House of Evidence (15 page)

E
gill was sitting at his desk, staring irritably at a small black-and-white photograph of a boy with slicked-down hair.

Erlendur, on the other hand, was in a good mood. “If you let your hair grow to just below your ears, you might be able to connect a bit better with the younger generation,” he advised.

Egill didn’t even bother to reply. He had been up since before six a.m. to check if the fugitive had returned to his apartment in the Old Town. This time he had brought two police constables with him to watch the windows behind the house while he knocked on the door. A skinny youth with scruffy hair had answered the door in his underpants, and let Egill in to look for Sigurdur, but the search had been fruitless. The young man had no idea where Siggi might be, but promised to contact Egill if he heard anything.

Egill found it difficult to look for someone without having a photograph, so he had gone to the main office at Central Police Headquarters as soon as it opened that morning, only to discover that Sigurdur had never applied for a passport or a driving license. All they had was a photograph he had brought in when he got his ID card at the age of twelve. Egill had borrowed this
picture but doubted that anyone would recognize the guy from it; he certainly didn’t.

“Shall we put an announcement on the radio?” Egill asked when Halldór arrived at the office.

“That’s hardly necessary,” Halldór replied. “Just keep looking for him today. He must be with a friend, and if you ask around you should be able to find him.”

Egill picked up his little exercise tool from the desk and squeezed it vigorously several times. He had no idea how to deal with this hippie generation, and now he was supposed to extract information from them in a nonconfrontational way. He only knew how to talk to these people when he had them on his own turf; that is to say, in custody.

“Can’t the girl do this?” he suggested.

“It wasn’t me that lost him yesterday,” Hrefna replied, overhearing their conversation. “And besides, I have quite enough on my plate.”

Egill knew that Halldór’s silence meant he agreed.

What had he been doing knocking around Birkihlíd? Egill wondered, looking at Sigurdur’s picture again and trying to imagine him with long hair. He could hardly be involved in the current murder, given that the ballistics investigation had linked it to the death of Kieler’s father. This guy hadn’t even been born when that happened. So why was he running away? He must be involved in some dope case; it would definitely be possible to squeeze something out of him.

He got up and poured himself some more coffee, and then gave a well-rehearsed lecture to those present on his opinion of hippies, gays, and other “perverts.” When he had finished, Hrefna said, “Incomplete list. Try a mirror.”

Egill didn’t understand what she meant, and it bothered him for the rest of the day.

Diary IV

July 2, 1917. It is hot and humid. I find it very difficult to get accustomed to this weather and am not sleeping very well…Had a letter from my father. He writes that ships sailing between Britain and Iceland have been sunk and many sailors perished. Here in Chicago accounts have been coming in of casualties among the American forces in Europe. Warmongering is no longer so glamorous when the names of these young men are published in the newspapers…

August 17, 1917. Bought two powerful hunting weapons, a large rifle and a shotgun. I have been invited to go stag hunting this fall. I also bought a cheap little Colt 22 pistol that fits in a pocket. It is old but not much used. I must practice shooting with the rifle…

December 13, 1917. Am traveling in Canada with some colleagues from C&NW. We are checking out the new railroad bridge across the St. Lawrence River (Quebec Bridge) that was inaugurated ten days ago. We met up with Canadian railroad engineers
from the Grand Trunk Railway and among their group was a young West-Icelander named Peter Asmundson. He speaks very good Icelandic even though he has never set foot in Iceland. His parents come from Skagafjördur…

K
irsten Kieler and her daughter, Elísabet, came to see Hrefna promptly at ten o’clock, having been asked the previous evening to a meeting. Hrefna thanked them for coming and extended her condolences before inviting them into the interview room; she fetched them coffee and tried to make the atmosphere as comfortable as possible.

Once she was seated, Hrefna took in the mother and daughter opposite her at the table; they were both petite with delicate features. The mother wore a dark woolen overcoat and a black hat, and the daughter had long hair and was wearing a dark green sheepskin coat. They had very similar features, but as far as dress and manners, it was clear that they belonged to different generations.

