Maybe he was dead, though she doubted it. Maybe he was at least too badly injured to come after her. She had her doubts about that too. But she had to make a choice. And she had to make it now.

She put the stick into drive and pushed her foot down on the accelerator. The car surged forward. It began jolting and skidding as she moved her foot too violently on the pedal. It took her a few seconds to gain proper control. Then she accelerated smoothly along the track, steering a middle course between the posts.

She glanced in the rear-view mirror as she picked up speed. She could see George’s body lying where he’d fallen. And she thought she could see blood on the snow around him. Her eyes filled with tears.

The snow she’d ploughed up reversing against the post obscured her view of his killer, and the pitch of the track meant she couldn’t be sure whether he’d moved or not. Or maybe her uncertainty was caused by the tears blurring her vision.

For the moment, it didn’t matter. She was alive. And she was moving, even if no one else was.

Nick phoned Erla Torfadóttir as soon as he left the Arnarson. She didn’t answer, so he left a message explaining he was anxious, as apparently she was too, to track down Martin Caldwell. Could they perhaps help each other? He didn’t mention Mimori Takenaga, though he suspected she must have been in touch with Erla. Who Erla was, of course, and what her connection with Caldwell might be, he had no idea. That went for a whole lot else as well. He was beginning to wonder if he’d ever come close to understanding what was going on in the secret world of Peter Ellery, into which Caldwell had lately vanished.

Within an hour, however, he had heard from Erla Torfadóttir, in the form of a text message. Can we meet at Reykjavík Roasters Brautarholt 0930 tomorrow?

There could be only one answer to that, which he texted back straight away.

Yes.

Wada drove on towards Stóri-Asgarbær with no definite plan as to what to do when she arrived. It was Quartizon property, so going there was crazy on one level. But she couldn’t go back. That much was certain. So she had to go on.

Keeping the car on the track and judging the route ahead by reference to the wayside posts required all her concentration. And the less she thought about what she’d left behind her the better able she’d be to cope with whatever lay ahead. She should never have persuaded George to drive her here, of course. She should have bided her time and chosen some safer method to prise open Quartizon’s secrets. Her impetuosity had cost George Guptill his life. And it might yet cost her hers.