‘He knows him better than you do.’

‘And I know Kristjan better than he knows himself. This is a bad idea.’

‘You have a better one?’

Erla had no answer to that beyond several fretful puffs on her cigarette.

‘Well then …’

‘Don’t believe everything Ragnar says, that’s all. Shit.’ She glanced past Wada. ‘I think I see Kristjan coming. Don’t tell him I was here.’

Wada looked over her shoulder and spotted a tall, rangy figure on the far side of the square wearing a long, flapping coat. When she looked back, Erla was gone, with only the scent of her cigarette smoke hanging in the air to prove she’d ever been there.

Wada shrugged and started walking back towards the church. Erla might be right to have her doubts about Ragnar. But Kristjan might be right about him too. And Wada already knew she wasn’t going to make much progress without taking some risks.

‘You look even smaller out here than in Erla’s apartment,’ was Kristjan’s bemusing greeting.

‘Is my size important?’

‘No. I just— Forget it.’

‘Are we far from the bar?’

‘No. Ten minutes tops.’

‘Let’s go, then.’

‘OK.’

Kristjan led the way, setting a stiff pace thanks to his long, loping stride. Wada had to hurry to keep up with him.

‘You ought to know Ragnar doesn’t like the Japanese guys he works with,’ Kristjan went on. ‘So, you might not be his … cup of tea.’

‘It is not necessary for him to like me.’

‘I guess not, but, just to play safe, don’t give him your real name.’

‘Why not?’

‘Less for him to follow up if he gets twitchy later. Or talkative.’

‘Very well. I will be … Abe.’

‘Like your prime minister?’

‘It is a common name.’

‘OK. Abe it is.’

Jarđfræđingur was loud and dark and very busy. It favoured some kind of Icelandic heavy metal music. Wada possessed excellent hearing, which she’d often found as much a disadvantage as an advantage. She also had no ear for music, to which she was either indifferent or, as in this case, profoundly averse.

Not that it mattered. Kristjan insisted on buying her a bottle of the same lager he was drinking, then grabbed her hand – either to imply to other customers they were together or simply to make sure she didn’t get lost – and piloted her through a couple of crammed side rooms with rough-hewn walls, where stray darts of strobe lighting revealed a ruck of mostly leather-clad drinkers. The men sported large beards and tattoos, the women long hair and tattoos of their own.