Meltwater (Fire and Ice)

favourite saga. Who with?’
    ‘Jóhannes Benediktsson.’
    ‘Not Benedikt Jóhannesson’s son?’
    ‘The very same. He called me out of the blue this morning. He wants to share information about his father’s death.’
    ‘Fascinating. Ollie won’t like that, though, will he?’
    ‘No, he won’t.’ Magnus sipped his coffee and eyed the pastries under the counter. ‘Have you heard anything about your flight tomorrow?’
    ‘Nothing,’ Ingileif said. ‘Why should I?’
    ‘Loads of flights to Europe have been cancelled. The ash from the volcano.’
    ‘Really? Then I would have to stay here a few days longer. That would be a shame.’
    ‘Actually, I think it would be rather nice,’ Magnus said.
    Ingileif smiled. ‘So do I.’
    ‘You know, I wish you’d given me some warning you were coming to Iceland,’ Magnus said.
    ‘It was all over my Facebook page,’ Ingileif said. ‘Didn’t you see?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Why not, Magnús? I set you up your own page.’
    ‘I just didn’t get around to it.’ Magnus had successfully avoided Facebook in America, but Ingileif’s life revolved around it, so she had set a page up for him when she
left for Hamburg. He had looked at her page a couple of times, but it just made him depressed. It was visual proof that she was having a frantic, fun-filled life without him.
    ‘You know, I checked your page last week,’ Ingileif said.
    ‘Why did you do that?’
    ‘Do you know you only have one friend? And that’s me.’
    ‘That’s in Facebook world,’ said Magnus. ‘Not the real world.’
    ‘Oh, yes, and how many friends do you have in the real world?’
    Magnus winced but didn’t answer. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He ignored it.
    ‘Ninety-five per cent of Icelanders between twenty and thirty are on Facebook, Magnús. You have to use it. Otherwise you’ll never meet anyone.’
    Magnus glanced at Ingileif sharply. ‘What do you mean, meet anyone?’
    Ingileif’s cheeks reddened slightly. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Friends.’
    ‘You mean women?’
    ‘Well. Do you see any women?’
    ‘Do you see any men?’ Magnus asked. ‘In Hamburg?’
    ‘What I do in Hamburg is my own business, Magnús, just as what you do here is yours.’
    ‘Precisely,’ said Magnus. As usual, the status of his relationship with Ingileif was confusing him, but this time he felt more uncomfortable than usual. Wait. Wasn’t
‘Status’ something Facebook sorted out? They would probably need room for a paragraph for that section in Iceland, he thought. ‘Look, I’ve got to go.’
    Ingileif reached over and gripped his hand. ‘Hey. Sorry. I can cancel my dinner this evening if you like. We could go out somewhere nice. No more vampires and trolls.’
    Magnus grinned. ‘That’s a very nice idea. I would like that.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
    I T WAS ONLY a few minutes from Mokka to the Culture House, and so Magnus walked, leaving his car by the café. He
checked his phone: one missed call from a number he didn’t recognize.
    He called it back.
    ‘Hello?’ a female voice answered.
    ‘This is Magnús. Who is this?’
    ‘Oh, it’s Ásta.’
    ‘You called me?’
    ‘Um, it’s nothing,’ Ásta said uncertainly.
    Magnus stopped on the pavement. ‘Are you in the house?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Ásta.
    ‘Well, if you can’t speak now I can call you back in a few minutes. Give you a chance to go back outside where no one can hear you.’
    ‘No, it was nothing, really.’
    ‘Are you sure?’
    ‘Yes, yes, I’m quite sure.’
    ‘OK, but if you do want to talk to me call me right back. I’ll pick up this time.’
    ‘All right.’ Ásta hung up.
    Magnus frowned. Next time he saw Ásta he would be sure to take her to one side. He was certain there was something she had wanted to tell him. It might turn out to be ‘nothing
really’, or it might not.
    The Culture House was a grand building at the western end of Hverfisgata near the town centre. It had formerly served as the National Library, but now displayed a selection of the best of the
saga manuscripts. The bulk of the collection was housed in the Árni Magnússon Institute at the university.
    The café was a small room reached through the gift shop. It was three-quarters full and there were two men sitting alone: one was a young guy with a beard, obviously an American tourist,
flipping through a guidebook. The other was a big man with a shock of white hair, wearing a tweed jacket, and scanning the room