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  'I wasn't interrogating him,' Erlendur said. 'Just asking about things in general.' He looked at his overcoat. 'Has the body been removed?'

  'It's on its way to the morgue. He didn't fall. They found a trail.'

  Erlendur grimaced.

  'The boy entered the garden from the west side,' Elínborg said. 'There's a path there. It's supposed to be lit but one of the residents told us there's only one lamp-post and the bulbs are always getting smashed. He got into the garden by climbing over the fence. We found blood on it. He lost his boot there, probably when he was clambering over.'

  Elínborg took a deep breath.

  'Someone stabbed him,' she said. 'He probably died from a knife wound to the stomach. There was a pool of blood underneath him that froze more or less directly it formed.'

  Elínborg fell silent.

  'He was probably going home,' she said eventually.

  'Can we trace where he was stabbed?'

  'We're working on it.'

  'Have his parents been contacted?'

  'His mother's on the way. Her name's Sunee. She's Thai. We haven't told her what's happened yet. That'll be terrible.'

  'You go and be with her,' Erlendur said. 'What about the father?'

  'I don't know. There are three names on the entryphone. One looked something like Niran.'

  'I understand he has a brother,' Erlendur said.

  He opened the door for her and they went out into the howling north wind. Elínborg waited for the mother. She would go to the morgue with her. A policeman accompanied Stefán home; they would take a statement from him there. Erlendur went back into the garden. He put on his overcoat. The grass was dark where the boy had been lying.

  I am felled to the ground.

  A snatch of old verse entered Erlendur's mind as he stood, silent and deep in thought, looking down at the patch where the boy had been lying. He took a last glance up the length of the gloomy block of flats, then carefully picked his way over the icy ground towards the playground, where he grasped the cold steel of the slide with one hand. He felt the piercing cold crawl up his arm.

  I am felled to the ground,

  frozen and cannot be freed . . .

  2

  Elínborg accompanied the boy's mother to the morgue on Barónsstígur. She was a short, petite woman, in her mid-thirties and tired after a long day at work. Her thick, dark hair was tied in a ponytail, her face round and friendly. The police had found out where she worked and two men were sent to collect her. It took them some time to explain to her what had happened and that she had to go with them. They drove up to the flats where Elínborg joined them in the car and realised that they needed an interpreter. One of the policemen contacted the Multicultural Centre, which sent a woman to meet them at the morgue.

  The interpreter had not yet turned up when Elínborg arrived with the mother. She accompanied the woman straight into the morgue where the pathologist was waiting for them. When the mother saw her son she let out a piercing howl and slumped into Elínborg's arms. She screamed something in her own language. At that moment the interpreter walked in, an Icelandic woman about the same age as the mother, and together she and Elínborg tried to comfort her. Elínborg got the impression that the two women were acquainted. The interpreter tried to talk to the mother in a soothing tone but, out of her wits with grief and helplessness, she tore herself loose, threw herself onto the boy and cried at the top of her voice.

  Eventually they managed to get her out of the morgue and into a police car, which drove her straight home. Elínborg told the interpreter that the mother ought to ask a member of her family or a friend to be with her during this painful ordeal, someone close to her, someone she trusted. The interpreter passed on the message but the mother showed no response.

  Elínborg explained to the interpreter how Elías had been found lying in the garden behind the block of flats. She described the police investigation and asked her to inform the mother.

  'She has a brother in Iceland,' the interpreter said. 'I'll contact him.'

  'Do you know this woman?' Elínborg asked.

  The interpreter nodded.

  'Have you lived in Thailand?'

  'Yes, for several years,' the interpreter said. 'I first went there as an exchange student.'

  She said her name was Gudný, and she was slender and quite short, with dark hair and large glasses. She wore a thick woollen sweater and jeans under a black coat, and had a white woollen shawl over her shoulders.

  When they arrived back at the flats, the woman asked to be shown where her son was found and they took her into the garden. It was pitch dark by now but the forensics team had set up lights and cordoned off the area. News of the murder had spread rapidly. Elínborg noticed two bouquets of flowers laid against the wall of the block of flats, where a growing crowd was gathering by the police cars, looking on in silence.

  The mother went through the police cordon. Forensics technicians in white overalls stopped their work and watched her. She was soon standing alone but for the interpreter at the place where her son had been found dead. She knelt down, placed the palm of her hand on the ground and wept.

