45

Her phone’s alarm chimed for a long time before María finally woke up. She stretched for it, hit the snooze button and closed her eyes again. Despite the painkillers, her whole body hurt. She lay still. That was best. As she drifted between sleep and consciousness, Maggi seemed close to her, performing the gentle caresses he always woke her with on Sunday mornings, a clear day ahead of them with fresh bread from the bakery and the weekend papers to be read in bed.

The alarm called out to her a second time. As she was about to tap the snooze button again, she was startled to see a message from Agla on the screen. It was painful and difficult to sit up. She lifted her hands above her head to stretch her spine. But the pain in her back shot all the way down her right leg to her toes as she got to her feet. It would be a while before she would be ready for anything.

She limped back and forth, picking up her things and throwing them anyhow into her case. The old María had had a linen bag for underwear that she packed before arranging everything else in orderly rows; but in this grubby motel, bruised and stiff from the beating she had endured while carrying out Agla Margeirsdóttir’s assignment, she admitted to herself that she hadn’t just changed in the last few years, she had become a different person. Maggi had been quite right when he had said that she was no longer the woman he had married.

Agla’s message was short: Follow a truck and find out where they take the aluminium.

María sighed. She had meant to start working on the list of business contacts that Marteinn had sent, but this sounded like a better plan. The trucks appeared to arrive full and drive straight out again. There was no space to load or unload them, so this had to be for show. It was therefore key to work out where they went after leaving the warehouse. Did they go round in circle after circle, or stop off somewhere? If they did, where might that be? She sent a reply that was as brief as Agla’s message had been.

OK. There’s something fishy about all this, and they threatened me with a gun.

She had finished packing her case and just dropped the room keys off in the box at reception when her phone rang. The caller was identified on her screen as the Hólmsheiði Prison.

‘Will you accept a call from Agla Margeirsdóttir?’ asked a voice with a strong Eastern European accent. She had hardly said yes before Agla was on the line.

‘Are you all right, María?’ she asked, and she felt a pang inside at this unexpected concern.

‘I’m not entirely sure,’ she said. ‘I’m not used to having a gun in my face.’

‘What happened, exactly?’ Agla whispered as if to stop anyone listening, although they both knew that prisoners’ calls were often monitored.