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asked Davíd if he felt like going to the cinema, but Davíd had said that he had other fish to fry, without stating what. Other friends and acquaintances proved ignorant of Davíd’s whereabouts. He had been lightly dressed when he had left home.
    Notices were placed in the papers and appeals were made on television but to no avail and as time wore on his parents’ and brother’s hopes faded. They refused point-blank to listen to any suggestion of suicide, adamant that the very idea would have been alien to Davíd. But after weeks and months had elapsed with no explanation of Davíd’s disappearance, Erlendur said that they should not rule it out. He himself could not see many other possibilities in this case, given that the young man had not been planning to go climbing or to travel into the interior. Another possible explanation was that he had accidentally fallen foul of someone in the criminal fraternity who had disposed of him, for reasons that were obscure, and had hidden the body. His parents and friends had flatly denied that he’d had a quarrel with anyone or could have been involved in any criminal activity that might explain his disappearance. Police checks confirmed that he had not left the country by plane, nor was his name present on the passenger lists of any ships. And no staff at any of the country’s bookshops had noticed him in their stores on the day he had vanished.
    The old man took a mug from Erlendur and slurped his coffee noisily, though it was not particularly hot. Erlendur had attended his wife’s funeral. They did not seem to have many friends or a large family. Their other son was divorced and had no children. A small women’s choir had stood at the organ, singing: ‘Hark, Heavenly Creator . . .’
    ‘Is there any news of our case?’ the old man asked, having half-emptied his cup. ‘Has anything new emerged?’
    ‘No, I’m afraid not,’ Erlendur said, for the umpteenth time. He did not find the old man’s visits a trial. For him, the worst part was that there was little he could do for him except listen to his repeated protestations of what a dreadful thing it was about their dear boy and how could something like that happen and how could there be no news of him?
    ‘Of course, the police have enough on their plates,’ the old man said.
    ‘It comes in waves,’ Erlendur said.
    ‘Yes, well, no, anyway, best be making tracks,’ the old man said, without moving, as if there were something more to be said. Yet they had gone over everything that mattered.
    ‘I’ll be in touch if anything comes up,’ Erlendur promised, sensing the old man’s hesitation.
    ‘Yes . . . erm . . . the thing is, Erlendur, I may not be bothering you again,’ the old man said at last. ‘It’s probably time to let sleeping dogs lie. You see, they’ve found something . . .’ He coughed. ‘They’ve found some muck in my lungs. I’ve always smoked like an idiot and apparently it’s all coming home to roost, so I don’t know what . . . And all that cement dust can’t have helped, either. So I wanted to say goodbye, Erlendur, and to thank you for everything, everything you’ve done for us ever since you first came to see us that terrible day. We knew you would help us and you have done, although we’re no nearer. He’s dead, of course, and has been all these years. I think we’ve known that for a long time. But one . . . we . . . where there’s life there’s hope, isn’t there?’
    The old man stood up. Erlendur rose too and opened the door.
    ‘There’s always hope,’ he agreed. ‘How do you feel with that stuff in your lungs?’
    ‘I’m an old crock these days, anyway,’ the old man said. ‘Worn out all the time. Utterly worn out. And since I was given the diagnosis, breathing seems to have become more of an effort too.’
    Erlendur helped him down to reception and found a squad car to take him back to the nursing home. They said their goodbyes on the steps in