Marion’s eyes opened when Erlendur had been standing at the foot of the bed for several minutes. One hand lay on the duvet and lifted up excruciatingly slowly. After a moment’s hesitation Erlendur moved closer, took hold of the hand and sat down by the bedside.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

Marion’s eyes closed and that big head shook as if it did not matter any more. The moment of departure was approaching. There was not much time left. Erlendur noticed a small handheld mirror on the table by Marion’s bedside and wondered what it was doing there. He had never known Marion to care for appearances.

“The case?” Marion said. “What’s happening in the case?”

Erlendur knew precisely what was expected of him. Even at death’s door, Marion was absorbed in the latest investigation. From the weary eyes that rested on him, Erlendur read the question that he had been asking himself, sleeping and waking: who could do such a thing? How could something like this happen?

Erlendur began to report the progress of the investigation. Marion listened with eyes closed again. Erlendur did not know whether his old boss was asleep. He had slight pangs of conscience about not necessarily visiting Marion for purely compassionate reasons. He longed to ask the dying patient about something he knew he would never find in the police records. Erlendur took his time. It helped him, too, to go through the case slowly. Once during the account, Marion’s eyes opened and Erlendur thought he should stop, only to be given a sign to continue.

“There’s one point I need to ask you about,” Erlendur said when he had finally completed his story about the visit to Andres. Marion seemed to be sleeping, with eyes closed and breathing barely perceptible. The hand that Erlendur held was limp. But it was as if Marion realised that Erlendur was not merely making a courtesy call. Those tired eyes opened a fraction and the grip on Erlendur’s hand tightened, as a signal to goon.

“It’s about Andres,” Erlendur said.

Marion squeezed his hand.

“He told us about a man he knew and implied that he was a paedophile, but would not reveal his identity. He did something to Andres when he was a child. All we know is that this man lives in the neighbourhood where the murder was committed. We have no name and no description. I don’t think he’s on our register. Andres told us he was too clever for that. I was wondering if you could help us. The investigation is all over the place at the moment and we have to examine anything we find suspicious. I don’t have to tell you that. You know it. We’re in a hurry as usual. But more than ever this time. I thought you might be able to help us with a shortcut.”

A long silence followed Erlendur’s words. He thought that Marion had dozed off. The hand he was holding had gone slack and peace had descended over his former boss’s face.

“Andres … ?” Marion said at last. It was more like a groan or a sigh.

“I checked,” Erlendur said. “He was born and bred in the capital. If anything happened it was most likely here in Reykjavik. We don’t know. Andres is silent as the grave.”

Marion said nothing. Erlendur thought the situation was hopeless. He had not really expected anything, but felt it was worth a try. He knew Marion Briem’s capacities, that memory and the talent for making the most unlikely connections in an instant. Perhaps he was taking advantage of his ex-boss. Perhaps this was going too far. He decided to forget it. Marion should be allowed to die in peace.

“He had . . .” Marion strained to say, and the grip on Erlendur’s hand tightened.

“What? What did he have?”

Erlendur thought he could discern a hint of a smile playing across Marion’s face. At first he thought he was imagining this, but became convinced that Marion was actually smiling.

“… stepfather,” Marion gasped.

Silence again.

“Erlendur,” Marion said after a long while. The patient’s eyes remained closed but a grimace slowly appeared.

“Yes,” Erlendur said.

“There’s … no … time …” Marion whispered.

“I know,” Erlendur said. “I …”

He was lost for words. He did not know how to say goodbye, could not find a way to express a last farewell. What was there to say? Marion was still holding his hand. Erlendur struggled for words, for something he thought Marion would want to hear. When he found nothing he sat in silence holding that old hand with its yellow nicotine stains and long nails.

“Read to … me,” Marion said.

Marion’s final ounce of strength went into those words. Erlendur leaned forward to hear better.

“Read …”

Marion groped helplessly for the mirror on the bedside table.

Erlendur picked up the mirror and put it into Marion’s hands to prop up and confront the face of death.

Erlendur took out a book he had brought with him. It was dog-eared and tattered. He opened it at a page he had often consulted and began to read.

For centuries a mountain path lay from Eskifjordur to Fljotsdalsherad across Eskifjordur moor. It was an old horse-track skirting north of the Eskifordur River, inland along the ridge Langihryggur, up the river Innri-Steinsa through Vinardalur valley and over Vinarbrekkur slopes to Midheidarendi, and from there up to the Urdarflot plateau and along the cliffs of Urdarklettur to the boundary of the Eskifjordur district. Thverardalur valley bisects the mountains Andri and Hardskafi to the north, and Holafjall and Selheidi even further north.

Bakkasel was once a tenant croft near the head of the Eskifjordur valley, on the old mountain path to Fljotsdalsherad. It is now abandoned, but in the middle of the century Sveinn Erlendsson farmed there with his wife Aslaug Bergsdottir and their two sons, of eight and ten years old. Sveinn kept a few sheep . . .

Erlendur stopped reading.

“Marion?” he whispered.

A deep silence spread over the ward. The early darkness of winter had descended upon the city, which was transforming into a glittering sea of lights. Erlendur saw his own reflection in the window overlooking the hospital garden. The large pane of glass was like a muted painting, a still-life portraying them at the final moment. He stared into the window until he confronted his own face, and the image became like the closing lines of a poem that crept into his mind.

. . . Am I the one, who lives on, or the other, who died?

Erlendur returned to his senses when the little mirror fell to the floor and broke. He clasped the limp hand and checked the pulse. Marion had departed from this world.

15

Erlendur drove the Ford Falcon into a parking space in front of the block of flats where he lived. He left the engine running for a while before switching it off. Although old, the car ran like clockwork and purred cosily in low gear. Erlendur was very fond of his Ford and sometimes, when he had nothing else to do, he would go for a drive outside the city. He had never done that before. Once he had invited Marion out for a drive, to Lake Kleifarvatn. Erlendur drove Marion down to the lakeside and told him about the conclusion to a case he had been investigating. A skeleton had been discovered on the bed of the lake and was linked to a group of Icelanders who had studied in the former East Germany in the 1960s. Marion took a particular interest in that. Erlendur wanted to do something for Marion in his ex-boss’s illness. He knew that when the moment of death drew near, there was no one else that the cancer victim could depend upon.

Pulling a face at the recollection, he stroked the thin, ivory-coloured steering wheel. He would never see Marion again. All that remained were memories, fairly mixed ones at that. He thought about his own time on this earth, how brief it was before new generations took over, to be swept even further into the future. His time had gone by without his noticing it, lacking as he did all contact with anything but work. Before he knew it he would be lying in a ward like Marion Briem, staring death in the face.