  Erlendur emerged from the darkness and watched her.

  'We ought to go up to her flat,' he said to Elínborg, who nodded in reply.

  They stood in the cold for some time, waiting for the two women to come back. Eventually, the detectives followed them out of the garden and into the stairwell in the part of the block where the mother lived. Elínborg introduced Erlendur to her as a detective who would be taking part in the investigation into her son's death.

  'Perhaps you'd prefer to talk to us later,' Erlendur said. 'But the fact is that the sooner we receive information, the better, and the more time that passes after the deed, the more difficult it might be to find the person who did it.'

  Erlendur stopped talking to allow the interpreter to translate what he had said. He was about to continue when the mother looked at him and said something in Thai.

  'Who did it?' the interpreter said at once.

  'We don't know,' Erlendur said. 'We'll find out'

  The mother turned to the interpreter and spoke again, a look of acute anxiety on her face.

  'She has another son and she's worried about him,' the interpreter said.

  'Does she have any idea where he might be?' Erlendur asked.

  'No,' the interpreter said. 'He should have left school around the same time as his brother.'

  'Is he older?'

  'Five years older,' the interpreter said.

  'So that makes him ... ?'

  'Fifteen.'

  The mother hurried up the stairs in front of them until they reached the fourth floor, the second-highest. Erlendur was surprised that there was no lift in such a tall building.

  Sunee unlocked the flat, shouting something before the door was even open. Erlendur thought it was the name of her other son. She ran around the flat but, seeing that no one was home, stood helpless and strangely alone in front of them until the interpreter put an arm around her, led her into the sitting room and sat down on the sofa with her. Erlendur and Elínborg followed, and they were joined by a thin man who had come running up the stairs and introduced himself as the vicar of the local church and an experienced trauma counsellor.

  'We have to find his brother,' Elínborg said. 'Let's hope nothing's happened to him.'

  'Let's hope it wasn't him who did this,' Erlendur said.

  Elínborg looked at him in astonishment.

  'The things you think of!'

  She looked around her. Sunee lived in a small two-bedroom flat. The front door opened straight onto the sitting room, while to one side was a small corridor leading to a bathroom and two bedrooms. The kitchen was beside the sitting room. A strong aroma of oriental spices and exotic cuisine filled the flat, which was spotlessly tidy and decorated with ornaments from Thailand. All over the walls and tables were photographs that Elínborg imagined showed the mother's relatives on the other side of
the globe.

  Erlendur was standing beneath a red paper parasol with a picture of a yellow dragon on it, which served as a lampshade. When the interpreter said she was going to make tea, Elínborg followed her into the kitchen. Sunee remained on the sofa and the vicar sat down beside her. Erlendur said nothing and waited for the interpreter to come back.

  Gudný knew a little about Sunee's background and recounted it to Elínborg in the kitchen in half-whispers. She was from a village about two hundred kilometres from Bangkok and had been brought up in a household where three generations lived together in straitened circumstances. There were many children and Sunee had moved to the capital with two of her brothers when she was fifteen. She did manual labour, mainly in laundries, and lived in poor, cramped conditions with her brothers until she was twenty. After that she had described herself as being alone, working in a large textile factory manufacturing cheap clothing for western markets. Only women worked there and the wages were low. Around that time she met a man from a far-away country, an Icelander, at a popular nightclub in Bangkok. He was several years older than her. She had never heard of Iceland.

  While the interpreter told Elínborg this story and the vicar consoled Sunee, Erlendur walked around the sitting room. There was an oriental charm about the flat. A small altar stood halfway along the wall with cut flowers, incense and a bowl of water, and a beautiful picture from rural Thailand. He perused the cheap ornaments, souvenirs and framed photographs, some of them showing two boys at different ages. Erlendur presumed these were the deceased and his brother. He picked up from the table what he took to be a photograph of the elder boy and asked Sunee whether it was him. She nodded. He asked to borrow it and took it to the front door, where he gave it to the policeman who was standing there and told him to distribute it at the police station and to start looking for the lad.

  Erlendur was holding his mobile in his hand when it began to ring. It was Sigurdur Óli.

  He had traced the boy's tracks from the garden, to a narrow path and down it across a quiet road, past houses and gardens until it stopped beneath the wall of a small electricity utility building or substation that was covered in graffiti. The substation was about five hundred metres from the boy's home and not far from the local school. On first impression, Sigurdur Óli could see no signs of a struggle. More policemen descended on the scene and began searching with flashlights for the murder weapon in nearby gardens and on paths, streets and in the school yard.

