Arctic Chill
what's going on. It's nothing to do with what views people have.'
    'Egill, the woodwork teacher, he got into an argument here the other day. It was a discussion about multiculturalism or something like that, I don't know. He's rather tetchy. He keeps himself well informed. Perhaps you ought to talk to him.'
    'How many children of foreign origin are there at this school?' Sigurdur Óli asked as he wrote down the woodwork teacher's name.
    'I suppose there are more than thirty in all. It's a big school.'
    'And no particular problems have arisen because of it?'
    'Of course we are aware of incidents, but none of them serious.'
    'So what are we talking about then?'
    'Nicknames, scrapping. Nothing that's been reported to me, but the teachers talk about it. Of course, they keep a close eye on what goes on and intervene. We don't want any kind of discrimination in this school and the children know that. The children are very aware of it themselves and notify us immediately, and then we intervene.'
    'There are problems in all schools, I imagine,' Sigurdur Óli said. 'Troublemakers. Boys and girls who cause nothing but bother.'
    'There are children like that in all schools.'
    The principal stared thoughtfully at Sigurdur Óli.
    'I have the feeling I recognise you,' he said suddenly. 'What did you say your name was?'
    Sigurdur Óli heaved a silent groan. Such a small country. So few people.
    'Sigurdur Óli,' he said.
    'Sigurdur Óli,' the principal repeated pensively. 'Sigurdur Óli? Did you attend this school?'
    'A long time ago. Before 1980. For a very short while.'
    Sigurdur Óli could see the principal trying to recall him and could tell that it would not be long before the penny dropped. So he took a very hasty leave. The police would go back to the school and talk to the pupils and teachers and other staff. He was at the door when the principal finally began to get warm.
    'Weren't you in the riot in seventy—'
    Sigurdur Óli did not hear the end of the question. He strode out of the staff room. The caretaker was nowhere to be seen. The building was deserted this late in the day. About to head back out into the cold, he suddenly stopped and looked up at the ceiling. He dithered for a moment, then headed back up the stairs and was on the second floor before he knew it. On the walls were old class photographs, labelled with the names of the forms and the year. He found the photograph he was looking for, stood in front of it and looked at himself, a twelve-year-old pupil at the school. The children were arranged in three rows in the picture and he was standing in the back row staring straight into the camera, serious, wearing a thin shirt with a wide collar and a bizarre pattern on it, and with the latest disco haircut.
    Sigurdur Óli took a long look at the photograph.
    'How pathetic,' he said with a sigh.

4
    Erlendur's mobile rang incessantly. Sigurdur Óli gave him a report about his meeting with the principal and said he was on his way to meet the boy's teacher and another member of staff who had spoken out against immigration. Elínborg called to tell him that a witness who lived on the same staircase as Sunee thought she had seen the elder brother earlier that day. The head of forensics quoted the pathologist as saying that the child had been stabbed once, presumably with a fairly sharp instrument, probably a knife.
    'What kind of knife?' Erlendur asked.
    'The blade would have been quite broad and even thick, but particularly sharp,' the head of forensics said. 'The stabbing need not have required much effort. The boy could have been lying on the ground when he was stabbed. His anorak is dirty on the back and torn too. It looks fairly new, so he may have been involved in a fight. He would have tried to defend himself, as is only to be expected, but the only wound is from the knife, which the pathologist said penetrated his liver. He died from loss of blood.'
    'You mean that it didn't take much force for the knife to go in that
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