‘I’ll take this very seriously,’ she said. ‘In fact, the feeling I had was right: the down-and-out in the boot of the car did know me. I saw in the police report last night that he’s Pétur Pétursson. Now that he’s lost all his teeth and has a beard, I didn’t recognise him.’

‘Úrsúla! And it’s only now that you’re telling me this?’ Nonni snapped.

‘I only realised last night,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want you to have a sleepless night.’

This was a half-truth. The reality was that she had first wanted to think it over for herself. She had preferred to examine the fear and the sorrow in her mind before tackling Nonni’s reactions. They were what she expected: he strode back and forth across the kitchen, his face flushed and a look in his eyes that could have been panic, anger or fear.

‘Pétur Pétursson?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Pétur Pétursson has been holed up in the boot of your car and has been sending you death threats?’

The tension made his voice so high, it was ready to crack.

Úrsúla nodded.

‘The Pétur Pétursson who murdered your father?’ 96

39

Stella swore with disgust as the bus she couldn’t afford to take shot past, splashing her with slush as it went on its way. She sketched the Óttastafur fear symbol in the air and angrily sent it to the driver, although she knew it wouldn’t change anything. She would have to walk further from the kerb wherever she could, but the snow was piled in such a way that the only clear part of the pavement was right by the road, which was just where anyone making their way on foot would get splashed as inconsiderate drivers hurtled past without slowing down. Right now she had seen enough snow to last her a lifetime.

She had been captivated by it when she had seen it for the first time, not long after they had come to Iceland. Guðmundur had woken them up to see the falling snow, and she hadn’t been able to contain her excitement, rushing out into the little garden in her nightdress, where she danced and tried to catch flakes of snow on her tongue as they fluttered to earth. Then she had rolled in the white, soft snow until her teeth had begun to chatter with cold. Her mother and Guðmundur had laughed and kissed, and for breakfast Guðmundur had made pancakes using the leftover rice pudding from the day before.

She recalled sitting, looking out through the window at the snow, with the sugary, oily residue of the pancakes running down her chin, and thinking that she and her mother were just too lucky for words. It seemed too good to be true that they were in a safe place where they would never again need to be frightened. And that was the way it had turned out: too good to be true. Just as the snow that fell to earth – pure, white and beautiful, with promises of bright winter days to come – soon turned into a slippery, grey-brown mess on the streets, getting in everyone’s way, so her mother’s marriage to Guðmundur soon turned sour, and then it became dangerous.