69

Bergmundur, the specialist in Icelandic language and folklore, lived in the Grjótathorp district, in a pretty timber-framed house that had obviously been recently renovated, as the silvery sheen of its corrugated steel cladding hadn’t yet succumbed to the weather and the salt to the extent that it needed a coat of paint.

On the house’s gable end, red lights flashed at a speed that was out of keeping with the generally relaxed feel of the neighbourhood, which was otherwise like a village in the heart of the city. Gunnar opened the gate and walked up to the house, surprised that the folklore expert had seen fit to put up Christmas decorations in early November.

Úrsúla had pointed the man out to him, as he had stood at the back of the press pack that afternoon to hear her statement on the ministry steps. She told Gunnar that she had run into him at the Árbær Museum at the weekend, and that he had been disagreeable. He had looked sour, and even angry, as he listened to Úrsúla explain to the assembled journalists that she had not asked for any law to be broken, nor had she any intention of snooping into medical records; all she had been seeking to establish was whether or not Pétur Pétursson posed any danger to her or her family.

The journalists fired questions at her as soon as she finished reading the statement, then, as her assistant, Eva, brought things to a close, Gunnar saw the man leave with a long face.

According to Úrsúla, Bergmundur was not connected to any media organisation so had no business being there. Gunnar had to admit that this was suspicious, and also typical of stalker behaviour.

He stood in front of the door to the little house and peered at the nameplates in the flashing light.

These announced the names of Bergmundur, a woman – presumably his wife – and a number of associations, all of them concerned with folkloric studies of nature. At the bottom of the 166brass plate he made out Foss Friends – The Association for the Protection of Waterfalls. It was a name he had heard before: this association fought for the protection of the numerous waterfalls threatened by hydro-electric power projects.

Gunnar waited for a moment and thought things over before knocking. Could it be that inside this mild academic lurked a violent misogynist? Could he be Fossi?

167

Tuesday

70

‘This cannot be allowed to continue!’ Óðinn thundered as he strode into Úrsúla’s office with the slip of paper in his hand.

It had been delivered to reception downstairs in a neat white envelope stamped with the words ‘by hand’, so someone had clearly delivered it. The receptionists said that it had been handed over by a perfectly normal-looking man who didn’t appear to be a homeless type; they assumed he must have been a taxi driver or a courier. Freyja had innocently opened it, expecting some standard official letter to drop out of the clean, white envelope, and had been taken by surprise.