‘Good morning. Fresh coffee,’ Nonni said, placing the coffee pot on the table in front of him.

He nodded, smiled but left the coffee untouched.

‘Good morning,’ he replied quietly and took in their expressions. It was obvious that something was wrong. The veins in Nonni’s neck were bulging as he moved nervously behind his wife, who pushed a shabby scrap of paper across the table towards Gunnar.

He read Devil’s-mini-ster reaps death and felt a strange surge of relief. She wasn’t going to get rid of him. In fact, she needed him. It was clear that they were both upset by the note.

‘It seems to be from our friend who was in the boot of the car,’ he said.

Úrsúla nodded, and Nonni cleared his throat, as if encouraging her to say something.

‘Our so-called friend is probably no friend of mine,’ she said and slid a sheet of paper across the table. He quickly recognised 99it as the police report about Úrsúla finding the down-and-out in the back of her car. ‘Look at the man’s name.’

Gunnar did so. He had heard the police mention that the man’s name was Pétur, but other than that there was nothing familiar about it.

‘Begin at the beginning,’ Nonni said, standing behind her, and Úrsúla coughed.

‘There’s some back story here,’ she said, and took a deep breath. ‘My late father struggled with alcoholism and ended up more or less on the street. So most of my memories of him from when I was small are of seeing him downtown with his mates, who were all in much the same boat – dirty and drunk, sometimes causing trouble; other times battered and bruised by fights or accidents. A lot of the time he hung around with Pétur. They were friends.’

She picked up her mug and sipped, several times in a row, as if she was trying to swallow a lump in her throat.

‘And Pétur was in a cell with my father, up at Hverfisgata, the night he died.’

‘Pétur Pétursson, the man who has been sending Úrsúla clear death threats, is the man who murdered her father in a police cell,’ Nonni said.

He was obviously deeply upset, and it manifested itself in this burst of anger, as if he had been keeping his rage under control until an opportunity arose to let it go. His wife sat silent, though, and stared into her coffee mug. Gunnar could see no anger in her expression. There was only sadness.

‘He was judged unfit to stand trial,’ she said. ‘It must be years since he was released from the psychiatric detention unit at Sogn. It’s deeply disconcerting that he’s showing this interest in me now.’

‘Showing interest!’ Nonni snapped. ‘Saying it’s disconcerting that your father’s murderer is sending you death threats is putting it mildly!’ 100

41

In that moment between sleep and waking, the same string of thoughts ran repeatedly through Marita’s mind. Opening her eyes and waking up fully, she sighed. She had been back in that nightmare situation when all this had first happened. Her mind was going through the events of that evening again and again in the hope of finding some overlooked detail that could shine a light on Jónatan’s innocence.