As Áróra pulled up outside Ebbi’s garage in the Smiðja district, she saw him on the forecourt, deep under the bonnet of one of the vast 4x4s that were so popular in Reykjavík. He stood up straight as Áróra got out of her car, pulled a rag from the pocket of his boiler suit and wiped his hands. Not that wiping them made much difference, as Ebbi’s hands were never anything but black, even when they were clean. He was a coarser version of Björn, with a big nose and a jaw that protruded slightly, while his elder brother had been blessed with a sweet face but without Ebbi’s gentle nature. Áróra liked Ebbi.

‘Sorry I didn’t reply to those messages of yours,’ he said. ‘I’ve never figured out how to use voicemail.’

He leaned in to kiss her cheek, taking care not to let the grease or hydraulic oil, or whatever else his overalls were stained with, come anywhere near her clothes. He went into the workshop, fetched coffee in two plastic cups and handed one to her. They perched on a concrete lip that jutted from the workshop wall. Áróra took sunglasses from her pocket and put them on, while Ebbi squinted into the brightness.

‘What do you mean, you’re looking for her?’ he asked. ‘Didn’t she go to England?’

Áróra shook her head.

‘It’s not like her not to be in touch with Mum,’ she said, and Ebbi quickly glanced sideways at her. She was sure she noticed a trace of concern in his eyes.

‘I can’t say I’m surprised she had enough of Björn,’ he said, looking away and staring at the concrete ground, eyes focused as if he had seen something down there that needed careful inspection.

‘It’s always seemed to me that she can’t get enough. She keeps on going back to him. Even that time he broke her jaw.’48

‘Yeah. He knows how to entice her back. Then there’s always a few good weeks.’

‘Pillock,’ Áróra said, still searching for a more suitable word in her imperfect Icelandic vocabulary.

‘Shitbag,’ Ebbi said. ‘And he still hasn’t improved since he was sentenced. It was like it gave him licence to turn into a complete arsehole.’

This was news to Áróra.

‘What sentence?’

‘Well, just a slap on the wrist for a bit of dope. You know he’s a toker; well, he’s been selling pills too.’ Áróra was about to ask more about this, but Ebbi continued, so it was clear this was something he didn’t want to go into. ‘It was obvious last time I saw her that she wasn’t happy,’ he said. ‘And you could see they weren’t getting on.’