It was late afternoon when they reached Reykjavík. Espersen told Wada to wrap the sheet round herself as they headed into the centre. ‘We don’t want anyone seeing all that blood on you.’ He drove to a quietly affluent residential area which Wada calculated couldn’t be far from her hotel. She was surprised when he pulled in through the open gate of a big house right next to an embassy. She wasn’t sure which embassy it was. Danish or Norwegian was her guess, based on the flag. She could have asked Espersen, but something deterred her.

The door of a large double garage opened ahead of them. Espersen drove in and stopped. The door closed behind them. He got out, fetched Wada’s bag and signalled through the passenger window for her to get out as well.

Nothing was said as she followed him through a door at the rear of the garage into some kind of annexe detached from the house. There was a kitchenette and, beyond that, a small plainly furnished bedroom, with en-suite bathroom.

‘You need to take a shower,’ he said. ‘Wash all the blood off. Leave your clothes in the tub. They’ll have to be burnt. I’ll put some clean clothes for you to wear on the bed.’

‘And then?’

‘That’ll be up to Mr Driscoll. But no one’s going to hurt you, Wada. Not while you’re here.’

‘I have your word on that?’

He nodded. ‘You do.’

It was good to peel off her bloodstained clothes – some of the stains had even penetrated to her underwear – and wash away the visible evidence of what had happened at Stóri-Asgarbær. For some reason she couldn’t properly analyse, she believed she could rely on Espersen’s guarantee of her safety. She still had no idea what Driscoll was going to say to her. But part of her was perversely looking forward to facing him at last.

The clothes Espersen had left for her were a reasonable fit, though she would never have chosen them herself. Jeans and a chunky sweater divided into bands of orange and red were about as far from her natural look as it was possible to get.

The annexe seemed to be deserted, which surprised her. Was there actually anything to prevent her leaving through the garage? She certainly had no sense of imprisonment or confinement. Meeting Driscoll felt more like an invitation than an obligation.

Lured by this sensation, she followed a short corridor leading into the main part of the house, then another passage at the end of which double doors stood open to a large, minimally furnished lounge. The room looked out on to the garden. There was something Japanese about the atmosphere. Wada thought she could detect, at the very edges of her hearing, koto music being played somewhere.