Ingileif nodded.

'Are they getting anywhere? Hasn't there been an arrest?'

'Yes. An Englishman. They think he was involved in some dodgy deal with Agnar. But I don't think they have much evidence to prove it.'

'Had you seen him recently?'

Ingileif nodded again. Then when she saw Tomas's raised eyebrows, she protested. 'No, not that. He's married, and he's sleazy. I have better taste than that.'

'I'm glad to hear it,' said Tomas. 'You're way out of his league.'

'That's so kind of you to say,' said Ingileif with mock politeness.

'So what were you talking to him about?'

For a second Ingileif considered telling Tomas all about the saga. It would all come out in the open soon anyway, and Tomas was such an old friend. But only for a second. 'Why do you want to know?'

'I'm curious. It's been all over the papers.'

'It's not for your show, is it?'

'Good God, no.' Tomas saw his denial wasn't strong enough. 'I promise. Look, I'm sorry if I have been too direct with my questions. It's become a habit.'

'It must have,' said Ingileif. Tomas had always had the ability to get people to confide in him. He seemed harmless and he seemed interested. But something told Ingileif to be careful. 'Just a social call,' she said. 'Like this.'

Tomas smiled. 'Look, I have to go. I'm having a party on Saturday, do you want to come?'

'Will it be as wild as your parties used to be?' Ingileif said.

'Wilder. Here, let me give you the address. I moved a few months ago.' And he took out a business card emblazoned with the logo of RUV, the state broadcaster, and wrote down his home address, somewhere on Thingholtsstraeti.

As he left the cafe, drawing one or two surreptitious stares after him from the customers, Ingileif couldn't help asking herself a simple question.

What the hell was all that about?

Vigdis accepted the cup of coffee and began to sip it. It was her fifth of the day. Interviewing people in Iceland always involved lots of drinking coffee.

The woman opposite her was in her late thirties, wearing jeans and a blue sweater. She had an intelligent face and a friendly smile. They were sitting in a handsome house in Vesturbaer, a smart area of Reykjavik just to the west of the city centre. The family Range Rover blocked the view to the quiet street outside.

'I'm sorry to take more of your time, Helena,' Vigdis began. 'I know you have answered plenty of questions from my colleagues. But I would like to go through everything that you can remember from the day of the murder, and the couple of days before. Any tiny little detail.'

It was Helena and her family who had been staying in one of the other summer houses on the shore of Lake Thingvellir and whose children had found Agnar's body. After speaking to Helena, Vigdis planned to visit her husband in the office of his insurance company on Borgartun.

'By all means. I'm not sure there is much else I can tell you.'

But Helena frowned as she finished the sentence. Vigdis noticed it.

'What is it?'

'Um ... It's nothing. It's not important.'

Vigdis smiled, coaxing. 'Don't worry about that,' she said. She showed Helena the pages of her notebook, covered with neat handwriting. 'This book is filled with unimportant stuff. But just a little of it will turn out to be very important.'

'My husband didn't think we should mention it.'

'Why not?' asked Vigdis.

Helena smiled. 'Oh, well, you decide. Our five-year-old daughter, Sara Ros, told us this story at breakfast yesterday. My husband is convinced it's a dream.'

'What was the story?' asked Vigdis.

'She says that she saw two men playing in the lake at night.'

'Lake Thingvellir?'

'Yes.'

'That sounds interesting.'

'The thing is Sara Ros makes up stories. Sometimes it's to get attention. Sometimes it's just for fun.'

'I see. Well, I think I should speak to her. With your permission, of course.'

'All right. As long as you bear in mind that she might have made the whole thing up. You'll have to wait until she gets back from kindergarten.'

'No,' said Vigdis. 'I think we had better talk to her now.'

The kindergarten that Helena's daughter attended was only a few hundred metres away. The principal grudgingly gave up her office to Vigdis and Helena and went to fetch the girl.

She was a typical Icelandic five-year-old. Bright blue eyes, pink cheeks and curly hair that was so blonde it was almost white.

Her face lit up when she saw her mother and she curled up next to her on the sofa in the principal's office.

'Hello,' said Vigdis. 'My name is Vigdis and I am a police officer.'

'You don't look like a policeman,' said Sara Ros.

'That's because I am a detective. I don't wear a uniform.'

'Do you come from Africa?'

'Sara Ros!' her mother interjected.

Vigdis smiled. 'No. I come from Keflavik.'

The little girl laughed. 'That's not in Africa. That's where the airport is when we go on holiday.'

'That's right,' said Vigdis. 'Now, your mummy said you saw something last week at your summer house by the lake. Can you tell me about it?'

