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for Árni, and it clearly wasn’t going to be Baldur. Árni had a reputation for incompetence, but he was keen and he was loyal and he had once saved Magnus’s life, and that was good enough for Magnus. ‘If he’s off the case, I’m off the case.’
    There was a pause on the radio. ‘We’ll discuss it later. Anything at the crime scene?’
    ‘Forensics will give it a thorough going over, but I doubt they will find anything. The victim died of a stab wound to the stomach. Has the press release gone out, do you know? It would be good to find the snowmobilers and the couple in the other jeep.’
    ‘It has. And Chief Superintendent Kristján is doing a press conference at nine o’clock.’
    ‘We need a warrant to search the Freeflow house in Thórsgata. And their computers. Especially their computers.’
    ‘Vigdís is going to talk to Rannveig as soon as she gets in.’ Rannveig was the assistant prosecutor in Reykjavík. She would need to take a warrant to the judge at the District Court on Laekjargata. It shouldn’t be a problem: from Magnus’s limited experience, judges in Iceland were quite cooperative about that sort of thing.
    ‘OK,’ said Magnus. ‘I’m on my way back to Reykjavík.’
    He hung up. The two policemen who had stayed on the glacier overnight were ready to go back to Hvolsvöllur, and so Magnus asked them to give Ásta and him a lift. He would pick up his own vehicle from outside the police station.
    The priest’s face was pale, her expression thoughtful.
    ‘I hope none of the information you refused to give us would help us find Nico’s killer,’ said Magnus. ‘Because otherwise you are going to feel very guilty for a very long time.’
    Ásta glanced at Magnus quickly and climbed into the jeep.

CHAPTER SIX
     
    ‘“E ARL HÁKON STAYED at Hladir that winter. He became great friends with Vermundur and treated him well, since he knew he came from a distinguished family out in Iceland.
    ‘With the earl were two Swedish brothers, one called Halli and the other Leiknir. They were big strong men, bigger and stronger than any other men in Norway or elsewhere. They used to go berserk, and when they got themselves into that state they were not like other men, but like mad dogs who feared neither fire nor steel .” ’
    Jóhannes Benediktsson glanced up at his class of thirteen-year-olds as he turned the page. He had them transfixed, every one of them. He read The Saga of the People of Eyri to his Icelandic class of this age every year. And every time he remembered how his own father had read the saga to him so many times when he was young, especially this passage. For Jóhannes’s father Benedikt had been brought up on a farm in the Snaefells Peninsula where the saga had taken place, indeed the very farm where Vermundur’s brother had taken charge of the two berserkers back in Iceland a thousand years before.
    The lava field between the two brothers’ farms was called the Berserkjahraun, and Benedikt had had all sorts of stories to tell about it.
    Jóhannes might just be a middle-aged man in a nondescript classroom in modern grey Reykjavík, but he could bring some of the magic of that ancient time into the lives of his mobile-phone-toting, PlayStation-and-Facebook-obsessed city kids.
    The bell rang for break. They didn’t move. Jóhannes was tempted to continue, but it was best to keep up the suspense. He snapped the book shut with his customary flourish. The class groaned.
    As he followed his students out of the classroom, Jóhannes was surprised to see Snaer, the head of the Icelandic Department, waiting for him in the corridor.
    ‘Reading The Saga of the People of Eyri again?’ he said.
    Snaer was fifteen years younger than Johannes and fifteen centimetres shorter. ‘Were you spying on me?’ Jóhannes answered, his brows knitting in disapproval.
    ‘I thought we had discussed this,’ said Snaer.
    ‘Oh, we have, we have,’ said Jóhannes. ‘On numerous occasions.’
    ‘Well,