She didn’t catch the bus every day, just from time to time, especially in winter, since her little car wasn’t very reliable in slippery, snowy conditions. In fact, it had a tendency to break down whatever the weather. Buying a new car was high on her to-do list, but her money always seemed to go on something else. Besides, the bus stopped almost at the end of her road, so it was very practical.
She had been sitting at the back, as usual, and was more than halfway home when she spotted a woman at the front who reminded her uncannily of Bergthóra. Aníta had watched her, waiting for her to look round, and eventually she did. Her gaze was vacant, creepy; it made Aníta’s blood run cold as the woman seemed to stare right through her, and in the same instant she’d realized thatit was indeed Bergthóra. Perhaps it was a coincidence, perhaps not, but it had been a horribly uncomfortable feeling.
Aníta had sat tight, hoping that Bergthóra wouldn’t try to approach her.
At the next bus stop, she had waited, waited… then shot to her feet and made a dash for the door, heart pounding.
Once outside on the pavement, reluctant to run, she forced herself to walk slowly away from the bus stop, hoping that Bergthóra hadn’t had time to get out.
Then, unable to stop herself, she snatched a look round and saw that the bus had moved off.
Flooded with relief, she paused to catch her breath, standing there without moving for a moment.
Then the bus braked again, for no obvious reason.
Could Bergthóra have asked the driver to stop so she could get off?
Aníta had got out in an industrial estate, far from any residential housing, and it was eerily empty at this time of the evening.
Suddenly she was running for her life, not daring to glance over her shoulder to check if anyone was in pursuit.
2012
Friday, 2 November
‘What are you reading?’
The words seemed to hover a long way off on the edge of his consciousness, faint but full of warmth. Helgi didn’t immediately react, then stirred and realized he had dozed off on the sofa with the book on his stomach.
He had been dreaming, and his dream stayed with him.
He had been looking at a small gravestone, mossy from many years in a churchyard. In his dream the weather had been still and the inscription had been clear:Elín S. Jónsdóttir. But when he looked back at the stone, the name had changed and the grave was now that of his mother.
The horror of it still clung to him. He did his best to shrug it off. Usually he didn’t take much notice of his dreams, but this one had been so sinister.
‘What are you reading?’ Aníta asked again.
He rubbed his eyes and smiled at her.
‘S. S. Van Dine.’
‘Never heard of him. Or her?’
‘Him. He’s long dead, like most of the authors I read.’
‘Are you reading it for the second time? Or the third?’
It was a pertinent question. Although they’d only been together a short time, she already knew him well enough to understand that his passion for old whodunnits more often than not involved rereading the same books.
‘Yes, sure, I’ve read it before. It’s a great favourite of mine.’
‘Can I see?’
He handed her the book.
‘The Dragon Murder Case.’ She opened the dog-eared hardback. It was a first edition, bought a few years ago. ‘MCMXXXIII – 1933. A good year?’
‘A good year for crime novels.’
