Ingimar knew what that meant: fine wines and fine women. He leaned forwards and used the car’s mirror to inspect the grey in his hair. For a second he felt a touch of regret for that life – but in fact he did not miss it. These days he could knock back wine at whatever time of the day he wanted to without feeling it, and he had pretty much given up chasing women. She didn’t count. That wasn’t chasing skirt. That was something different.

‘Everything looks good,’ Ingimar said. ‘This María is just fishing, but I wanted to warn you anyway. She’s one of those annoying people who doesn’t understand when to lay off. She’s trying to connect Agla with our project, and we need to be careful, we don’t want her getting mixed up in this.’

‘Why? Don’t you like Agla?’ William laughed, and, as if to underscore the glamour of his party, an up-tempo salsa number struck up in the background.

‘It’s not that I don’t like Agla. Quite the opposite. It’s just that if she gets the slightest inkling of what we’re up to, before we know it half the profits will end up in her pocket,’ he said.

William roared with laughter.

‘That’s her, right enough,’ he said. ‘Now get yourself to Paris, mon cher Ingimar. I’m on the trail of a sweet little thing here who has a twin sister. So we could be up for a memorable double date!’

Ingimar smiled to himself. He enjoyed William’s zest for life. Americans were so delightfully shameless about their pursuit of pleasure.

‘Speak soon,’ he said, and ended the call.

He would certainly have enjoyed a trip to Paris, where he could have had William entertain him. But over the last few years it was as if life itself had tracked him down, and responsibility, which was something he had never worried much about, had become an increasing burden. Anton needed him close by, especially considering what his mother was like.

He took a deep breath and got out of the car. As he walked up to the house, his feet seemed unusually heavy. He slipped the key into the lock and opened the door silently. Inside there was silence, and all of his senses seemed to detect the stale aura of unhappiness that filled the house.

8

María felt the same stab of shame every time she entered the building where The Squirrel had its office, because on the other side of the corridor was her landlord, the nationalistically inclined Radio Edda, which played bad Icelandic music and appeared, according to the quality of its discussion programmes, to place a particular emphasis on removing rights for minorities. She would have preferred to locate The Squirrel somewhere else, but she couldn’t afford it. The rent at Radio Edda was well below the market rate for this central area of the city, but being here saved her a great deal of driving compared to an office somewhere on the outskirts. Still, even though it was cheap, she always felt the urge to hide her face every time she entered or left the building. Over the doorway hung the station’s slogan: Iceland for Icelanders.