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death. My condolences,’ she offered, knowing in advance that they would not be wanted.
    Vilhelm Thorleifsson’s wife sat stiff on the edge of a leather sofa at her parents’ vast house where nothing was out of place and Gunna wondered if dust would ever dare to get past the front door, let alone settle in the corners.
    ‘What happened?’ She asked in a blank voice.
    ‘Your husband was murdered by two attackers,’ she said baldly, deciding that Saga probably had no desire to be shielded from any gory details. ‘He was shot, twice, at close range.’
    ‘Was it quick?’
    ‘Probably.’
    ‘That’s a shame. Was his extremely personal assistant with him?’
    ‘Personal assistant?’
    ‘Yulia. The Russian girl.’
    ‘Yes, so it seems.’
    ‘And was she hurt?’
    ‘Physically, no.’
    ‘That’s a shame as well.’
    ‘I take it you didn’t get on?’
    ‘Me and Villi or me and the Russian girl?’
    ‘I meant you and your husband.’
    ‘We had our moments. But not for a few years. He led his life and I lead mine.’
    She sat almost immobile, her face a mask that Gunna guessed had to be artificial to achieve quite such an unnatural lack of mobility. Saga’s knees were pressed together as she sat on the edge of the sofa, her back straight. Her skirt and jacket looked to Gunna’s eyes as if they had been tailored from the same supple leather as the sofa’s covering. A starched blouse was buttoned to the throat and ink black hair shrouded a narrow face that might have been attractive if it were to see a little animation.
    ‘How long had you been living separately?’
    ‘We live together, just in separate rooms. Villi chased his businesses from country to country and I’d given up asking him when we were likely to see him next.’
    ‘How about his business affairs? Did you have any involvement in his work?’
    ‘No. Nothing. Occasionally he’d give me something to sign as I was a name on some of his companies, but I just signed without looking too closely.’
    ‘Isn’t that rash? Signing something without reading the small print?’
    ‘Villi was a shit husband, but he knew how to make money. Cashwise, I could trust him. But not dickwise.’
    ‘We’ll need to take a look at his business affairs.’
    ‘Good luck. Most of Villi’s business was in his head, and what wasn’t there is in his laptop, if you can get into it.’
    ‘Property?’
    ‘The house in Copenhagen is mine. I made sure of that when the first personal assistant showed up five or six years ago.’
    ‘There’s more than one?’
    ‘Three to my knowledge. Maybe more. They’re always bright and beautiful. Gold diggers. That’s why the houses are in my name only. I hold the real estate; Villi got to play. It was – what do you call it? – a mutual understanding.’
     
    ‘Holiday? What’s that?’
    Emilija looked up, the toilet brush held in front of her like a sword.
    ‘I just asked,’ Natalia said, propping herself against the basin and feeling in her pockets for a cigarette before reminding herself that smoking on the job was a sackable offence. ‘When did you last have a trip home? When did you last see your parents?’
    ‘I’m not sure. Three, four years ago,’ Emilija said, applying herself to the toilet, even though it was virtually in its original pristine state. ‘It was before Anton was born, and before the divorce. So four years, I think. And you?’
    Natalia scowled. ‘Ten years.’
    ‘What? As long as that?’
    ‘At least,’ Natalia growled, spraying and polishing the mirror over the basin. She stopped, tensed, placed her hands on the edge of the granite slab the two basins were set in and jumped. She stood on the slab to polish the top half of the mirror. ‘Hjörtur will never agree to let Nonni out of the country. He thinks I wouldn’t bring him back.’
    ‘And he’d be right, wouldn’t he?’
    Natalia looked at herself in the mirror and pulled a face. ‘Yeah. Probably. But it’s a long time to not