Hákon Hauksson. The name rang a bell. Áróra recalled that he was some kind of Icelandic millionaire who had done something he shouldn’t, but she couldn’t remember what. Now she was regretting not having paid more attention to the Icelandic media. The man was a criminal, as the ankle tag demonstrated, but she couldn’t remember what crimes he had committed, so she stood up and left. She wasn’t going to lie there flat on her back in some rapist’s or murderer’s bed.

Now she hurried along the hotel corridor towards the lift, her dress quickly pulled on but with bare legs and feet, her bag hanging from her shoulder, and her jacket, tights and bra in a bundle in one hand and her shoes in the other. It was the middle of the night so she hoped she’d be able to get to her own room without being noticed, but that hope was dashed as she stepped into the lift. The man in the lift slurred as he asked which floor she wanted. She told him the second, and he pressed the button, but the lift had hardly started moving before he pressed the stop button and it lurched to a halt between floors.

‘Excuse me!’ she said sharply, in a tone that was supposed to convey determination, disgust and that she expected his mistake to be rectified. But at the same time she heard how soft her voice sounded. She could hear the sudden, instinctive fear.

‘How much?’ the man asked in English, although she could tell from his accent that he was a local. His drink-fuddled eyes looked her up and down, and he was unsteady on his feet. He was dressed in jeans and a blazer, with a blue shirt open at the neck, showing where the brown freckles that spotted his face had their origin. He had a broad jaw, a snub nose, and a pair of square glasses that together made him look as if he had been assembled in the shape of a box. A heavy, boxy kind of guy, the kind of guy 35whose grip she wouldn’t be able to twist out of if he were to get hold of her.

Áróra clutched her bundle of clothes to her chest and glanced around as she tried to figure out how she could reach the red button that had to be some kind of alarm, but without getting too close to the man.

‘Start the lift, or I’m going to yell,’ Áróra hissed. ‘Right now!’

The man took a step towards her and began to fiddle with the buckle of his belt, although he was fortunately too drunk to unfasten it quickly.

‘I’m so fucking horny,’ he spluttered, as Áróra felt a wave of claustrophobia.