Reykjavík, West Town
Suddenly the house was dead silent. The intruder let go of the girl’s pale neck. Her lifeless body crashed on the hard wooden floor, echoing down the hall.
The intruder wiped the sweat of his brow and breathed heavily. It had not been part of the plan to kill Baldur’s maid, but she had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s why things went like they went.
The murderer went back into Baldur’s office, where he had been a few minutes earlier, before the housemaid showed up. The office was a complete mess after the scuffle with Baldur Skarphéðinsson, the owner of the house and a well-known archaeologist. Maps of the south of Iceland, broken gold-rimmed glasses, a pipe and relics from the Viking era were among the things that lay sprawled across the office. Baldur was also lying on the floor, motionless, dark blood dripping from his neck. Next to him was the bloody leather belt he had been killed with.
Baldur had managed to hurt the intruder in the fight by scratching his right arm until it bled. This could cause a problem. The police knew how to use evidence like this. The intruder carefully examined the body of Baldur and its fingers, underneath the nails and the fingertips. It had his DNA. What in the hell should I do with it?
It was of no use to think about it. Baldur was dead. That was the important thing. He wouldn’t have to worry about the archaeologist or his secret anymore. It was hidden again, deep within the past, were it belonged.
The intruder took a deep breath and walked towards a ragged gunnysack he had taken with him. It was time to finish the job that awaited him. Afterwards, he could worry about how to get rid of the body.
With his knife, the murderer cut the rope and opened the sack. Eight dead cats were revealed, all of them with broken necks. He took the first cat, cut his leash and started the religious rite.