“Does your mother want something from me?” Erlendur asked in surprise. After 20 years she still hated him. He’d caught just one glimpse of her in all that time and there had been no mistaking the loathing on her face. She’d spoken to him once about Sindri Snaer, but that was a conversation he preferred to forget.

“She’s such a snobby bitch.”

“Don’t talk about your mother like that.”

“It’s about some filthy rich friends of hers from Gardabaer. Married their daughter off at the weekend and she just did a runner from the wedding. Really embarrassing. That was on Saturday and she hasn’t been in touch since. Mum was at the wedding and she’s knocked out by the scandal of it. I’m supposed to ask if you’ll talk to the parents. They don’t want to put an announcement in the papers, bloody snobs, but they know you’re in the CID and reckon they can do it all really hush-hush. I’m the one who’s supposed to ask you to talk to that crowd. Not Mum. You get it? Never!”

“Do you know these people?”

“Well, I wasn’t invited to the wedding party the little bimbo fucked up.”

“Did you know the girl then?”

“Hardly.”

“And where could she have run off to?”

“How should I know?”

Erlendur shrugged.

“I was thinking about you just a minute ago,” he said.

“Nice,” Eva Lind said. “I just happened to be wondering if…”

“I haven’t got any money,” Erlendur said, sitting down in his armchair to face her. “Are you hungry?”

Eva Lind arched her back.

“Why can’t I ever talk to you without you going on about money?” she said and Erlendur felt as though she’d stolen his line.

“And why can’t I ever talk to you, period?”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“What are you speaking like that for? What’s wrong? ’Fuck you!’ ’How’s it hanging?’ What kind of language is that?”