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seemed to be thinking through the idea. “OK. Do you have a pen?”
    “Eiríkur? Would you?”
    Eiríkur stood up and took charge.
    “Could I ask you to put the magazines over here where we can both look?” he asked sweetly, patting the dining table.
    Gunna gratefully left Eiríkur to it, accepting that his patient manner would be far more effective than the irritable brusqueness she was having difficulty suppressing. Every few moments there was a giggle from the table as Eiríkur’s and Arna’s heads became steadily closer over the pile of magazines.
    “Arna? Do you live here alone?” Gunna asked suddenly when there was a lull.
    “No, of course not. My husband lives here as well.”
    “And he’s at work at the moment, I suppose?”
    “Yeah. Why?”
    “Nothing special. I was just wondering if he might have noticed anything. When do you expect him home?”
    Gunna could see that the pink tip of Arna’s tongue was protruding from a corner of her mouth as she concentrated on the magazine pages in front of her.
    “Him?” Eiríkur prompted.
    “Yeah. I’ve seen him. What? Tolli’s back tomorrow night. He’s in London this week,” she added proudly.
    O N THE WAY down the stairs to the street, Gunna welcomed the reappearance of the city sounds that had been ruthlessly excluded from Arna Arnarsdóttir’s hermetically sealed apartment on the top floor.
    “So, Eiríkur, what kind of a haul do we have?”
    “Half a dozen of the country’s finest to try and talk to discreetly. Two shady businessmen, Jónas Valur Hjaltason and Bjartmar Arnarson, plus Bjarki Steinsson, a high-flying accountant, and a brand new MP,” he said, counting them as he looked at his notes. “She said there were a couple of younger men who visited as well, but doesn’t know who they are.”
    “Which MP?”
    “Hallur Hallbjörnsson. Been a naughty boy, I reckon. Didn’t think the Social Democrats went in for that sort of thing.”
    Gunna watched the street doors to the block hiss open automatically as they approached.
    “Did you get any joy with that?” she asked suddenly, pointing to the security camera fitted above the door.
    “No. The caretaker says it’s been broken for weeks, so no security footage.”
    “Shame. Now, we’d best divvy these jokers up between us and see what we can get out of them. Do you want the MP or shall I?”
    G UNNA SENSED SKÚLI’S awkwardness from the set of his jaw and the thin line his mouth made. She waved to him and his face relaxed as he saw her.
    “Sorry I’m a bit late. Traffic,” he apologized.
    “No problem. I don’t have long, though.”
    Gunna sipped her coffee and glanced towards the counter, where a bored young man was waiting with a blank expression for something to do. Around them the shopping centre in Hafnarfjördur bustled with people buying their last-minute groceries under soothing artificial light.
    “Already done your shopping?” Skúli asked.
    “Nope. Left it to the boyfriend. D’you want a coffee?”
    “Yeah. Why not?”
    “Go on. Get me a refill while you’re there.”
    He returned with mugs and a dry sandwich on a plate.
    “Lunch?” Gunna enquired.
    “Yup. Not much time to eat today.”
    “Now then,” she said in a businesslike tone that made Skúli swallow and pay attention. “I’m sure we’ve been doing much the same sort of research on all this stuff, you and I. So tell me what you’ve found out and I’ll fill in the gaps I’m allowed to.”
    “Svana Geirs was a talented dancer, did OK as a model, not very successful pop singer, even less successful actress, shameless self-publicist. Married twice, both times briefly. No kids. Numerous operations—”
    “Operations?”
    “Yeah, cosmetic. Thighs, tits more than once, I’m told, face lift, nose job, teeth fixed, liposuction. The works, more or less.”
    “OK, understood.”
    “She owns a third share of this health club, which has traded on her image from when she had a fitness show on TV. But from