“You know the circumstances of Jacob’s death?” Hrefna began.

“Yes,” replied Kirsten. “The detective who spoke to me yesterday was very kind.”

“You were in the north?”

“Yes, I was at home, but I caught a flight yesterday evening.”

“Can you think of anything that might help us to solve this case?” Hrefna asked.

“No. This is just as dreadful as when Dad died.”

“Do you remember that well?”

“Yes, very well.”

“Would you mind describing that day to me?” Hrefna asked.

Kirsten thought for a long moment before she began her account. “We got up early that day and Dad drove us—me, my brother Jacob, and Mom—to our summerhouse at Lake Hafravatn. I was fifteen years old and my brother twenty. Dad then returned to town to complete some business, but he was planning on coming back the following day to spend two or three days with us. We never saw him alive again.”

“Had this trip been long in preparation?” Hrefna asked.

“I can’t remember. We went to the summerhouse often during those years. The staff were given leave while we were there.”

“Was your father usually with you?”

“Sometimes, not always. The engineering firm was always so busy in the summer.”

“So it was common practice for your father to take you there and then go back to town?”

“Yes. Hjörleifur, the caretaker, usually drove us if Dad wasn’t coming, but I remember that this time Dad wanted to take us.”

“Did he return to town immediately?”

“No. The weather was wonderful, and he walked with my brother and me up Reykjaborgin, the mountain nearby. I remember so clearly how bright and beautiful the view was.”

Kirsten wiped a few tears from her eyes.

“Who brought you the news of your father’s death?”

“It was the parish pastor. Hjörleifur drove him to our summerhouse to see us.”

“Is Hjörleifur still alive?”

“No, he and his wife are both gone.”

“How did you react to the news?”

“Mom and I broke down completely, of course, but my brother Jacob was stronger at first and looked after us. It was later that the shock overwhelmed him, and I don’t think he ever recovered after that. Dad was his role model and the head of the family, and when he was gone my brother felt he had to take on that role, but he wasn’t ready for it by any means. The person who killed my father also took a large part of my brother’s life.”

“How did you and your brother get on?”

“Extremely well. My brother Jacob was very good to me when we were little, and we had a good relationship after I got married and moved to the north. It was only in the last few months that some problems came up.”

“What kind of problems?”

“It had to do with Birkihlíd. He wouldn’t hear of selling the property.”

“Who wanted to sell it?”

“Matthías and I. It had become ridiculous keeping the house just for my brother Jacob. Then he wanted us to donate the house to the City of Reykjavik to be made into a museum, and he even offered it to the city without asking us. His behavior had become morbid.”

“How did he react when you rejected this idea?”

“Very badly. He accused us of wanting to wipe out Dad’s and Mom’s memory. It was all becoming very difficult for us.”

“Are we talking large sums of money?”

“Yes, the property is big and very well situated. We assumed that we would be able to sell the house for a good deal of money. Matthías is retired and needs something to live off. The money would also come in handy for me, as I would very much like to support Ella in her studies.”

“Then what happened?”

“Matthías and I had to secure a lawyer, but the matter was concluded when Jacob said he would buy the house and its contents himself.”

“Where did he get the money to do this?”

“I have no idea. He wanted to draw up a conveyance and we couldn’t refuse. He agreed to pay the sum the realtor set for the house, and an appraiser was brought in to value the contents.”

“Did you not want any items from the house?”

“Yes, of course there are many things I would have loved to have, but I didn’t want to upset my brother Jacob any more than we already had.”

“Had he finished paying for the house?”

“No, he paid twenty percent on signing, and planned to pay another forty percent in four installments this year. The rest was payable as a four-year bond.”

“So he must have produced a considerable sum of money at the outset?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know where he got this money?”

“No.”

“Did he give any indication of this?”

