For a moment it occurred to Grímur to go inside, order himself a beer and a snack, and take a seat somewhere near them so he could hear what they were talking about, so he could hear how Björn pitched himself. He’d see how Björn sold the woman the image he wanted to present, reeling her in, making her fall in love. He might even learn a few tactics for his own use, as he’d never had much luck with women. But he dismissed the idea. It would be awkward if Björn were to recognise him, and looking like he did, he was easily recognisable. He could see how people stared, thinking a man with no eyebrows was weird. Anyway, he didn’t need to listen to their talk, and he could see that Björn was laying it on thick for the woman, and that she was falling for it. She 33looked at him with wide eyes, laughing one moment, smiling the next, occasionally running a finger through her hair to push it back from her cheek. Grímur was certain that if he had a clearer view he would see their feet touching beneath the table.

He zipped his jacket up to the neck and walked away. There were only ten minutes before the bus was due. He had finished the walk around the city centre he had decided to take after the film was over. But seeing Björn with a new woman had wrecked any pleasure he might have had from his walk, and now he just wanted to go home and shave all over. Usually he enjoyed seeing the weekend getting under way, late in the evening as the restaurants were closing and the bars and clubs welcomed those who wanted to keep the party going, and you could hear the expectation in the calls and laughter of the people on the streets. But now the moment had been ruined, and the plan sat ready in his mind, so simple but so dangerous. It was a relief to have a plan, a course to follow, but at the same time, as he waited for the green light to come to life on the Lækjargata pedestrian crossing, next to the bus shelter, he was boiling with rage. He saw Björn in his mind’s eye, smiling for the dark-haired woman, the dark-red wine swirling in their glasses as they clinked. Not much would have to go wrong for one glass to break and for the wine to spill and flood across the white tablecloth, staining it as dark and red as blood.

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