alternatively:
a body is found in an immaculately furnished apartment. the man, a designer of minimalist furnishings named gudmund eriksson, has been shot through the head. a similar detail of well-adjusted multilingual policepersons turn up, led by inspector erik gudmundsson, a not even faintly craggy of face, smartly dressed 6'3" tall blond man in his early forties. a beam of light from the streetlamp outside cuts through the darkness and a wallclock quietly stikes noon. "three weeks without daylight," gudmundsson mutters under his breath, "when will it ever end..." then a voice calls out through the shadows. it's constable malmfrid rasmussdottir, a statuesque blond uniformed officer that gudmundsson has had his eye on ever since she started on the force. "detective inspector, i've found something," she says, handing him a crumpled piece of blood-spattered paper. gudmundsson reads it carefully and sighs. "another suicide," he mumbles darkly, though a luxuriant moustache that recalls the bold warrior spirit of the vikings. "let's go to my place, drink vodka and sauna... cue a further 187 pages of vaguely existential northern european softcore erotica.
