In the bedroom the bed was unmade, a stack of Elena Ferrante novels filled one of the two bedside tables, and the hooks on the back of the door were hung with clothes. One held female clothing. He buried his face in the folds and breathed deeply, getting a lungful of the same southern aromas, plus smells of her body and washing powder. The chest of drawers at the end of the bed was empty, apart from a couple of pairs of skimpy lace knickers and a bra in the top drawer. The cups were a B, and as Ísafold was a D-cup, they had to belong to the new woman. He slid open the door of the big wardrobe and saw Björn’s clothes on both sides. There was plenty of space around them, as if he had spread them out to make full use of the wardrobe, expanding to fill the gap left where Ísafold’s things had been.

Grímur had seen all he needed to. Björn had obviously removed any trace of Ísafold, and the cosmetic stuff in the bathroom, and the books and clothes in the bedroom, showed that the new woman had started to leave things here. She would be moving in before long. He would have to work even faster than he had thought.

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48

‘I’m meeting an old uncle for dinner,’ Áróra said to Hákon, phone to her ear as she waited outside the hotel for Daníel. She had used part of the day to go through background information about Hákon and his companies, and how he had ended up in prison. She hadn’t got as far as looking through the contents of his computer via her spyware, simply because she was too nervous about the evening ahead. Hákon wanted to see her again. He’d asked if she wanted to meet for a drink, hesitated and then asked if she thought he was being too pushy.

She laughed. ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘I’ll call you later if I feel like a drink.’

She didn’t hear his reply, as at that moment a motorbike pulled up on the hotel’s forecourt. She’d switched off her phone and dropped it in her pocket before she realised that Daníel was the bike’s rider. He dismounted, and handed her a helmet.

‘Hang on. Weren’t we going out to dinner?’ she asked in surprise. She had expected a restaurant somewhere close by.

‘A mystery tour,’ he said. ‘But don’t worry. We’re not going far.’

Áróra held back for a moment. She was wearing open sandals and a thin jacket, but fortunately she had put on jeans instead of a skirt or a dress. Reluctantly, she took the helmet.

‘I’m not sure if I’m brave enough for this,’ she said.