  'Keep me informed,' Erlendur said. 'Is it far from this place to the school, did you say?'

  'It's really next door. But that doesn't mean the boy was stabbed here, even if this is where the tracks stop.'

  'I know,' Erlendur said. 'Talk to people at the school, the principal, the staff. We need to interview the boy's teachers and classmates. His friends in the neighbourhood too. Everyone who knew him or can tell us anything about him.'

  'That's my old school,' Sigurdur Óli mumbled.

  'Really?' Erlendur said. Sigurdur Óli rarely talked about himself. 'Are you from this part of town?'

  'I've hardly been to the place since,' Sigurdur Óli said. 'We lived here for two years. Then we moved again.'

  'And?'

  And nothing.'

  'Do you think they'll remember you, your old teachers?'

  'I hope not,' Sigurdur Óli said. 'What class was the boy in?'

  Erlendur went into the kitchen.

  'We need to know what class the boy was in,' he said to the interpreter.

  Gudný went into the sitting room, spoke with Sunee and came back with the information.

  'Have there been any racial clashes in this area?' Erlendur asked her.

  'Nothing that's reached our desk at the Multicultural Centre.'

  'What about racial prejudice? Have you been aware of that?'

  'I don't think so, no more than the usual.'

  'We need to look into any ethnic violence in this part of town, find out if there have been any clashes,' Erlendur said over the phone to Sigurdur Óli, once he had given him the details of Elías's class. 'Also where they've occurred in other districts. I remember some trouble not so long ago: someone pulled a knife. We need to check that out.'

  The tea was ready and Elínborg and the interpreter went into the sitting room with Erlendur. The vicar left and Gudný sat down beside Sunee. Elínborg had brought a chair with her from the kitchen. Gudný talked to Sunee, who nodded. Erlendur hoped she was telling the mother that the sooner the police received precise information about the boy's movements that day, the better it would be for the investigation.

  Erlendur was still holding his mobile and was about to put it in his pocket, but hesitated and stared at it. His thoughts turned to the young witness who carried a mobile phone because his mother was worried about him being alone after school.

  'Did her son have a mobile phone?' he asked the interpreter.

  She translated what he said.

  'No,' she said then.

  'What about his brother?'

  'No,' Gudný said. 'None of this family has a mobile phone. She can't afford one. Not everyone can afford those phones,' she added, and Erlendur had the feeling she was expressing her own thoughts.

  'Doesn't he go to school near the block here?' he said.

  'Yes. Both her boys attend that school.'

  'What time does Elías finish?'

  'His timetable's on the fridge door,' the interpreter said. 'He finishes around two on Tuesdays,' she said with a glance at her watch, 'so it's three hours since he left for home.'

  'What does he generally do after school? Does he go straight home?'

  'As far as she knows,' the interpreter said after consulting Sunee. 'She doesn't know exactly. Sometimes he plays football in the school playground. Then he generally comes home by himself

  'What about the boy's father?'

  'He's a carpenter. Lives here in Reykjavík. They got divorced last year.'

  'Yes, his name's Ódinn, isn't it?' Erlendur said. He knew that the police were trying to contact Elías's father, who had still not heard the news of the boy's death.

  'He and Sunee don't have much contact these days. Elías sometimes stays with him at weekends.'

  'Is there a stepfather?'

  'No,' the interpreter said. 'Sunee lives alone with her two sons.'

  'Is the elder son usually back at this time of day, in normal circumstances?' Erlendur asked.

  'The time they come home varies,' the interpreter quoted Sunee.

  'Isn't there any rule?' Elínborg asked.

  Gudný turned to Sunee and they talked together for some time. Erlendur could see what a good support the interpreter was to her. Gudný had told the detectives that Sunee understood most of what was said to her in Icelandic and could express herself fairly well, but was very precise, so when she felt the need she called in Gudný to help her.

  'She's not entirely sure where they go during the day,' the interpreter said finally, turning back to Erlendur and Elínborg. 'They both have keys to the flat. If she does overtime she doesn't finish at the chocolate factory until six o'clock, and then she has to get home, and often do the shopping. Sometimes she has the chance of more overtime and then she comes home even later. She has to work as much as she can. She's the only breadwinner.'