‘Indeed. One of the people who asked about Mr Caldwell and left a name said she was happy to hear from anyone else asking about him. The other … I am not so sure about.’

‘I understand.’

‘So.’ Bjarni handed Nick a hotel card. ‘This I can give you.’

Nick looked at the note. It gave a name – Erla Torfadóttir – and a phone number. ‘Thanks.’

‘And for the other … I could call her and ask if she was willing to speak to you.’ Her, Nick noted. ‘Would you like me to do that?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘OK.’ Bjarni stepped back into the small office behind the reception desk and put a call through on the hotel phone. A few seconds passed. He frowned, then put the phone down and returned to the desk. ‘There is a fault on her number.’

‘That’s unfortunate.’

‘I will try again later and let you know the outcome. I have your number.’

‘Is this woman Japanese, by any chance?’

The look of surprise on Bjarni’s face was an answer in itself. But he was still determined to stonewall on her behalf. ‘I can’t say, Mr Miller.’

‘That’s OK, Bjarni. You don’t really need to.’

They’d covered perhaps a hundred metres in slow reverse when George exclaimed, ‘Son of a bitch,’ and came to a juddering halt.

‘What is wrong?’ Wada asked.

‘See for yourself.’

Wada turned and peered through the rear window. Behind them, to her astonishment, she saw the slowly approaching headlamps of another vehicle.

‘It seems we’re not alone out here after all,’ said George.

Wada’s heart missed a beat. Another vehicle? It was a chunky four-wheel-drive, dark bodywork showing through layers of snow, its headlamps glaring at them through the slashing flakes like the eyes of some living creature.

‘Maybe this guy lives at Story Asperger.’ George hadn’t yet mastered the pronunciation of Stóri-Asgarbær.

‘Maybe,’ said Wada. But somehow she doubted it.

‘Well, we sure can’t get past him, specially not in reverse.’

‘Perhaps we should go forward.’

‘Hell, no. We just agreed not to do that.’

‘What, then?’

‘I’ll go have a word with him. He’s probably local. He’ll likely know what’s best.’

‘Is that wise?’

‘Why not? Someone’s got to make the first move.’ George yanked on the handbrake, dragged his anorak off the back seat and went to open the door.

‘George—’

‘It’s OK, Umiko.’ He grinned at her. ‘I’ve got this.’ He pushed the door open and struggled out. A flurry of snow and freezing air buffeted in. Then the door was slammed shut.