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were in a language that Magnus didn’t recognize, didn’t even begin to recognize. ‘Does anyone know what this is?’ Baldur asked.
    There were frowns and slowly shaking heads around the table. Someone tentatively suggested Finnish, someone else was sure it wasn’t. But Magnus noticed that Árni was shifting uncomfortably again.
    ‘Árni?’ Magnus said.
    Árni glared at Magnus, and then swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. ‘Elvish,’ he said, very quietly.
    ‘What?’ Baldur demanded. ‘Speak up!’
    ‘They might be in Elvish. I think Tolkien created some Elvish languages. This might be one of them.’
    Baldur put his head in his hands and then glared at his subordinate. ‘You’re not going to tell me the huldufólk did this, are you now Árni?’
    Árni shrank. The huldufólk , or hidden people, were elf-like creatures who were supposed to live all over Iceland in rocks and stones. In everyday conversation Icelanders were proud of their belief in these beings, and, famously, highways had been diverted to avoid removing rocks in which they were known to live. Baldur did not want his murder investigation to be derailed by the most troublesome of all Iceland’s many superstitions.
    ‘Árni could be right,’ said Magnus. ‘We know Steve Jubb and Isildur, whoever he is, were doing a deal with Agnar. If they needed to communicate with each other about it they could have used a code. They are both Lord of the Rings fans: what better than Elvish?’
    Baldur pursed his lips. ‘All right, Árni. See if you can find someone in Iceland who speaks Elvish, and ask them if they recognize what this says. And then get them to translate it.’
    Baldur glanced around the table. ‘If Steve Jubb won’t tell us, we need to find out who this Isildur is ourselves. We need to get in touch with the British police in Yorkshire to see if they can help us with Jubb’s friends. And we need to check all the bars and restaurants in Reykjavík to find out if Jubb met anyone else apart from Agnar. Perhaps Isildur is here in town; we won’t know until we ask around. And I am going to interview Agnar’s wife.’ He doled out specific tasks for everyone around the table, except Magnus, and the meeting was over.
    Magnus followed the inspector into the corridor. ‘Do you mind if I join Vigdís to interview the sister of the kid who died?’
    ‘No, go ahead,’ said Baldur.
    ‘What do you think so far?’ Magnus asked.
    ‘What do you mean, what do I think?’ Baldur said, stopping.
    ‘Oh, come on. You have to have a hunch.’
    ‘I keep an open mind. I gather evidence until it points to one conclusion. Isn’t that what you do in America?’
    ‘Right,’ Magnus said.
    ‘Now, if you want to help, find me Isildur.’

CHAPTER SEVEN
    I NGILEIF ÁSGRÍMSDÓTTIR OWNED an art gallery on Skólavördustígur, which was a bit of a mouthful, even for an Icelander. New York had Fifth Avenue, London had Bond Street and Reykjavík had Skólavördustígur. The street led up from Laugavegur, the busiest shopping street in town, to the Hallgrímskirkja at the top of a hill. Small stores lined the road, part concrete, part brightly painted corrugated metal, selling art supplies, jewellery, designer clothes and fancy foods. But the credit crunch had made its mark: some premises were discreetly empty, displaying small signs showing the words Til Leigu , meaning For Rent .
    Vigdís parked her car a few metres below the gallery. Above her and Magnus the massive concrete spire of the church thrust upwards. Designed in the nineteen thirties, it was supported by two great wings that swept up from the ground; it looked like Iceland’s very own intercontinental ballistic missile, or possibly a moon rocket.
    As Magnus climbed out of the car, he was almost knocked over by a blonde girl of about twenty dressed in a lime green sweater with a short leopard-skin skirt and a two foot tail hurtling down the hill on a bicycle. Where were the traffic cops when you