By Arnaldur Indriðason
On an icy January day the Reykjavik police are referred to as to a block of residences the place a physique has been present in the backyard: a tender, dark-skinned boy, frozen to the floor in a pool of his personal blood. the invention of a stab wound in his abdominal extinguishes any desire that this was once a sad twist of fate. Erlendur and his group embark on their research with little to move on however the information that the boy's Thai half-brother is lacking. Is he implicated, or just afraid for his personal existence? The research quickly reveals tensions simmering underneath the skin of Iceland's outwardly liberal, multicultural society. A instructor on the boy's tuition makes no mystery of his anti-immigration stance; incidents are suggested among Icelandic students and the disaffected childrens of incomers; and, to confuse issues extra, a suspected paedophile has been noticed within the quarter. in the meantime, the boy's homicide forces Erlendur to confront the tragedy in his personal previous. quickly, evidence are rising from the snow-filled darkness which are extra chilling even than the Arctic evening.
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Additional resources for Arctic Chill (Reykjavík Murder Mysteries, Book 5)
A year later Turnbull had been struggling to hold down a consultancy to a lobbying company in Washington while suffering from increasingly crippling depression. Dependent on alcohol and pills, he had started to fantasize about jumping from his penthouse balcony when he chanced on an item on the local news about a spate of miraculous healings that had taken place at the Mission Church of God. Desperate, and with nothing to lose, the multi-millionaire sobered up and took himself to an evening service.
Carved into his chest and abdomen, stretching all the way down to his groin, was the sign of the cross. By the outstretched fingers of his right hand Jenny caught the glint of a kitchen knife, the blade no more than four inches long. His skin was waxy yellow and his stomach and face had begun to bloat; bluebottles were gathering on the eyes, lips and genitals. 'Looks like he's been here a few hours,' Jenny said, familiar enough with corpses after a year as coroner not to recoil. 'Yesterday evening at the latest, I'd say,' DI Wallace replied.
Yes ... ' He gave her a look which said she could do better. ' Steve grinned. 'Girlfriend? I've never heard you call yourself that before. ' She contrived to look hurt, but a laugh forced itself out. One of relief, of having a distraction from herself. And he looked handsome tonight, somehow more confident in his new life as a nearly-qualified architect. He still remained partly the romantic backwoodsman who had brought the countryside alive for her, telling her the names of every plant and tree, showing her where the deer stood at night and where the fox slunk through the hedges, but he seemed to inspire more trust now that his world had expanded beyond the boundaries of his out-of-the-way farm.