'My daddy says that I am making it up. He doesn't believe me.'

'I believe you,' said Vigdis.

'How can you believe me when you haven't heard what I am going to say?'

Vigdis smiled. 'Good point. I tell you what. You tell me the story, and I'll tell you whether I believe you or not at the end.'

The girl glanced at her mother, who nodded. 'I woke up and it was the middle of the night. I wanted to go to the toilet. When I came back I looked out of my window and I saw two men playing in the lake just outside the professor's house. They were splashing about a bit. Then one of them got tired and fell asleep.'

'Were they both splashing?'

'Hm,' said the little girl, thinking hard. 'No they weren't. One of them was splashing and the other one was all floppy.'

'And did the man fall asleep in the water, or on the lake shore?'

'In the water.'

'I see. What did the other man do?'

'He got out of the lake and then he got in his car and he drove away.'

'Did you see what the man looked like?'

'Of course not, silly. It was dark! But I think he had his clothes on, not a swimming costume.'

'What about the car? Did you see the colour of the car?'

The girl giggled. 'I said it was dark. It was night time. You can't see colours in the dark.'

'Are you sure about this?'

'Yes, I am quite sure. And I know it's true because I saw the man asleep in the lake the next day when Jon and me went down there to play. Except then he was dead.' The little girl went quiet.

'Did you tell anyone about this?' Vigdis asked.

'No.'

'Why not?'

'Because nobody asked me.' She looked straight at Vigdis with her bright blue eyes. 'Well, I told you my story. Do you believe me?'

'Yes,' said Vigdis. 'Yes, I do.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO.

MAGNUS TOOK A last look around Room 208, trying to place himself in the shoes of Steve Jubb. Where would he hide something as small as a ring?

He couldn't think of anywhere. He had been over every inch of the room, and he was leaving quite a mess. He didn't care. Relations between the Reykjavik Metropolitan Police and the management of the Hotel Borg had taken a bit of a dive over the last couple of hours. The management had been upset at Magnus's insistence that the current occupant of the room, a German businessman, should be turfed out an hour before he was ready to check out. So had the businessman.

The cleaner, a young Polish woman, was more helpful. She was quite certain that she hadn't seen a ring, or anything that might contain a ring, as she had told the police a few days before. Unfortunately for Magnus, she seemed a reliable, observant girl.

The ring definitely wasn't there. arni's interpretation of Jubb's text message to Isildur was probably right Jubb hadn't taken it, but Jubb thought Agnar had it.

Next stop, the summer house on Lake Thingvellir. Again.

Magnus took the stairs down to the lobby. His thoughts drifted back to Colby. Was he serious about flying back to Boston?

At least he would be doing something. But finding Pedro Soto would be difficult. Killing him even more difficult. Magnus would be much more likely to give Soto the opportunity to finish him off. That would solve Soto's problems, take the pressure off the Lenahan trial, keep his narcotics import and distribution businesses going.

What about finding Colby and protecting her? That, too, might be difficult. Colby had sounded determined to disappear. She was a capable woman: when she was determined to do something she usually did it. She would be hard for Magnus to find. And for the Dominicans. But if Magnus charged around looking for her, he ran the risk of leading the Dominicans right to her.

Like it or not, Magnus's best shot at hurting Soto and protecting Colby was to lie low, stay in Iceland, and testify at Lenahan's trial.

He handed the key card to the receptionist. As he was leaving the hotel, he passed a small man with a scruffy beard coming in, wheeling a suitcase behind him. The man was wearing a green baseball cap proclaiming 'Frodo Lives'.

Magnus held the door open.

'Oh, er, thank you very much, sir,' the man said, nervously. The language was English, the accent American.

'No problem,' said Magnus.

The Hotel Borg shared a square with the Parliament building, the site of the weekly Saturday afternoon demonstrations over the winter. As Magnus walked across it towards the police-department silver Skoda that he had signed out that morning, he wondered about the cap. Strange, he had never thought about Lord of the Rings memorabilia before. Was he going to be stopped short by every Gollum or Gandalf T-shirt he came across? Were there really that many of them?

No. There weren't.

He turned on his heel and returned to the lobby in time to see the elevator door closing behind the wheeled suitcase.

'What was the name of the guest who just checked in?' he asked the receptionist.

'Mr Feldman,' she said. Then, glancing at her computer screen. 'Lawrence Feldman.'

'Which room?'

'Three-ten.'

'Thank you.'

Magnus gave Feldman a minute to get himself into his room and then took the elevator up to the third floor. He knocked on the door of Room 310.

The man answered.