Free Silence of the Grave by Arnaldur Indriðason

Erlendur asked, tired. "A house, a stable, kennel, chalet?"
"A house. A kind of chalet or that sort of thing."
"From what time?"
"Before 1940."
"And who was the owner?"
"His name was Benjamín. Benjamín Knudsen. A merchant."
"Was?"
"He died. Years ago."

8
Many of the chalet owners on the north side of Grafarholt were occupied with their spring chores when Sigurdur Óli cruised around the hill looking for a good enough road to drive up. Elínborg was with him. Some of the people were pruning their hedges, others were weather-coating their chalets or mending fences, or had saddled horses and were setting off for a ride.
It was high noon and the weather was calm and beautiful. After talking to several chalet owners without making any headway, Sigurdur Óli and Elínborg slowly worked their way towards the houses nearest to the hill. In such fine weather they were in no hurry. Enjoyed a jaunt away from the city, strolling in the sunshine and talking to the chalet owners who were surprised to be visited by the police so early in the day. Some had heard on the news about the skeleton being found on the hill. Others had absolutely no idea.
"Will she survive, or . . . ?" Sigurdur Óli asked when they got into the car for the umpteenth time and drove on to the next chalet. They had been talking about Eva Lind on their way out of town and returned to the topic at regular intervals.
"I don't know," Elínborg said. "I don't think anyone knows. The poor girl," she said, heaving a deep sigh. "And him," she added. "Poor Erlendur."
"She's a junkie," Sigurdur Óli said seriously. "Gets pregnant and gets stoned without a care in the world and ends up killing the baby. I can't feel sorry for people like that. I don't understand them and never will."
"No one's asking you to feel sorry for them," Elínborg said.
"Oh, really? When people talk about that crowd all I ever hear is what a hard time they have. From what I've seen of them . . . "He paused. "I can't feel sorry for them," he repeated. "They're losers. Nothing else. Wankers."
Elínborg sighed.
"What's it like being so perfect? Always smartly dressed, clean-shaven and neatly groomed, with that degree from America, unbitten nails, not a care in the world other than being able to afford those flashy clothes? Don't you ever get tired of it? Don't you ever get tired of yourself ?"
"Nope," Sigurdur Óli said.
"What's wrong with showing those people a bit of understanding?"
"They're losers and you know it. Just because she's the old man's daughter doesn't make her any better than the rest of them. She's like all the other bums who are on the streets getting stoned and then sleep it off in the shelters and rehab. centres before they get wasted again, because that's the only thing those creeps want. To laze around and get stoned."
"How are you and Bergthóra getting along?" Elínborg asked, having given up all hope of changing his opinions about anything whatsoever.
"Fine," Sigurdur Óli said wearily as he pulled up outside yet another chalet. Bergthóra simply wouldn't leave him alone. She was insatiable, in the evenings and the mornings and in the middle of the day, in every possible position and place in their flat, in the kitchen and sitting room, even the laundry room, lying down and standing up. And although he had enjoyed it to begin with, he was starting to notice himself growing tired of it, and had begun to suspect her motives. Not that their sex life had ever been dull, far from it. But she had never before had such a strong urge or so much zeal. They had not discussed in any seriousness the matter of having children, although they had been together long enough. He knew that Bergthóra was on the pill, but he couldn't help feeling that she wanted to tie him down by having children. There was no need, because he was particularly fond of her and had no desire to live with anyone else. But women are unpredictable, he thought. You never know what they are up to.
"Strange that the National