[Rob Stuart]

Icelandic Noir

Reykjavík, February 2023.

Detective Inspector Eiríksjökullságrímjonpálssarroðrúnarsoguðmundsson took a drag on his cigarette and gazed up at the vast corpse that would have blocked out the sun had there been any. A team of uniformed officers were starting to outline the dead Fin whale in chalk.
‘You’re aware,’ the DI said to the Captain of the Hvalur 9, ‘that whaling has now been outlawed in this country?’
‘Of course,’ the Captain replied.
‘And yet this animal’s body appears in the harbour at the very same time that you and your crew return from...’ he consulted his notebook, ‘a sailing holiday.’
‘It is an odd coincidence.’
‘Yes, isn’t it? There’s evidence of multiple harpoon wounds.’
The Captain nodded gravely. ‘I expect we’re looking at a suicide.’
‘Suicide?’
‘Well, it was obviously very depressed. I mean, look at that downturned mouth.’
‘Okay,’ Eiríksjökullságrímjonpálssarroðrúnarsoguðmundsson said, ‘that’ll do. Let’s tuck in.’