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and beyond that the wild North Atlantic tossed and churned. To the south he could make out the dark scars of previous landslides on the flanks of the fells. A streak of green caught Magnus’s attention as it fluttered and swished across the ridge of mountains on the other side of the fjord. The northern lights.
    It was cold, it was bleak. The sun didn’t shine. There were no trees. Yet the mountains, the sea, the sky, seemed to be alive: swirling, shifting, shimmering as the stars, the moon and the aurora brushed them in a shifting palette of yellow, white and green illumination. And if the landscape was alive, then it had purpose and it had power.
    It reminded him of his grandfather’s farm on the Snaefells Peninsula a little to the south where Magnus and his brother had spent four miserable years after their father had left Iceland. He shuddered. Those were years Magnus wanted to forget.
    That had seemed lonely. But this, this seemed even lonelier.
    People shouldn’t live here. No wonder those that did were driven crazy like Davíd, or crushed by the land itself like Gústi. They should leave it to the trolls and the elves.
    What had Baldur called this place? The edge of nowhere.
    Magnus shivered again and set off back into town to the guesthouse. The sooner he sorted out Gústi’s death and got back to Reykjavík the better.

 
    4
     
    Magnus was just finishing his breakfast, alone in the small dining room of the guesthouse, when Tómas strode in.
    ‘Good morning, Tómas. Have some coffee. They have a whole urn full and only me to drink it.’
    ‘I just got a call from a witness who said that he had information about Gústi’s death.’
    ‘An elf nut?’ asked Magnus.
    ‘No. Not really. Let’s just say he’s a reliable man. Very reliable.’
    ‘Who is it?’
    ‘Haraldur, the postman.’
    Magnus imagined that a postman would be a good source of information in a small town. Perhaps he too had seen Arnór loading his truck.
    ‘What did he say?’
    ‘He said he needed to tell us in person. And I thought it was probably best if you were there in any case.’
    Tómas had learned from his mistake with the stuffed toy the day before. ‘Thank you,’ said Magnus, gulping his coffee. ‘Let’s go.’
    It was still dark outside: it wouldn’t get light until after eleven o’clock. Haraldur was half way through his round, so they met him at the petrol station. In Icelandic towns and villages the petrol station is one of the centres of social activity. There are always half a dozen Formica tables, a vending machine and a microwave. And coffee.
    Haraldur was waiting for them, with a cup, and Tómas introduced Magnus, before buying two more. A girl of about seventeen served him: Arnór’s wife hadn’t started work yet. Haraldur was a small, serious-looking man with a neatly trimmed beard and deep-set, bright blue eyes. He was probably in his early thirties.
    ‘What have you got for us, Haraldur?’ Tómas asked.
    ‘I have some information about Rós,’ Haraldur said. He spoke deliberately and with a quiet authority. His voice was surprisingly deep.
    ‘I wasn’t sure whether to give it to you. It relates to your investigation of Gústi’s death.’ He paused.
    ‘Yes?’ said Magnus mildly. He could sense Haraldur’s reluctance, but he waited patiently. Now the postman had got them there, he would talk, in his own time.
    ‘You know that they have recently constructed a tunnel on the Ísafjördur road?’
    Magnus nodded.
    ‘Well, the construction company’s equipment broke down several times when they were finishing the tunnel. There were demands that they cancel the project, demands led by Rós. She claimed the hidden people didn’t like it, and they were the ones breaking the machinery.’
    ‘So I heard,’ said Magnus.
    ‘It wasn’t the hidden people. It was Rós.’
    ‘Really?’ said Magnus. ‘How do you know?’
    ‘I just know,’ said Haraldur, glancing at Tómas.
    Tómas shifted in his chair.