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of violence, no one else in the house, lives alone, the housekeeper found him.”
    Egill drove fast and the car slid about in the snow but Halldór didn’t protest, he just held on tightly. As they arrived at Birkihlíd, Halldór noted the time: 11:46.
    A large police car was parked outside the house, and next to it stood two women chatting. A small boy wearing waterproof pants and mittens that were too big for him came shuffling along the sidewalk dragging a toboggan.
    The detectives paused at the gate, peering into the garden.
    “This snow might prove useful,” Halldór remarked.
    Clear sets of footprints were visible, and it was obvious they belonged to at least three different people. Egill nodded, and they both looked down at the sidewalk in front of the gate. Many feet had already trampled a deep track through the snow. Nothing to be gained there.
    They passed through the gate and made their way toward the house, keeping well to one side of any visible footprints. As they came up the steps, the front door opened and a young police officer looked out.
    “You had, of course, to walk all over any footprints,” Egill barked without further greeting.
    The young man squirmed. “We had no idea what had happened.” Then he added, a bit more confidently, “But we’ve taken care not to touch anything inside.”
    “Including the doorknob you’re clutching at the moment,” Egill replied.
    The policeman yanked his hand from the knob as if it were red-hot.
    “Go and get some people to close the area off,” Halldór ordered. “Cordon off the whole garden apart from the track we took. There’s yellow plastic tape in our car in case you haven’t got any. Follow our tracks and make sure that anybody else who comes near the house does the same.”
    The two detectives then stepped inside the lobby. Directly opposite the front door was the entrance to a larger, inner vestibule, with a window to one side that allowed sunlight in. To the right of where they stood was a large space for hanging coats, and to the left a closet for footwear and a small chair.
    Once inside the inner vestibule, they saw the lifeless body of the victim on the floor. He was slumped against the doorpost of the parlor. Another police officer, an older man, approached. He had taken off his uniform cap and was clutching it between his hands. Halldór wondered if this was a sign of respect for the dead or just an indication that the officer was too hot.
    “The lady who found him is in the kitchen,” the policeman remarked by way of a greeting.
    They didn’t need to talk to her just yet, Halldór decided; Hrefna would do it when she arrived.
    “Go to her. Make sure you don’t touch anything, but you can give her some water to drink,” he told the policeman.
    Halldór and Egill moved toward the body. The man did look to be about fifty years old, though it was difficult to tell for sure from his now snow-white face. The man’s eyes were half-open, dull. He was dressed neatly, in dark gray, well-pressed trousers, a white shirt, a blue bow tie, and a light-gray knitted vest. A hole in one of the shirt elbows had been mended. On his feet he had well-worn slippers made of black leather.
    To the left of his chest, beneath his heart, was a black hole in the vest with a dark stain trailing down to the floor, where it ended in a pool of congealed blood. Halldór bent down and examined the hole carefully. Tiny black specks were visible on the vest around the hole.
    “Gunshot wound from close range,” he said, straightening up.
    “Looks like he bled to death,” Egill added.
    Halldór followed the trail of blood across the parlor floor with his eyes. Egill did the same and then exclaimed, “Fancy parlor or what!”
    Halldór contemplated the furniture: three heavy leather sofas, two three-seaters and a two-seater, formed a wide U in the center of the floor in front of the fireplace, with a pair of low coffee tables between them. Beautiful woven rugs lay on