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She chatted to her children about school and nursery and Magnus talked basketball with Pétur. Throughout all this, her husband ate silently at one end of the table, the question mark etched permanently into his brow. Eyrún and the kids ignored him, although Magnus was very aware of his presence.
    Eventually, Eyrún let the children leave the table and poured Magnus and herself another glass of wine. Her husband wasn’t drinking.
    ‘Nice kids,’ said Magnus to Davíd.
    Davíd grunted in response.
    ‘Thank you,’ said Eyrún. ‘They seem to have adjusted pretty well to life in Bolungarvík.’
    ‘And you?’ Magnus asked.
    Eyrún glanced at her husband, who didn’t respond. ‘It’s been harder than we expected. Summer was great: there are some gorgeous places around here, and we are well out of the rat race. But the winter is difficult. And the wind blows in from the Atlantic, it never stops. You think the weather in Reykjavík is bad, you should try Bolungarvík. What about you? Tómas called you the “Yankee detective”. Do I detect an American accent?’
    Magnus knew that he had established a bit of a reputation for himself in his eight months attached to the Icelandic police force, but he hadn’t realised it had reached as far as Bolungarvík.
    ‘I hope not,’ said Magnus. ‘I’m working on losing it. Yeah, I was born in Reykjavík, but I’ve lived in Boston for a while. And I do find it difficult to adjust to Iceland. On the one hand I feel that I am finally back in my home country, on the other I feel like a foreigner. Everyone seems to know each other, they all have their in-jokes. Maybe I am more of an American than I realised.’
    ‘Why did you go to America in the first place? Followed your parents?’
    ‘My father. He was a university lecturer in mathematics and he got offered a job in Boston. At first, I stayed here with my mother and grandparents. When she died, my brother and I went over to join my dad in America.’
    Magnus found himself talking about the difficulties of being an Icelandic adolescent in an American high school, how speaking Icelandic with his father and reading the sagas were the only link to his home country. Then he told Eyrún about his father’s murder in a small town on Boston’s south shore and his determined but unsuccessful efforts to solve the crime when the police couldn’t. How he had joined the Boston Police Department as a result, rather than going to law school.
    Eyrún was a good listener. She refilled the wine glasses, emptying the bottle. Although Magnus glanced at her husband at first, who was listening impassively, he soon forgot he was there. Magnus was relaxing in the company of an elegant, beautiful woman in this little piece of über cool Reykjavík.
    ‘Will you please stop flirting with my wife?’
    Magnus turned, shocked by the interruption, to see Davíd staring at him. His brow was twisted, his eyes shining.
    ‘Davíd!’ Eyrún exclaimed.
    Magnus felt a flash of anger, but he controlled it. This guy was clearly not stable. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said simply. ‘I didn’t mean to flirt. We were having a nice conversation, that’s all.’
    ‘I can see the way you are looking at her. I’m no fool. And Eyrún, why are you encouraging him?’
    ‘I’m not encouraging him!’ Eyrún snapped. Then, with a visible effort, she softened her voice. ‘Look, darling, Magnus is our guest. We should make him feel at home.’
    ‘I know how you want to make him feel at home.’
    Eyrún reddened, but held her tongue.
    Magnus pulled himself to his feet. He wanted to slug the guy. He wanted to slug him real bad.
    A humourless smile had crept across Davíd’s face. Magnus turned to Eyrún.
    ‘Don’t Magnús,’ she said.
    ‘Why don’t you?’ said Davíd. ‘Go into a man’s home. Drink his wine. Flirt with his wife. And then attack him.’
    A little voice of reason whispered to Magnus that beating up the Mayor’s spouse was not a good career move, no