It was three years since Björn had appeared on the scene. It was soon clear that he was different from all of Ísafold’s previous boyfriends, none of whom had lasted long – the most enduring of them lasting less than a year. It was as if there had been some quality she had been searching for, and had found in Björn.

Áróra had allowed Ísafold to drag her along to the late-winter gathering of expat Icelanders in London. She had agreed to go against her better judgement, as she avoided the traditional food and found Icelanders less than pleasant once they started to sing. But Ísafold had piled the pressure on her sister, desperate to go and without anyone to go with, until Áróra let herself be persuaded. All she had out of it was an evening’s regret, sitting alone at their table, watching Ísafold dancing with Björn.

Björn was a good-looking guy. He was tall and thick-set, and from beneath his rolled-up sleeves complex snake-patterned tattoos peered, twisting along his muscular arms and under his shirt. He was at the party with a couple who lived in London, and he bought them all round after round. Áróra was very drunk by the time she found a taxi to take her back to their hotel, while Ísafold disappeared with Björn.

After that Ísafold had been besotted: Björn this and Björn that – he was all she could talk about. Áróra was delighted for her. Ísafold was overjoyed and in love; it was good to see her so happy. It seemed that the Iceland Ísafold had always pined to be closer to had finally welcomed her. She moved into Björn’s flat on Engihjalli in Kópavogur after they had known each other for just a few weeks.

‘Now you’ll have to find yourself an Icelandic guy as well,’ Ísafold had laughed soon after moving to Iceland, and Áróra had jokingly asked if Björn had a hunky friend. It was genuinely a joke. She valued her freedom too much to be tied down. 15

On the approach to Keflavík Airport, as she looked down at the grey-green moss that even after hundreds of years hadn’t managed to cover the jagged lava completely, she couldn’t recall exactly when things had turned sour with Björn. It had been quite early on, but not right away – she had visited them in Iceland, slept on the sofa and watched as Ísafold had made valiant attempts to get to grips with the Icelandic Christmas baking tradition. Everything had been fine then. They had laughed together, and she had found Björn fun to be around.