The detective escorted her out to the drive in front of the cottage and opened the car door for her.

‘Will you be all right?’ he asked.

‘Yes, I think so,’ Karen answered. ‘Thank you.’

The detective watched her turn the car and drive away. By the time he went back into the cottage they had cut down the body and laid it on the floor. He knelt down beside it. The dead woman was dressed in a white T-shirt and blue jeans but was wearing no socks. She was slim and had a thin face and short dark hair. He could see no signs of a struggle, either on her body or in the house; only the overturned kitchen stool on which the woman must have stood to tie the noose round the beam. The blue rope could have been bought from any DIY shop. It had cut deep into her slender neck.

‘Lack of oxygen,’ announced the district medical officer, who had been talking to the paramedics. ‘Unfortunately for her, her neck’s not broken. That would have been quicker. She suffocated when the noose tightened round her neck. It would have taken some time. They’re asking when they can take her away.’

‘How long would it have taken?’ the detective asked.

‘Two minutes – maybe less – before she lost consciousness.’

The detective stood up and looked around the cottage. From what he could see it was a very ordinary Icelandic holiday home with its leather three-piece suite, handsome dining table and newly fitted kitchen. The walls of the living room were lined with books. He walked over to the shelving unit and noticed the brown leather spines of five volumes of Jón Árnason’s Collected Folk Tales. Ghost stories, he thought to himself. Other shelves contained French literature titles and Icelandic novels, interspersed with china or ceramic ornaments and framed photos, including three of the same woman at different ages as far as he could tell. The walls were hung with graphic prints, a small oil painting and watercolours.