The media took quite an interest in the bones. Reporters gathered at the scene and the neighbours lined up around it. Some had already moved into the estate while others, who were working on their roofless houses, stood with hammers and crowbars in their hands, puzzled by all the fuss. This was at the end of April in mild and beautiful spring weather.

The forensic team was at work, carefully scraping samples from the wall of earth. They let the soil drop onto little trowels which they emptied into plastic bags. Part of the upper skeleton could be seen inside the wall. An arm was visible, a section of the ribcage and the lower jawbone.

“Is that the Millennium Man?” Erlendur asked, walking up to the wall of earth.

Elinborg cast a questioning glance at Sigurdur Oli, who stood behind Erlendur, pointing his index finger at his head and twirling it around.

“I phoned the National Museum,” Sigurdur Oli said, and started scratching his head when Erlendur turned suddenly to look at him. “There’s an archaeologist on his way here. Maybe he can tell us what it is.”

“Don’t we need a geologist too then?” Elinborg asked. “To find out about the soil. The position of the bones relative to it. To date the strata.”

“Can’t you help us with that?” Sigurdur Oli asked. “Didn’t you study that?”

“I can’t remember a word of it,” Elinborg said. “I know that the brown stuff is called dirt, though.”

“He’s not six feet under,” Erlendur said. “He’s a metre down, one and a half at the most. Bundled away there in a hurry. As far as I can see this is the remains of a body. He hasn’t been here long. This is no Viking.”