Elísa’s provocative joke had stirred up this emotional turmoil, and her thoughts again turned to the noose.

The computer pinged an alert to let her know that a message had arrived in her inbox. Agla wiped her face with her sleeve and took a couple of deep breaths to bring her sobs to an end. The email was from María, and Agla felt relief as she read it, as well as the spark of excitement that always took root inside her when she had a complex piece of work ahead. María agreed to her offer to co-operate. So maybe there were alternatives to the noose – other ways to free herself from this misery.

21

Ingimar relished taking Jón, the smelter’s financial director, to places outside his comfort zone. Kaffivagninn had long been one of Ingimar’s favourites, with its view over the Reykjavík harbourside, small fishing boats at the pontoons, the city skyline beyond, and the fishermen around the tables sipping coffee through lumps of hard sugar brought back pleasant memories. Jón looked thoroughly ill at ease in these surroundings, however. He ran a finger along the back of a chair, as if checking it was clean before he laid his neatly folded overcoat over it. Ingimar got to his feet and pointed to the counter, and Jón followed hesitatingly.

While he wasn’t exactly hungry and didn’t make a habit of eating at this time of day, Ingimar couldn’t resist treating himself to an open shrimp sandwich, if only to see Jón’s reaction. This vulgar Icelandic version of a Danish smørrebrød appeared to upset this bony man’s sensibilities to such an extent that he could hardly bring himself to look at the sandwich, instead glancing at it occasionally from the corner of an eye, seeming to be deciding what to say.

‘That’s a mountain of mayonnaise,’ he observed.

Ingimar reached for the pepper, shaking it generously over the contents of his plate. Jón ordered an espresso from the new machine that looked to have been installed more for tourists than locals. Ingimar would also have liked a stronger brew, but he helped himself to filter coffee from the urn just to get a reaction from Jón.

Ingimar made a start on his sandwich as soon as they had taken their seats, sipping grey coffee from a mug between mouthfuls.

‘What’s new on the aluminium front?’ he asked, slicing off a piece of the canned pineapple that graced the pile of shrimp and popping it into his mouth.

‘Much as usual,’ Jón replied, lifting his espresso cautiously to his lips.

The tiny cup was somehow perfectly in keeping with his slim fingers, while the heavy mug almost disappeared in Ingimar’s fist. They were complete opposites and Ingimar’s thoughts somehow strayed to dogs. Jón was a chihuahua, no question at all, and while he would have liked to have seen himself as some kind of slim greyhound, he was probably more of a bulldog. He was solidly built, and getting thicker as the years passed. A lump of a man, as Rebekka never got tired of calling him.