Slow-burn solving of a mystery

Reykjavík Nights by Arnaldur Indridason (Harvill Secker, £16.99)

No sooner have we said goodbye to Detective Erlendur in Strange Shores — billed as his “final case” — than here he is again as a 28-year-old traffic cop pounding the pavements of the Icelandic capital.

It is 1974, the country is about to celebrate its 1,100th birthday, but its inhabitants, especially the drunk drivers and down-and-outs who cause daily chaos, need no excuse to hit the bottle. Erlendur, haunted by the disappearance of his brother in childhood, has more time for the street people than most policemen. Indeed, he begins to investigate the apparent drowning of one called Hannibal even when he’s not at work.

The slow-burn solving of the mystery is intriguing enough but Arnaldur Indridason’s legion of fans will find the portrait of his young protagonist, and a country on the cusp of change, far more fascinating. Erlendur, a boxer in a land where it is banned, is something of a loner, partial to sheep’s head and a glass of Chartreuse yet somehow unable to pronounce “pizza” correctly. He calls the new fast-food “pisser”.

The modern world — in all its addictive forms — is invading the island. It is a real pleasure to see that Erlendur, even in his early days, is determined to stay strong in a sea of troubles.