“No, I didn’t dare ask. He had become so strange. He had such incredible delusions about the rest of us in the family and our plans. I think he may have been ill by then, but I didn’t dare suggest he see a doctor. I do know, though, that he has been in such financial difficulty that Matthías and I have had to pay the property tax for the house over the last two years to save it from being seized by the authorities. But we did finally reach an agreement that he should pay the house expenses while he was living there.”

Hrefna realized they should make it a priority to examine Jacob Junior’s finances; they might provide some clues about his fate. But for now, she decided to change the subject.

“Could there be any links between the deaths of father and son? Are there any friends of the family who were around in 1945?”

Hrefna purposely kept silent about the ballistics report, which had established that the same weapon had been used in both murders.

“There were of course very many people who visited the home while Dad was alive,” Kirsten replied. “He ran his engineering firm from there and had assistants. There were also lots of other visitors all the time, but I don’t know that any of these people maintained connections with my brother Jacob in later years.”

“Were you aware that your father had any enemies?”

“No. I was, of course, very young. There was actually some communist that was arrested when Dad died and it was said that he had threatened Dad.”

“Mother,” Elísabet suddenly interrupted, “you know perfectly well that man was innocent. Also, he’s been dead a long time.”

“Oh, well, I didn’t know that,” Kirsten said.

Hrefna looked at Elísabet. “Do you know of this old case?”

“I have familiarized myself with it, to the extent that I know that it is recognized as one of the most serious abuses of authority in this century. The man was kept in prison for months on end without justification, a gross infringement of the principle of
in dubio pro reo
, since he was never charged with any offense. The case is considered to have been instrumental in shifting the burden of proof to the prosecution; thankfully, it’s no longer
acceptable to stick people in jail for months in the hope that they’ll eventually confess to all charges.”

Hrefna was taken aback by young Elísabet’s statement. She was far more knowledgeable about the case and the law than she had expected.

“Have you kept in touch with your uncle?” Hrefna asked.

“No. When I came south to go to university, the plan was for me to live in Birkihlíd, but I moved out after a couple of days.”

“Why?”

“I was supposed to sleep in my grandmother’s room, and I wasn’t allowed to change anything in there. I was scarcely allowed to change the bed linen, and I couldn’t empty the wardrobe at all. He expected me to keep my clothes in my suitcase. I couldn’t smoke in there and nobody was allowed to visit. It was like living in the National Museum.”

“It would, of course, have been ideal if Ella could have made a little apartment in the basement,” Kirsten added. “There was plenty of space, but my brother didn’t understand at all.”

Elísabet continued, “On top of that he expected me to help Sveinborg clean the house, but never lifted a finger himself.”

“Did you never go back to Birkihlíd after that?” Hrefna asked.

“I would occasionally drop in for a cup of coffee with Sveinborg when Jacob was at work. She has always been a kind of auntie to me, and I like seeing her. I think she enjoyed the company as well,” Elísabet replied.

Diary V

January 30, 1918. Went to a concert. One of the pieces the orchestra played was the New World
Symphony, which I had not heard since that concert long ago with Elizabeth. I had a bit of a lump in my throat…

June 5, 1918. I am mesmerized by the locomotives. They are almost human; the pipes are the arteries, the boiler the lung. A rigid body that breathes, clears its throat, and sighs. She groans with effort when she labors, and she sings as she runs at full speed. Her heartbeat ticks as the cars run over the rail joints: clickety-clack, clickety-clack, clickety-clack…

October 6, 1918. The new German Chancellor, Prince Max von Baden, has sent a request to the President of the United States to conclude a peace treaty. An end to the war seems to be in sight.

November 12, 1918. The newspapers report that a cease-fire was signed yesterday. The war has ended; God grant that there never be war again…

November 25, 1918. Matthías writes to me that Iceland is to be a free and independent state. The Act of Union was agreed in a referendum with a majority of votes. He also writes that the British consul came to see my father and asked for my address. I wonder why…