‘There’s no rush.’
Rut sat on the sofa in the living room, still in her soaking-wet coat. She was clutching a plastic bag and looking rather embarrassed.
Aníta had made herself scarce, saying she was going to read in the bedroom, but Helgi suspected she was listening at the door. Not that he could blame her.
His gaze travelled from the plastic bag to his visitor.
Maybe he ought to invite her to take off her coat, but he was keen to get rid of her as soon as possible and didn’t want to give her any excuse to linger.
‘Well,’ he said, glancing automatically at the clock. It was getting on for 11 p.m.
‘I’m sorry to come round so late, but it’s urgent, and… er, there’s something I need to tell you.’
Could Aníta have been right? Was the woman about to confess to some dreadful crime?
And what on earth was in that bag?
Helgi felt his heart miss a beat. He might have invited a murderer into his home.
‘Helgi… There’s something about Elín…’
‘Yes?’
Rut held out the dripping bag to him.
‘Have a look at this.’
After a brief hesitation, he took it from her and peered inside the bag.
It contained what appeared to be the manuscript of a book.
He could hardly believe his eyes.
Could Elín have written a sequel to her famous series?
He put the bag down, anxious not to handle this piece of evidence more than necessary.
‘Is this a new book?’ he asked.
Rut nodded.
‘By Elín?’
Instead of confirming, she asked:
‘Helgi, does the name Marteinn Einarsson mean anything to you?’
2005
[hissing]
Is everything OK? Shall we carry on?
Yes.
I’ve really enjoyed our chat.
Yes, amazingly, it hasn’t turned out to be as much of a strain as I thought it would. And, thank God, I’ll never have to read it.
