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year ago a heavily pregnant Drífa had appeared on Gunna’s doorstep, deep black hair in disarray, mascara in streaks down her face and looking for a sympathetic shoulder to cry on. Since then the mascara made only rare appearances and the black hair dye had grown out as Drífa’s priorities had been forced to change dramatically.
    ‘Just as well,’ Gunna muttered to herself.
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘You said something?’
    ‘It’s all right. Just thinking to myself.’
    Drífa lapsed back into silence as the percolator hissed to a standstill. Gunna poured her first mug of coffee of the day and pulled back the curtains to let in the first thin hint of pre-sunrise daylight.
     
    He had finished his collections and was unloading when Alex returned from his pick-ups. Orri drove carefully, cautious not to let the forklift slide on the rain-wet concrete as he lifted the pallet that had weighed down his van on the way back. The forklift whined and complained but did as it was asked, under protest, unwillingly depositing its load on the warehouse floor. Orri hoped that it would lift it onto the truck later when it came to be collected.
    Alex stood in the doorway and lit a cigarette, watching as Orri moved the forklift across the floor to the charging bay on the far side and plugged it in.
    ‘You have anything for me?’ he asked with a dramatic look around him as Orri stood outside and took a breath of cold air.
    ‘A few bits. Not a lot.’
    ‘What sort of gear?’
    ‘A couple of electric drills, good brands, no rubbish. An iPad. A couple of phones. A couple of good watches. A bit of metal.’
    Alex wrinkled his nose. ‘Not much,’ he said dismissively. ‘You not working too hard, are you?’
    ‘Just being careful. That’s all.’
    ‘Bruno won’t be happy.’
    ‘Bruno can kiss my arse,’ Orri replied. ‘If I get caught, you guys aren’t the ones who’ll be doing time for it.’
    Alex looked shocked for a moment, and then smiled. ‘Maybe Bruno don’t buy from you if you don’t have the goods.’
    Orri shrugged elaborately to demonstrate his lack of interest. ‘Plenty of people willing to buy good stuff,’ he said with a wink just as theatrical as the shrug. ‘There are other buyers than just Bruno out there. You know, sometimes I wonder if this Bruno guy really exists.’
    Alex’s eyes widened in unconcealed curiosity and he ground out his cigarette beneath the toe of his boot. ‘You believe so? Not so many now, I think.’ He made a play of elaborately extracting another cigarette from its packet and looked into the grey distance as he lit it. ‘I have a few contacts as well,’ he said quietly. ‘Just so you know.’
    ‘You’re telling me that you’re in competition with Bruno? That might be a dangerous game.’
    This time Alex shrugged and Orri sensed the bravado. ‘Bruno is not so much here now. He’s busy back home. Some of his friends there come to me and ask if I can send to them. Tools, electronics,’ he said. ‘Metal.’
    Orri could see the gleam in his eye and understood that Alex desperately wanted to be a kingpin himself, not just the messenger boy who ran the risks.
    ‘Yeah, right,’ Orri said. ‘What happened to Juris? I think it’s a risky game you’re getting into, Alex.’
    Alex snapped his fingers and winked again. ‘Juris was careless. I have friends. Juris didn’t have friends like mine.’
     
    Vilhelm Thorleifsson’s wife was remarkably composed for a brand-new widow, Gunna thought, and her mind was inexorably dragged back to Raggi’s sudden loss. It was a long time ago, she told herself ruthlessly, but someone else’s loss always reminded her of that devastating shock and the terrible aimless year of depression that followed it. The fact that it was a long time ago made no difference on the occasions when the thought caught her unawares and the misery came flooding back.
    ‘Gunnhildur Gísladóttir, I’m with the CID team investigating your husband’s