The Girl Who Died, Ragnar Jonasson [small books to read .TXT] 📗

their hands in their pockets for warmth. ‘How about heading up the hill, to the ruins of the Second World War air station?’ he suggested.

‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I’m slowly finding my feet, thanks. I had coffee with the old couple earlier – with Gudrún and, er, Gunnar, I mean.’

‘Lucky you.’ There was no mistaking the sarcasm in his voice. ‘I tend to steer clear of them, but they make an amusing double act. Gunni and Gunna, we call them. They’re rolling in it after all these years of sharing the proceeds from Guffi’s fishing business, but they’ll never leave. They wouldn’t live anywhere else. Gunni hardly gets a word in edgeways when they’re together. His wife definitely wears the trousers in that relationship.’ After a pause, he added: ‘Though, to be fair, she does let him bore on about …’

Una finished the sentence for him: ‘Don’t tell me – the history of Skálar?’

Thór laughed. ‘Exactly! You obviously got the full treatment.’

‘You could say that.’

‘Did he tell you about the mine?’

‘What? No, he didn’t mention anything about mines.’

‘One exploded by the seafront here during the war – I’m pretty sure it was in 1942. I’ve heard the stories about it and read up on the background a bit too. Gunni and Gunna’s house was hit by the impact, all the windows blew in and I don’t know what else. It was no joke, I can tell you.’

‘Was anyone hurt?’

‘No, thank God, there were no injuries, but several families moved away that same year, probably as a result. They must have thought things were getting too hot around here.’

They trudged on up the barren slope, ignoring the biting cold, with no sound but the wind in the grass. To their left was the vast, flat expanse of the sea, reaching away to the distant headlands, which were largely obscured by cloud.

‘I met Guffi too …’ Una said. ‘He invited me round …’ She didn’t know how to put into words what had happened; the momentary suffocating fear of that encounter in Guffi’s windowless, subterranean office. Thór was a complete stranger, in spite of the instinctive trust he inspired in her; the powerful sense that there was a thread, some affinity, between them. And perhaps an element of attraction too.

‘Don’t you like Guffi?’ he asked.

‘He was a bit offputting. Unfriendly, you know.’ She decided not to say any more for the moment.

Thór laughed again. He had a captivating laugh; it had a warm, kindly ring to it. ‘Is it a condition with you that everyone has to be full-on friendly the first time you meet them?’ he asked, though it was clear he wasn’t being serious.

‘No. No, of course not, but …’

‘Don’t worry, I understand. The old boy can be a bit gruff, but his heart’s in the right place. He didn’t exactly welcome me with open arms either at first.’

Una couldn’t tell if Thór really meant it or if he was just saying it to make her feel better. If so, it was kindly done. She changed the subject: ‘Are you going to stay on here? I mean, have you moved here for good?’

There was a weighty pause before he answered. ‘I’ve often asked myself the same question.’

He lapsed into silence again. They had reached the ruins now and he stopped. Una looked around, aware of an odd combination of claustrophobia and homesickness. She wondered what on earth she was doing here, so far away from everything and everyone familiar, and whether she would really be able to endure a whole winter in this place. All she could think of was that she might manage it if she was allowed to spend a little time with Thór now and then.

‘I don’t know,’ he said at last, by which time she had almost forgotten her question. ‘No, I’d rather not, Una, to tell the truth. It’s a beautiful spot, and peaceful too. Peaceful and safe. But there’s not a lot going on. Though, having said that, I don’t have a bad life here. I read a lot. I never used to, but now I borrow loads of books from the library; all kinds of books, but non-fiction, mostly.’

‘The library?’

‘Yes, of course we haven’t got one here in Skálar, but we can get books from Thórshöfn. Hjördís picks them up for me whenever she goes in.’

‘You and Hjördís, how – er – how did you meet?’

Again there was a perceptible delay before he answered. ‘I just saw the job advertised here and applied for it out of some kind of desire for adventure. I didn’t know her at all.’ He hesitated, then said: ‘I expect there are stories doing the rounds about Hjördís and me, but I can assure you I only work for her.’

And with that he saved Una the problem of asking the question. Once again, their eyes met, then they hurriedly looked away.

As if to cover his embarrassment, he said: ‘Anyway, here we are. Let me show you round the ruins. I need some excuse to offload all the information I’ve absorbed from those library books about Langanes.’

She’d been sleeping badly, and when she did finally drop off she tended to start awake again shortly afterwards, drenched in sweat.

Hannes had been missing without trace for a month and, immediately after his disappearance, his mate Hilmar had vanished too.

She was so frightened. She couldn’t shake off the conviction that they were both dead; that they’d been murdered.

Of course she’d known that Hannes was mixing in bad company, and guessed that Hilmar was too, since they were both associated with the same crowd. But because she was – had been – in love with Hannes, she had tried not to ask too many questions.

The police had spoken to her and questioned her exhaustively. She’d told them she had gone round to Hannes’s house the day he disappeared, and knocked on the door and peered through the window when he didn’t answer, but hadn’t seen anything. She got the feeling they didn’t believe her.

She