She was fighting to keep her eyes open and was scanning the side of the road for motels when the truck finally indicated and turned off into a rest area.

There had been diners and shops at some of the rest areas she had passed, but this one had nothing more than a shack containing toilets and coin-operated showers, and a large, empty parking zone. María was hoping that the driver had stopped for nothing more than a quick call of nature and would then drive on a little further to somewhere there would be a place to eat. But he took care to park the truck in one of the large diagonal parking bays in the middle of the rest area; it looked like he was stopping for the night.

She got out and went over to the toilet block where the smell smacked her in the face. She tried to breathe through her mouth as she peed, relieved that she had pocketed a serviette, as there was no paper. She washed her hands and eased the door open with her elbow so she could get out without having to touch the handle. Walking back to the car, she saw the driver with a bag in his hand, making his way over to a wooden table under some trees. She sat in the car and watched as he lit a lamp and sat at the table. He was better prepared than she was. She checked her phone to see if Marteinn had replied, and he had:

They own two warehouses.

She sighed with relief. It was good to have Marteinn on her side. She would try to explain things for him in more detail when she was home and he was feeling more like himself.

So Meteorite Metals had a warehouse and OR Metals had two, which meant there was every chance there would be more companies and more warehouses, and the amount of stockpiled aluminium might be considerable. But she still failed to understand the reason for the truck movements. She got out of the car and set off across the rest area. She had learned during her time at the special prosecutor’s office that sometimes there was no need to work your way around the edges, trying to discover everything for yourself. Often a straight question was the best way to get answers.

‘Hi, I’m María. I’m a journalist from Iceland,’ she said, holding up her press card.

The driver stood up, still with his mouth full and a beer bottle in his hand. He leaned forwards to peer at her card.

‘Journalist, yeah?’

‘I’ve been tailing you today, and I can see you’re driving a loaded truck from one warehouse to another. Can I ask why?’

‘What paper do you work for?’

It was a question María was ready for. It was what everyone asked. But it was less embarrassing to explain to a foreigner: he wouldn’t know that The Squirrel was just a tiny online venture.