This series has lept into my favourites list with very little hesitation. Book anticipation's not unknown around here but there is a select list that I will seriously contemplate a bit of a queue outside the bookstore on the publication date - Mr Hill's Dalziel & Pascoe series has always been high up there, as has Shane Maloney's series. The Henning Mankell Kurt Wallender series is another that has tempted me to queue, and now the Arnauldur Indridason books have joined that list. (Although these days "queue" is somewhat more hovering at an online bookstore's order page!)
I was particularly touched to see that this book is dedicated to Bernard Scudder - who has a part credit for the translation along with Victoria Cribb. Bernard Scudder died not so long ago, and his loss to the world of those of us that adore books from Iceland is profound. His work made Indridason's books accessible and we should remember the (often unremarked upon) work of translators such as Mr Scudder.
From the Blurb:
On an icy January day the Reykjavik police are called to a block of flats where a body has been found in the garden: a young, dark-skinned boy, frozen to the ground in a pool of his own blood. The discovery of a stab wound in his stomach extinguishes any hope that this was a tragic accident.
They were able to guess his age, but had more trouble determining which part of the world he came from.
They thought he was about ten years old. He was wearing a grey anorak, unzipped, with a hood, and military-style camoflage trousers. His school bag was on his back. One of his boots had come off and there was a hole in his sock.