ICELAND
1978
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Soon the whales will swim into the harbour. People plan picnics and children anticipate playing in the streets until midnight. The late spring brings tourists to a hoary, thawing Reykjavík, who use the slow-paced capital town as a stopover point to reach the real gem – the landscape.
Elísabet stretches awake and reaches for Stefán but finds only creases in the sheets. A rich, coffee aroma rises from Margrét’s ground-floor apartment in the house. Elísabet takes two drops from her phial, grateful that the long sleep descends on her as predictably as the seasons; a gracious boon that makes her complicated life easier. But where is her partner?
Esja, the cold bulk of a mountain, stares at her from the kitchen window. There’s a note from Stefán, which she reads while heating up the porridge he left for her. Her mind is crowded already with what she must do before she leaves today. Her body aches for a long jog. Taking her coffee into the bedroom she sets to packing her suitcase. Stefán’s bag is ready, but he drives north today to view a farm for sale, and she flies south.
Elísabet picks up the photos Stefán left on the desk of four more Falk cousins. She memorizes their faces and feels herself tensing, winding up again, knowing these men have been identified as their enemies. She and Stefán still have the farm on the south-east coast near the pool, and this house in Reykjavík. To better boost security, their group have made homes in almost every area of the country now.
There’s still time for a run. She chooses the big, circular route around the older part of town that connects two seaside paths. It feels incredible to be moving again in the sparkling air. Her wool cap is almost too warm. A half mile into her jog, she decides to turn off the main path to the Fossvogskirkjugarður Cemetery. Running through the wild, less cultivated graveyard is like being in a wood – where trees and untamed plants shoot up between the graves. She jogs on the various paths at a slower pace, but fast enough to keep the oxygen rushing to her muscles.
The cemetery is practically deserted, so she is alerted when the plod of another jogger begins to gain on her. He passes and nods, then reverses and runs backward, trying to get a look at her face. And she, his. She can’t be certain that it isn’t familiar. He slows up and looks back at her again. She loosens her long scarf; it will serve as a weapon if necessary. Then he comes towards her.
‘Excuse me,’ he says, with a wide grin.
Elísabet breezes past him.
‘Wait!’ he calls out, running after her.
She’s certain she can outrun him, but she’s going in the wrong direction and she needs to turn back. She can’t miss her flight.
As she runs she flips through her mental files. Is he connected to the Falks? Is he one of the four in the photos? This is her main concern. Or is he another kind of criminal …
She suddenly swerves and turns back, running wide of him.
‘I just want to ask you a question,’ he calls after her.
She sprints out of the cemetery.
By the time she arrives home, she’s missed Stefán. She regrets her timing; it will be a long time before they meet again. After a shower and more food, Margrét knocks.
‘Are you ready?’
‘Yes, but there may be trouble.’
On the way to the airport Elísabet describes the man in the cemetery but Margrét hasn’t noticed anyone suspicious near their house.
‘It may be a coincidence.’
‘Perhaps. I think you should tell Stefán though, and tell him I’ll phone him soon.’
Margrét nods as she slows and stops.
‘I will. Take great care of yourself.’ Margrét squeezes Elísabet’s hand.
‘And you. Don’t worry about me, Margrét.’
Just as Elísabet nears the military checkpoint inside the airport, she spots the jogger from the cemetery. Toting a briefcase and a small canvas bag, he surveys the busy departure lounge. She slowly turns her back to him and eases up on her approach to the checkpoint, avoiding detection.
As she suspected, he’s boarding her flight. Elísabet considers changing her plans, but swings her way back to the check-in desk and upgrades to first class.
She lingers until the final call then places her woollen cap on, pulls it low and begins boarding. First class is almost empty and the seat adjacent to hers remains unoccupied. Her gamble is successful – he’s in standard class.
She takes a sleeping mask out of her bag and asks the flight attendant not to waken her. After she’s rearranged her cap and mask, her face is almost invisible. The long flight gives her time to plan her arrival. He’s not the first to follow her.
LONDON
1997
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
On the evening of the autumn equinox Owen Mockett faces a despicable task. When Rafe and Finn arrive, he leads them directly through the lab and into his flat.
‘Aren’t you going to take samples?’ Rafe asks him.
‘Not tonight.’
‘Christ, Owen. You look nervous. What is it?’ Finn asks.
‘You’d better sit down.’
Two sleek, leather sofas face each other in Owen’s living room. Chrome curves and quiet taupe tones soften and relax the room, but for one, flaming burst of red. Rafe’s painting, a gift to Owen, dominates the wall behind the sofa. Pin spotlights illuminate Rafe’s interpretation of his own blood samples, and how his blood appears under the power of Owen’s microscope. Rafe laboured for years painting over it, layering it, at times scraping it with his fingernails. Sometimes he applied paint using an eyedropper, drop by drop, the way his blood filled the sample phials. Anger and passion explode from the canvas.
‘You know how much I hate taking your samples, Rafe …’ Owen begins.
‘I know, but we’ve all agreed to pacify her,’ he says.
‘Okay, well …’ Owen looks warily at
