“Sigrún’s husband, Jörundur, has been out of work since the crash. Then he got an offer through some blokes he’d worked with before, some big construction job in Norway, a tunnel or something. So he went to Norway to check it out and hopefully do a couple of weeks’ work. But what he didn’t tell anybody was that there’s a woman he’s been having it off with on the sly since Christmas, and she went with him.”
“Ah, the perils of middle age,” Steini said with a rueful nod. “Pleased to be past all that.”
“Get away with you. Anyway, he’s decided to stay there with his new woman, and the first Sigrún knew of it was when he texted her asking her to send his stuff to Norway.”
“That’s a considerate, sensitive way to behave. Have a good day, apart from that?”
“Not bad. Lots I can’t tell you. But it’s been non-stop excitement since I left the house this morning. You’d never believe how many really unpleasant, bad people there are out there, even in a quiet little place like Iceland.”
“Really?”
“Really. Keep your doors locked at night.”
Steini leaned forward and tipped the last of a bottle of white wine into a glass, then passed the glass to Gunna. She took a sip and wrinkled her nose at the slightly acidic aroma.
“Where did this come from?”
“Don’t ask.” He grinned.
“Oh, right. I’m starving. Are you hungry?”
Steini stroked the moustache that made him look a decade older than he really was.
“If there’s food on offer, I suppose I could be persuaded,” he said with a slow smile.
Gunna hauled herself to her feet and started to unbutton her blouse.
“Good. There should be some garlic bread in the freezer that you can microwave, some pasta salad left over from yesterday, and a few lamb chops in the fridge. If you put them under the grill now, they’ll be done by the time I’m out of the shower.”
“Jón, I didn’t expect to see you today,” Ágústa said with eyebrows arched in surprise.
“Sorry, Mum. Thought I’d told you last week that I’d be over this weekend,” Jón replied. Rain dripped from the brim of his cap and Ragna Gústa quickly let go of his hand and darted behind her grandmother to vanish into the house.
“You’d better come in, I suppose. Not for long, though. Didda Geirmunds is coming round later and we’re going out,” Ágústa pronounced without troubling to hide her annoyance at having her routine disturbed.
Jón sat himself down in the kitchen after force of habit had made him open the fridge to check the contents. Ágústa set a cup in front of him and nodded at the elegant steel flask on the table. Everything about his mother and the way she lived was elegant, Jón reflected. The house was spick and span, expensively furnished without a single piece of self-assembly flatpack furniture to be seen.
“So what brings you out here today?” Ágústa asked sharply. “I’m sure I’d told you. Ragna Gústa’s with me today and I thought you’d like to see her. Linda’s taking her somewhere next weekend, so it’s not as if you’ll see her again for a while.”
“It’s such a shame,” Ágústa said with pursed lips. “Divorce is so common, but I thought it was something that didn’t happen in our family.”
It bloody well has now, Jón wanted to yell at his mother. Instead he shrugged his shoulders.
“It’s happened and it’s not something I’m going to discuss,” he said. It’s all right for you, he thought. Buried two husbands and they both left you a packet.
“I just want to have a look in the cellar for some bits and pieces,” he added, leaving his half-full cup on the table and pushing back his chair.
“All right. But don’t be long. Didda will be here for me in half an hour.”
Jón felt happier in the cellar. It was cool and quiet, apart from the discreet humming of a deep freeze in the corner. The cellar had the same dimensions as the outside walls of the house, with a large main room that housed the heating system and racks of shelves full of biscuit tins and jars that Jón knew were empty. Ágústa had not made jam or baked a cake for years.
At the far side a door opened on to a smaller room, fitted out with a wooden bench and with tools hung on the walls, everything covered with a fine layer of dust. Jón looked under the bench for what he knew was there, and the sight of the familiar case gave him a warm feeling deep inside, recalling autumn days spent sitting wrapped in a thick coat watching the skies.
He admired the clean lines and dull shine of the shotguns. One was old, but as a practical man he could appreciate the beauty of a piece of precision craftsmanship made by hand and with love before the days of lathes and drills controlled by computers. He caressed the wooden stock, looking deep into the whorls and grain, wondering what kind of timber had produced such a pattern. The feel of the gun in his hands brought back uncomfortable memories, and he tried to shake them off as he picked up the other shotgun, with its dull metal and plain stock, that had been his own.