2012
Maybe she got lost in one of her own books.
Magnús’s bad joke rankled with Helgi.
There were times when he actively disliked his boss, though he tried to conceal the fact.
They had little in common and their paths were unlikely to have crossed if fate hadn’t willed it that they should work together.
Helgi was prepared to bet that Magnús hadn’t read a single book by Elín S.
Jónsdóttir, though it would be hard to find another Icelander who hadn’t.
Then again, Magnús probably read nothing but police reports.
And for that reason, this investigation, whether it turned out to be a criminal case or not, would be in better hands with Helgi.
He had taken two books with him from the shop, before locking the door behind him.
One was Agatha Christie’s Peril at End House , mainly to prevent anyone else from buying it, unlikely though that was. He couldn’t bear the thought of such a rare treasure ending up in the wrong hands. No one else would appreciate it like he did.
The second title, found after a short search, was a copy of Elín S. Jónsdóttir’s debut novel; first edition, first printing. As such, it was a rarity, though first editions didn’t go for nearly as much in Iceland as rare books did abroad.
Helgi was intending to dip into the book, maybe read the first few chapters, during the short flight back to Reykjavík, using the time to try and get a sense of the author.
It was his belief that all books provided an insight into their author’s psyche.
After all, it stood to reason that authors must reveal something of themselves in their pages, either deliberately or unconsciously, though no doubt you often had to read between the lines to discover it.
Of course, he wasn’t expecting this particular book to provide any great revelation about the author’s disappearance, but reading it would at least give him a sense of purpose and be better than sitting idle.
He dropped by the house to pack and say goodbye to his mother, explaining that duty called.
She didn’t seem upset; if anything, she seemed pleased at having a chance to stand on her own two feet after the operation.
As a precaution, though, Helgi left her a key to the new flat he was renting in Reykjavík.
He felt it was right for his mother to have a key, just in case something happened; once his mother, always his mother.
Come to think of it, she probably still had a key to the old flat too, where Bergthóra was now living on her own.
It crossed his mind that he might have gone north more for himself than for his mother, to savour the smell of the books in the old shop, and – who knows? – perhaps to spend a few days without Aníta to get a bit of distance in which to work out what he felt about this new relationship.
He had been hesitant to make the leap, given how badly things had turned out with Bergthóra, and he had to keep reminding himself that the two women couldn’t be more different. That there was nobody else like Bergthóra.