She was startled by movement behind her, and leaped to her feet.

‘What are you doing here?’ she gasped, her thoughts swinging between astonishment and terror.

113

‘What’s the matter?’ Gunnar asked. Eva spoke so fast into the phone that he wasn’t able to piece together what she was saying.

‘Didn’t you see the evening news?’ she asked, and he said that he hadn’t. He was bathed in sweat in the changing room at the 253gym, and had noticed four missed calls from Eva when he checked his phone. He’d immediately called her back.

‘Úrsúla rushed out in a terrible state. I’m sure she was going home on foot to see Nonni, but she’s not picking up the phone. And now I don’t know if she’s at home or not. I went to her place and the lights are on, but nobody’s answering the door. I’m really worried. You have a key, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Gunnar said. He held the phone to his ear as he pulled off his training gear. He’d have to stay sweaty. ‘I’ll check on her.’

‘Please. And go inside. I hope everything’s all right. I’m sure they’re having a row and that’s why nobody’s answering the door, so if that’s the way it is you’ll just have to back out again.’

‘Why do you think they’re arguing?’ Gunnar asked.

‘Ach … shit. The evening news pretty much accused her of having an affair with that Thorbjörn who works for Vefpressan, the one who was all over the rape case. Do you know anything about that?’

‘No comment,’ Gunnar said. ‘I’ll check up on her.’

He tugged the sweat-damp singlet over his head, dried his armpits and chest with a towel, pulled on his trousers and shirt, threw his training gear in his bag and hurried out. It wasn’t until he was in the gym’s lobby that he decided against going outside barefoot. He paused to pull on his shoes. The melting slush in the car park was filthy and had to be full of salt after months of ice on the roads.

The car hurtled along Sæbraut towards the city centre, and as most of the evening rush-hour traffic was over, he made good time. He took the most direct route past the East Quay at the harbour, up along Vesturgata, put his foot down along Garðastræti and headed into the western part of town. He parked on the pavement next to the hydrant below Úrsúla’s house, hoping that no smart passer-by would decide to snap a picture of the badly parked ministry car and post it on the internet.

He rang the bell and hammered hard on the door. When 254nobody answered he took out his key, gently opened it and stepped inside, listening for any sound. The house was silent, so he called out.

‘Hello! Úrsúla!’ He slipped off his shoes, shut the door behind him and went towards the kitchen. ‘Úrsúla? It’s Gunnar. Just checking you got home safely.’

There was no reply.