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only fifteen, twenty minutes.’
    Baldur still wasn’t smiling, but the Commissioner was. ‘Thank you,’ was all the inspector could manage.
    ‘Footprints?’ asked Magnus, looking at the floor. Footprints should show up well on the polished wood.
    ‘Yes,’ said Baldur. ‘One set, size forty-five. Which is odd.’
    It was Magnus’s turn to look puzzled. ‘How so?’
    ‘Icelanders usually take their shoes off when they enter a house. Except perhaps if they are a foreign visitor and don’t know the customs. We spend as much time looking for fibres from socks as footprints.’
    ‘Ah, of course,’ said Magnus. ‘Anything in the papers on the desk?’
    ‘It’s mostly academic stuff, essays from students, draft articles on Icelandic literature, that kind of thing. We need to go through it more thoroughly. There was a fartölva which the forensics team have taken away to analyse.’
    ‘Sorry, what is a fartölva ?’ asked Magnus, who was unfamiliar with the Icelandic word. He knew the difference between a halberd and a battleaxe, but some of the newer Icelandic words threw him.
    ‘A small computer you can carry around with you,’ explained Baldur. ‘And there is a diary with an entry; it tells us who was here last night.’
    ‘The Commissioner mentioned an American,’ Magnus said. ‘With size forty-five feet, no doubt?’ He had no idea what that was in US shoe sizes, but he suspected it was quite large.
    ‘American. Or British. The name is Steve Jubb and the time is seven-thirty yesterday evening. And a phone number. The number is for the Hótel Borg, the best hotel in Reykjavík. We’re picking him up now. In fact, if you’ll excuse me, Snorri, I have to go back to headquarters and interview him.’
    Magnus was struck by the informality of Icelanders. No ‘Sir’, or ‘Commissioner Gudmundsson’. In Iceland everyone called everyone else by their first names, be it a street sweeper speaking to the president of the country, or a police officer speaking to his chief. It would take a little getting used to, but he liked it.
    ‘Be sure to include Magnús in the interviews,’ the Commissioner said.
    Baldur’s face remained impassive, but Magnus could tell that he was seething inside. And Magnus couldn’t blame him. This was probably one of Baldur’s biggest cases of the year, and he would not appreciate doing it under the eyes of a foreigner. Magnus might have more experience of homicides than Baldur, but he was at least ten years younger and a rank junior. The combination must have been especially irritating.
    ‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘I’ll get Árni to look after you. He’ll drive you back to Headquarters and get you settled in. And by all means come and chat to me about Steve Jubb later on.’
    ‘Thank you, Inspector,’ Magnus said, before he could stop himself.
    Baldur’s eyes flicked towards Magnus, acknowledging the evidence of this faux pas that Magnus wasn’t a real Icelander after all. He called over a detective to escort Magnus, and then left with the Commissioner back to Reykjavík.
    ‘Hi, how are you doing?’ said the detective in fluent American-accented English. ‘My name’s Árni. Árni Holm. You know, like the Terminator.’
    He was tall, painfully thin, with short dark hair and an Adam’s apple that bobbed furiously as he spoke. He had a wide friendly grin.
    ‘ Komdu saell ,’ said Magnus. ‘I appreciate you speaking my language, but I really need to practise my Icelandic.’
    ‘All right,’ said Árni, in Icelandic. He looked disappointed not to be showing off his English skills.
    ‘Although I have no idea what “the Terminator” is in Icelandic.’
    ‘ Tortímandinn ,’ said Árni. ‘Some people call me that.’ Magnus couldn’t resist a smile. Árni was on the weedy side of wiry. ‘OK, not many, I admit,’ said Árni.
    ‘Your English is very good.’
    ‘I studied Criminology in the States,’ Árni replied proudly.
    ‘Oh. Where?’
    ‘Kunzelberg