2012
It was fairly late when Helgi got home. The little sitting room in the basement flat was as snug as ever, but he couldn’t help contrasting it with the grand drawing room at Baldur’s house.
The lawyer’s home was testament to a level of affluence that Helgi couldn’t see himself ever being able to match.
But that was fine, as he didn’t actually have any ambitions in that direction.
On the other hand, he wanted to move out of this basement the first chance he got, once he was free of the monthly payments on the flat Bergthóra was currently occupying.
Though any plans for finding somewhere better would have to wait while he and Aníta were settling into their relationship, because he envisaged taking his next steps on the housing ladder with her.
Perhaps she could sell her flat and they could invest in a little terraced house together, somewhere in the suburbs.
In time, no doubt, they would become the average Icelandic family, because that’s what he dreamt about, not riches and a swanky house in Thingholt.
If he had an ambition, it was to make a name for himself in the police and rise up the ranks, and the first step in that process would be to find out what had happened to Elín.
He had a hunch that he was closer to the truth than he knew.
His day hadn’t gone quite as planned; first there had been Lovísa’s phone call, then he had found himself gatecrashing a birthday party.
Now, though, he was ensconced on the sofa with a book he had taken from the shelf that morning but hadn’t yet had a chance to start: A Graveyard to Let by Carter Dickson, alias John Dickson Carr.
Helgi had never read it; indeed, he’d never got on particularly well with Carr’s work, as it was very focused on so-called impossible crimes.
Other golden-age authors tended to appeal to him more.
Nevertheless, he had included this novel in his ‘to read’ pile at the beginning of the investigation because it centred on a missing-persons case.
In fact, the plot wasn’t dissimilar to the whodunnit he had just been reading by Van Dine – a man dives into a swimming pool, fully clothed, and vanishes…
The trouble was, Helgi was missing Aníta; he had to admit it to himself. She was staying at her place this evening as she had friends visiting and they were likely to stay until late. ‘So it’s not worth my coming over,’ she had told him.
He had rarely experienced this feeling with Bergthóra.
He’d looked forward to the evenings when she had been out with her friends – not that she had many – as that had been his opportunity to relax and read.
Yet now he found he didn’t feel like opening the book in his hand.
Perhaps it was the author, perhaps he was too restless – his mind whirring with theories about the two missing women, Elín and Hulda – or perhaps he was just so in love that he couldn’t wait to see Aníta again.
The book could wait.
Sometimes it was fine to break with habit and do nothing at all.
He settled down more comfortably on the sofa and closed his eyes, laying the paperback on the table.
He was tired from the events of the day, from his busy week. He would see Aníta again tomorrow.