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been disbanded. Helgi did not once show up, he always oversleeps. Others owe less. Little of the amount due has been paid…

H refna had just started dressing when Erlendur rang the outside bell. She answered the intercom and told him she’d be down in a moment, knowing that he would get back into the car and wait patiently. Erlendur did not get unnecessarily stressed.
    She slipped on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and a light-colored pullover. It looked cold outside, so she decided on her thick parka, too. She stuffed a hat and some gloves into her pockets and pulled on a pair of thick woolen socks and her sturdy winter boots.
    As she ran down the stairs, Hrefna noticed the worn linoleum floor, which, though clean, had seen better days; the potted plants on the landing were slowly being killed off by the cold that penetrated easily through the single-pane windows, and now the wind had kicked up, making the front door difficult to close.
    Hrefna’s apartment building was conveniently located in the Hlídar district, but the building was showing its age both inside and out. Hrefna noticed the building’s yellow exterior paint was patchy and dirty as she climbed into Erlendur’s car.
    “What’s happening?” she asked, as she closed the passenger door.
    Erlendur told her he wasn’t exactly sure, but it seemed to be serious, perhaps even a murder. They drove in silence the rest ofthe way, in the direction of the city center, listening to the chatter on the police radio.
    The road the house stood on had been closed off, with a police car parked right across the carriageway and a wide yellow ribbon strung between the lampposts bearing the words “Police—No Admittance—Police.”
    Erlendur parked the car as close as possible, and they walked the last stretch. The weather was not too bad—though getting colder. For now it was bright and quite still, and they were temporarily sheltered from the strong north wind.
    A wide zone of the garden leading up to Birkihlíd had been cordoned off with yellow tape, and Jóhann was sticking labels in the footprints.
    “Have we got four suspects?” Erlendur asked, noting the four differently colored labels he was planting.
    “Probably two cops, the housekeeper, and one other,” answered Jóhann, greeting Hrefna with a nod and a smile. He was wearing a blue snowsuit and a burgundy-and-gold knitted hat.
    A tall, blond young man named Marteinn followed them into the garden, carrying a small yellow gas cylinder. He was a new recruit to the department, an enthusiastic athlete who was always asking for time off to train, here to assist Jóhann.
    Hrefna and Erlendur met Egill in the outer lobby. “You’re not exactly supportive of your colleagues,” Egill said sharply, fixing Hrefna with a cold stare. “I’ve had the Super bending my ear all morning over one of your complaints.”
    Hrefna remained silent. The previous Tuesday she had been sent with Egill to pick up a man for questioning, a seaman they were acquainted with. He was usually a gentle soul, though apt to get in fights when he’d been drinking. He had knocked someone’s tooth out, and they needed to take a statement. The man hadbeen sober when they arrived at his home and seemed willing to go with them to the department, but Egill had in no time at all managed to aggravate him to such an extent that the man jabbed at Egill, who immediately responded in kind. Then all hell had broken loose, and in the end, Hrefna had to help Egill cuff the outraged man’s hands and feet and then get assistance in transporting him to the cells. Hrefna had, naturally, filed a report on Egill’s conduct, which she had found intolerable: an otherwise under-control situation had escalated to an all-out brawl because of the idiocy of people, at least one person, who should know better.
    Her spat with Egill was forgotten as soon as she saw the man lying on the floor in a pool of blood. Halldór approached, explained briefly what had happened, and