She watched the escalator as it carried a steady flow of people up to the departure lounge. Most of them looked to be tourists heading home after spending time in Iceland, with just a scattering of Icelanders among them. Áróra couldn’t put her finger on what it was that enabled her to unerringly pick them out. Perhaps it was something in the expressions, or the delight with which they moved, the anticipation on people’s faces as they prepared to leave the country. Nobody understood more clearly than Áróra why Icelanders were always excited about going abroad. It didn’t matter where people were going, they could be fairly certain that their destination would be cheaper, and with better weather.

She hadn’t been waiting long when Michael’s text message pinged, letting her know that his flight had landed, so she stood 203up and went over to arrivals. This wasn’t such a pleasant place to wait, as between the throng of bemused tourists, the calls from guides holding signs, and all the taxi drivers, she felt that she was in the way, wherever she stood. Time and again someone shoved their way in front of her, so that she finally stood by the column directly in front of the doorway that emitted a stream of people, like a river in springtime flood.

The summer tourist season was clearly in full flow. In a few days it would be the summer solstice, with the sun barely kissing the horizon at midnight before rising again, and photographers and tourists from around the world would be waiting on beaches and docks to snap pictures of it.

Michael glanced around nervously as soon as he appeared in the arrivals hall, and Áróra had to wave and call out until he located her in the crowd.

‘We’ll have to be quick,’ he said. ‘I’m catching the return flight and meeting the German bank’s collections director when I land at Heathrow, and we’ll deal with an agreement then. They wanted to make this quick.’

Áróra took Michael’s arm and steered him through the crowd to the pavement outside the terminal.

‘Shit, it’s cold,’ he said, pulling on the jacket that had been folded over his arm.

‘This is Icelandic summer weather,’ Áróra said, shivering.

‘I swear, here and now, in the presence of witnesses, that I’ll never complain about Scottish weather again.’

Áróra laughed, and pointed to the car. An unusual stroke of luck had allowed her to park close to the terminal building. They got inside, and Michael opened his briefcase on his knees. A sheaf of tightly printed papers pinned together lay there.