‘I like this map at the front. It’s charming. What does it show, an estate and houses? And here, yes, here’s the Dragon Pool. Maybe I’ll borrow it when you’re done. Why are you rereading it now?’
‘Just for fun. It’s about a missing-persons case.’
‘I see.’
‘Like Elín. Well, quite different, actually. It’s just that the case is preying on my mind; I can’t get a proper handle on it.’
‘In what way is it different?’
‘What?’
‘The case in the book.’
‘It’s about a man who vanishes, quite literally, in his own swimming pool. He dives in and doesn’t reappear. It’s an entertaining set-up.’
‘Who’s the investigator?’
‘Philo Vance – a great character.’
‘You won’t solve Elín’s mystery by reading this,’ Aníta pointed out. ‘At least, I very much doubt it.’
He smiled. Having an opportunity to talk about his old books made him happy and helped to distract him. He felt the strain of shouldering the responsibility for the investigation into Elín’s disappearance, even though no one had put him under any real pressure yet. It had all the makings of a big, high-profile case. If it went well, he would earn kudos; if not, the buck would stop with him.
‘Elín’s mystery?’ he asked.
‘It’s just a manner of speaking.’
‘Interesting choice of words, though. You don’t think she… well… could have staged it herself?’
Aníta shrugged.
‘Who knows what these authors are capable of?’
On evenings like this, Helgi thought how he would have loved to have a fireplace in the sitting room; it would have been such a perfect complement to the weather, his book and the company. He sat upright and laid the novel aside on the table.
‘Do you have to work this weekend?’ Aníta asked.
‘I’m afraid I do, yes. But I was thinking of cooking this evening. How does that sound to you?’
Aníta smiled.
‘Please.’ After a pause, she added: ‘By the way, have you seen her at all?’
‘Who?’
‘You know, Bergthóra? Have you seen her recently?’
The question dismayed him. The last thing he wanted was the spectre of his ex intruding on their cosy Friday evening.
‘Bergthóra? No.’
Aníta sometimes asked him questions about his previous relationship, quite adroitly, always careful to be polite and considerate, never pushing for answers, but he usually managed to sidestep the subject, if not quite as adroitly. Still, it didn’t matter at this stage. No doubt they would be able to discuss it one day, like a lot of other things, but he wasn’t ready, not yet. He felt sick at the thought of having to acknowledge the violence, even though he had been the victim, not the perpetrator. He would only start inadvertently wondering whether he could have done something to prevent it, whether things could have turned out differently.
Perhaps their relationship had been doomed from the start and Bergthóra’s character flaws had been too serious for it ever to have worked, even though the honeymoon period had been good. There had been heat and passion during those first weeks and months, before everything started to go wrong.
Despite going round and round in his thoughts to convince himself that the violence had been her fault, and hers alone, he couldn’t face talking about it to anyone.
He felt guilty, for reasons he didn’t understand. Obscurely ashamed too.
