“How are you feeling?”

“I’m dreadfully tired,” Marion said. “Always dozing off. Maybe it’s the oxygen.”

“Probably too healthy for you,” Erlendur said.

“Why do you keep hanging around here?” Marion said weakly.

“I don’t know,” Erlendur said. “How was the western?”

“You ought to watch it,” Marion said. “It’s a tale of obstinacy. How’s it going with Kleifarvatn?”

“It’s going,” Erlendur said.

“And the driver of the Falcon? Have you located him?”

Erlendur shook his head but said he had found the car. The current owner was a widow who did not know much about Ford Falcons and wanted to sell it. He told Marion how the man, Leopold, had been a mysterious figure. Not even his girlfriend knew much about him. There was no photograph of him and he was not in the official records. It was as if he had never existed, as if he had been a figment of the imagination of the woman who worked in the dairy shop.

“Why are you looking for him?” Marion asked.

“I don’t know,” Erlendur said. “I’ve been asked that quite a lot. I have no idea. Because of a woman who once worked in a dairy shop. Because a hubcap was missing from the car. Because a new car was left outside the coach station. There’s something in all this that doesn’t fit.”

Marion sank back deeper into the armchair, eyes closed now.

“We have the same name,” Marion said in an almost inaudible voice.

“What?” Erlendur said, leaning forwards. “What was that you said?”

“Me and John Wayne,” Marion said. “The same name.”

“What are you raving about?” Erlendur said.

“Don’t you find it strange?”

Erlendur was about to reply when he saw that Marion had fallen asleep. He picked up the video case and read the title: The Searchers. A tale of obstinacy, he thought to himself. He looked at Marion, then back at the cover, which showed John Wayne on horseback, brandishing a rifle. He looked over at the television in an alcove in the sitting room, put the cassette in the player, switched on the TV, sat back in the sofa and watched The Searchers while Marion slept a gentle sleep.

Sigurdur Oli was on his way out of his office when the telephone rang. He hesitated. He would have liked to slam the door behind him, but instead he sighed and answered the call.

“Am I disturbing you?” the man on the phone said.

“You are actually,” Sigurdur Oli said. “I’m on my way home. So…”

“Sorry,” the man said.

“Stop apologising for everything — and stop phoning me, too. I can’t do anything for you.”

“I don’t have many people I can talk to,” the man said.

“And I’m not one of them. I’m just someone who turned up at the scene of the accident. That’s all. I’m not an agony aunt. Talk to the vicar.”

“Don’t you think it’s my fault?” the man asked. “If I hadn’t called…”

They had already gone back and forth through this conversation innumerable times. Neither believed in an inscrutable god who demanded sacrifices such as the man’s wife and daughter. Neither was a fatalist. They did not believe that all things were predetermined and impossible to influence. Both believed in simple coincidences. Both were realists and accepted the fact that had the man not phoned his wife and delayed her, she would not have been at the crossing at the moment that the drunken driver in the Range Rover went through the red light. However, Sigurdur Oli did not blame the man for what happened, and thought his reasoning was absurd.

“The accident was not your fault,” Sigurdur Oli said. “You know that, so stop tormenting yourself about it. You’re not the one on the way to prison for manslaughter, it’s the prat in the Range Rover.”

“That doesn’t make any difference,” the man sighed.

“What does the psychiatrist say?”

“All she talks about is pills and side effects. If I take these drugs I’ll get fat again. If I take those I’ll lose my appetite. If I take others I’ll vomit all the time.”

“Consider this scenario,” Sigurdur Oli said. “A group of people have gone camping every year for twenty-five years. One member of the group originally suggested it. Then one year there’s a fatal accident. One of the group is killed. Is the person who had the idea in the first place to blame? Of course that’s rubbish! How far can you take speculations? Coincidences are coincidences. No one can control them.”

The man did not reply.

“Do you understand what I mean?” Sigurdur Oli said.

“I know what you mean but it doesn’t help me.”

“Yes, well, I must be on my way,” Sigurdur Oli said.

“Thank you,” the man said, and rang off.

Erlendur was sitting in his chair at home, reading. He was lit up by lantern with a party of travellers beneath the slopes of Oshlid at the beginning of the twentieth century. There were seven in the party, travelling past Steinofaera gully on their way from Isafjordur. On one side was the sheer mountainside, bulging with snow, and on the other the icy sea. They were walking in a tight group to benefit from the single lantern they had with them. Some of them had been to see a play in Isafjordur that evening, Sheriff Leonard. It was mid-winter and as they crossed Steinofaera, someone mentioned that there was a crack in the snow pack above them, as if a rock had rolled down. They talked about how it might be a sign that the snow farther up the mountainside was moving. They stopped, and at that very instant an avalanche crashed down, sweeping them out to sea. One person survived, badly crippled. All that was found of the others was a package that one of them had been carrying, and the lantern that had lit their way.

The telephone rang and Erlendur looked up from his book. He thought about letting it ring. But it might be Valgerdur, even Eva Lind, though he hardly expected that.

“Were you asleep?” Sigurdur Oli said when he eventually answered.

“What do you want?” Erlendur asked.

“Are you going to bring that woman with you to my barbecue tomorrow? Bergthora wants to know. She needs to know how many guests to expect.”

“What woman are you talking about?” Erlendur said.

“The one you met at Christmas,” Sigurdur Oli said. “Aren’t you still seeing each other?”

“What business of yours is that?” Erlendur said. “And what barbecue are you talking about? When did I say I wanted to come to your barbecue?”

There was a knock on the door. Sigurdur Oli had entered into a rigmarole about how Erlendur had said he would go to the barbecue that he and Bergthora were giving, and how Elinborg was going to do the cooking, when Erlendur hung up on him and answered the door. Valgerdur gave a quick smile when he opened it and asked if she could come in. After a moment’s hesitation he said that of course she could, and she walked into the living room and sat down on his battered sofa. He said he would make coffee, but she told him not to bother.

“I’ve left him,” she said.

He sat down on a chair facing her and remembered the telephone call from her husband telling him to leave her alone. She looked at him and saw the concern on his face.

“I should have left long ago,” she said. “You were right. I should have settled all this way back.”

“Why now?” he asked.

“He told me that he called you,” Valgerdur said. “I don’t want you getting dragged into our business. I don’t want him phoning you. This is between me and him. It’s not about you.”

Erlendur smiled. Remembering the green Chartreuse in the cupboard, he stood and fetched the bottle and two glasses. He filled them and handed her one.

“I don’t mean like that, but you know what I mean,” she said, and they sipped their liqueurs. “All we have done is talk together. Which is more than he can claim.”

“But you didn’t want to leave him until now,” Erlendur said.