined to defy the Icelandic climate with her seventies office-girl look.

  ‘Ach, darling, do you have some ice?’ she asked, handing Helena her glass. ‘I like it a little more chilled.’

  Helena took the glass with a smile. The wine was chilled to the ideal temperature – the bottle had been placed perfectly in the cooler. This was one of those things that she found so sexy about older women: once they had figured out what they liked, they could no longer be bothered with any fuss and became refreshingly forthright. It went without saying that ice would ruin the wine, but this evening Sirra could have whatever she liked. She would distract Helena’s thoughts from the kidnapping case and provide her with the diversion she needed to be able to sleep soundly through the night and concentrate her energies in the morning.

  ‘I’ve been analysing you,’ Sirra said as Helena came over to her by the window and handed her the glass of white wine, three-quarters full and with ice cubes that clinked. ‘You’re some kind of female Casanova. This flat is designed to seduce women.’

  ‘That’s a possibility,’ Helena said, somehow pleased that Sirra had seen through her. It was quite right that when Helena had furnished and decorated this place, her criteria had all centred on inviting women here to sleep with her. The kitchen was nicely fitted out, but there was only space at the island unit for two people. She had installed a small bar against one wall of the living room, with a wine cooler and a collection of different glasses, so that she could meet a wide variety of requirements for drinks. The only place in the living room to sit was the large, soft sofa, which provided a view of the bedroom with its king-sized bed, a giant vulva painting by Kristín Gunnlaugsdóttir hanging over it.

  ‘Isn’t it awkward when relatives come for dinner?’ Sirra teased, which made Helena uncomfortable. She had no desire to talk to Sirra about her family. These were two separate worlds; one pleasant, the other unpleasant. Right now her mind was on the pleasant one. She took Sirra’s hand and led her to the sofa. Two candles flickered on the table in the half-light and Nina Simone and Lauryn Hill singing ‘Killing Me Softly’ wove a warm seductive web around them that made any words unnecessary. She sat close to Sirra, raised her glass and they clinked, sipped, kissed gently – and then some more.

  Sirra extended one leg over Helena’s knee, and she gently ran her palm along its length. Sirra’s legs were exceptionally beautiful, which was maybe the reason she dressed as she did. Her legs were bare, although they were so smooth and golden, they didn’t look to be. Either she spent time on the sun bed or applied a tan herself – not that Helena was concerned which. All she was interested in was the effect that the silky skin had on her, leading her hands higher, past the hollow behind her knee and along the inside of her leg. Sirra smiled her enticingly beautiful smile that told Helena she was on the right track as she slid further, hands trembling with anticipation that jolted through her like a spark as she discovered that Sirra was wearing nothing beneath the skirt.

  16

  There were certain patterns that could be read from Guðrún’s bank account. Until around a month ago she had gone to the gym practically every day, or at any rate she had gone there and bought something from the kiosk that cost seven hundred krónur; Daníel guessed it had to be a protein shake after a workout. Most days she shopped for groceries, and going by the amounts she spent, this was a couple who ate well. She seemed to go to a coffee house three or four times a week – not always the same one – and at least once a week she bought flowers. Again, she didn’t seem to favour a particular place – there were payments to a variety of florists. The first thing that really attracted Daníel’s attention was the payment to an airline. Around a month ago she had paid fifty-two thousand krónur to Icelandair. He made a note of it.