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had been so similar that when she failed to return home her husband had initially assumed that she had been up to her old tricks again. After the first occasion she had insisted it was the only time she had been unfaithful; it had been a moment of madness during a rough patch in their marriage. He had no reason to doubt her words.
    One theory was that she had either bumped into her old lover or gone home with a new man, and that something had happened and she vanished without trace. When questioned, the former lover swore blind he had not met her that evening. The man her friend had seen her talking to had never come forward.
    Yet in spite of this they saw no reason to treat the woman’s disappearance as a crime. Suicide was deemed more likely.
    A single detail had struck Erlendur as he read the file one evening when he did not feel like going straight home after his shift. Two of the people interviewed had mentioned that the woman had been mad about jewellery.
    *   *   *
    Erlendur started awake, worried that he had overslept. He had been having a nap as he sometimes did before going on duty. Relieved to discover that it was still early, he got up and prepared for yet another night shift. He had lain there for a long time that evening, brooding over the fates of the girl from the women’s college and the woman from Thórskaffi, and wondering if his decision to join the police had been precipitated by his fascination with stories like theirs.

8
    The Fever Hospital on Thingholtsstræti, a handsome, two-storey wooden building dating from the nineteenth century, was the first purpose-built hospital in Reykjavík. For the past four years, however, it had played a new role, providing shelter for the city’s homeless; a hot meal, washing facilities and a bed for the night if they wanted it. Discipline was strict. The doors were locked at a respectable hour and the occupants had to be out by a set time in the morning. The rule that they had to be sober throughout their stay was non-negotiable.
    The men seeking admittance ranged from humbly grateful for anything they might receive after a tough spell on the streets, to those who were argumentative or even drunkenly aggressive. The last group were turned away. Some of the men were in good shape, others so frail that the staff took them straight to hospital.
    One evening, Erlendur dropped by before work, just as they were refusing entry to a man who was bundled up in a thick winter coat and woolly hat despite the summer heat. He was arguing with a member of staff, who then took the man’s arm and led him out. In the faint hope of arousing pity, the drunk protested, though not very vehemently, that he could not face another night in the Nissen hut.
    â€˜Come back when you’ve sobered up,’ the staff member said. ‘You know the rule, my friend. It’s perfectly simple.’
    He closed the door and turned to Erlendur.
    â€˜Looking for someone?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜You’re not seeking admission?’ The man’s tone made it clear that Erlendur looked far too fit to require the services of the Fever Hospital.
    â€˜Got many residents at the moment?’
    â€˜No, five, though we can expect more tonight.’
    â€˜That’s not many, is it?’
    â€˜Not compared to last Christmas,’ said the man. ‘We were bursting at the seams. Put up something like thirty men. Christmas is always busiest.’
    â€˜I’m after information about a homeless man who died suddenly about a year ago. Name of Hannibal. Jog your memory at all?’
    â€˜Hannibal? You mean the fellow who drowned in Kringlumýri?’
    Erlendur nodded.
    â€˜I remember him well.’ The man was middle-aged, a little plump, his beard neatly trimmed around his mouth. ‘He used to drop in from time to time. Yes, I remember Hannibal all right. Strange fellow. Did you know him?’
    â€˜We were acquainted,’