Frevelopfer

For Elínborg the three stages of cookery — preparation, cooking, and eating — were a recipe for life itself.

Maybe it was different for men: so long as they could talk about cars and football they had no need for intimacy.

Birkir was a quiet, self-effacing boy — like a shy guest at the party of his own life.

...nothing seems to be safe unless it’s nailed down.’

‘And why did he want the roofies?’
‘He said he was buying them for a friend. That’s what they all say — when they’re new and don’t know what sad little losers they are.’

‘What a bastard!’ said Lóa, staring at Elínborg. ‘I would have killed him, that bloody shit. I would so have fucking killed him! What on earth is wrong with these men?’
‘They’re crazy,’ said Elínborg.

‘I’m investigating an alleged rapist,’ said Elínborg, wondering if alleged would mean anything to Solla.
‘Hope you get the bastard,’ Solla said.
‘We’ve got him already. We want to find out who killed him,’ Elínborg explained.
‘He’s dead? The case is solved, then, isn’t it?’
‘We want to know who did it.’
‘Why? You going to give him a medal?’
‘It was probably a woman who killed him.’
‘Good for her!’ exclaimed Solla.

She preferred the press journalists. Print-media people were less rushed, less overbearing and less self-important than the TV reporters toting their video cameras. Some of them could even write.