like me, that didn't seem absolutely right. 'Thank you for all your help,' I said to the hamster, as I left. He didn't even look up. Across in the park, Eric the Unsteady was looking somewhat wrecked after a day's pillaging, and ready for the next longboat home. I knew how he felt.
The Kaffivagninn used to be exactly what it sounds like - a coffee wagon for the fishermen and harbour workers. Now it's grown up into a charming one-room restaurant perched on the edge of the harbour wall. At first sight you could almost take it for one of those London fish restaurants where they've laid the atmosphere on a shade too thick. Only here the nets outside are still damp from the sea, the fish is practically wriggling when it hits your plate, and no one has ever questioned the authenticity of the scented air. To you it might be the stench offish: the Icelanders call it the smell of money- and they know what they're talking about. The Kaffivagninn is the real thing all right, and so's their fish. I'd planned on digging out Ivan and Christopher Bell. But my head hurt from the pan blow, and I wanted to think about the implications of the revelation at the Hagstofa, so I walked down to the harbour. I had lobster tails fried on a spit, and I sat and looked out of the window. The harbour was packed:every thing from little plump plastic tubs to creaking old wooden boats and the big steel jobs, their plates stained with work. Beyond the forest of masts, you could see clear across Faxafloi Bay to Snaefellsjokull. In the pure northern light, you felt as though you could reach out and touch the cold snows on the side of the mountains. Quite honestly, the lobster wasn't much more than perfect, and I was all set to sit there for a month or two, watching the light and the water making eyes at each other, when the chair opposite squeaked as a wide figure lowered itself upon it. 'The fish is good here,' said Petursson. 'Definitely got the edge on the guillemot.' 'I thought you would be dining with your Russian friend.' 'He's busy taking photographs of all your armed forces.' 'That will not take him long.' He smiled. Iceland doesn't have any forces, armed or otherwise. 'You have had a busy day?' I wondered how much he'd know about my day. In a place that size, probably everything. Even so, I thought I'd let him tell me. 'So so.' All he had to do was to raise one big hand to have a girl running out with coffees. I took a good look at him as he sat there. Tonight he was wearing a plain oatmeal-coloured raincoat and an old-fashioned wide-brimmed hat which he placed carefully on his knee, rather than on the table. It surprised me he didn't put all his clothes on hangers before he risked sitting down. 'We were talking about you today.' 'I'm flattered.' 'We are still puzzled, Mr Craven. We still do not quite know where to place you ... no, no, please do not protest. I know that you are a journalist. The question is: are you something else as well?' 'I thought you did pretty well to turn up all that stuff on me last night.' He shrugged. 'As I told you, I worked in London. I thought perhaps I would find that you are attached to one of the more informal security sections. Apparently not.' Brightly, I grinned up at him. 'So there we are then.' 'So there we are. We shall hope so.' He raised his cup with difficulty in his big hand. 'You went back to the flat. I would be grateful if you would tell me about it.' I was ready for the question, but not for the careful courtesy with which he put it. I had the feeling he was giving me a chance to be straight with him. I had another feeling: if I didn’t take it, I'd regret it.