House of Evidence (21 page)

W
hen Marteinn joined the detective division, Egill had taken him under his wing. Although their age difference was more than twenty years, they had similar views on most issues and found working together easy. Marteinn was, nevertheless, not always happy with the way his partner set about dealing with other people, but he comforted himself with the knowledge that they were all either former or future jailbirds.

Marteinn had decided at the age of ten that he wanted to be a policeman, and he was not one for changing his mind. When his peers grew their hair and objected to NATO and the police because it was the in thing, he had his hair cut short and wore a suit and a tie. He enrolled in an American correspondence course on law enforcement, and as soon as he was old enough, applied to the police force. He was initially taken on in the traffic division, and sent to the police academy, where he earned top marks in the final exam. On his first day at work, he issued a whole book of tickets, setting a record. His superiors, however, were less than impressed with this young man’s ambitious nature, and at the first opportunity, shifted him over to the detective division, where he came into his own—though, unlike everyone else there, he missed the uniform.

Marteinn was just coming back from lunch when Egill turned up at the office with the name of a woman who might possibly help them trace Sigurdur the guitarist. They began by phoning hospitals and clinics in the city.

“Good afternoon, this is the detective division,” Marteinn said to the first operator he spoke with. “Do you have a patient named Kristín Jósefsdóttir?”

She didn’t seem impressed by the detective division at all, and made him wait a long time. When she finally came back on the line, she replied rather curtly, “No one by the name of Kristín Jónsdóttir is registered here.”

“Jósefsdóttir,” said Marteinn patiently.

“One mo—” she said, and again put Marteinn on hold.

“No, she is not here” was the final reply a few long moments later.

They spent a considerable time getting the same answer at the other places they phoned.

“What about the nursing homes,” Marteinn suggested.

This they tried, and finally got a hit: a nursing home in Hafnarfjördur had a resident named Kristín Jósefsdóttir.

There was nobody in reception, so they went into the sitting room, where they found a neatly dressed old lady seated listening to the radio. She smiled when they bade her good afternoon.

“We are looking for Kristín Jósefsdóttir,” Egill said.

“Yes.” The old lady nodded.

“Is that you?”

“Yes.”

“We are from the detective division,” Marteinn said.

“Yes.”

A voice from behind them warned, “She doesn’t know nothing, not even her own name.”

An ancient woman leaning on a metal walker, her back so bent she was unable to look them in the eye, asked, “What do you want?”

“We’re looking for Kristín Jósefsdóttir,” explained Egill.

“Kristín is in the infirmary. Room 102. The bed next to the window.”

Room 102 contained three beds, the two nearest of which had clearly been slept in but were currently unoccupied; in the third bed, next to the window, as the old lady had described, lay a woman who, though she seemed younger than the other residents, looked very sickly and had an oxygen tube running up into her nose.

“Let me do the talking,” Egill whispered to Marteinn. He then raised his voice. “Kristín Jósefsdóttir?”

“Yes, that’s me,” the woman whispered.

Egill smiled sweetly. “We’re looking for your son, Diddi. We owe him money and would like to pay him. Do you know where he is?”

Kristín smiled back with some difficulty. “Well, he came here yesterday. I think he was planning to go to Ólafsvík to work in a fish factory.”

Egill looked at Marteinn and smiled knowingly, then moved closer to the woman and leaned over her.

“We are from the detective division. We know your husband shot engineer Jacob Kieler.”

Kristín pulled the bedclothes up to her chin and looked at him apprehensively, but gave no reply. Marteinn shifted uncomfortably.

“You were the one who looked after the gun, isn’t that right?” Egill continued.

“There never was any gun. Why are you saying this?”

Marteinn whispered apprehensively, “Go easy.”

“Diddi told us he got the gun from you.”

“That’s not true. Nobody would have said that.”

Kristín whimpered and shrank away from Egill when he put his hand on her shoulder.

“You’d better tell us everything. It’ll be best for him.”

Kristín cried out in a cracked voice, “No, there was no gun.”

“What are you doing here?” a voice demanded from behind them.

Marteinn looked around and saw a tiny woman in a nursing assistant’s uniform.

“How dare you behave like this! Get out!” she shrieked. The old woman with the walker was standing behind her.

Marteinn heaved a sigh of relief, glad to be interrupted.

Egill smiled apologetically. “We are from the detective division, and were just looking for some information—”

“The police? What the…! Out of here, at once!” demanded the petite nurse.

Marteinn took Egill’s arm. “Let’s go,” he whispered.

“We’ll be back,” Egill warned Kristín.

A group of old people who had gathered outside the room moved anxiously out of the way when Marteinn and Egill emerged, hotly followed by the nursing assistant.

“Let’s get out of here before the grannies start throwing their chamber pots at us,” Egill whispered to Marteinn.

Diary IX

May 23, 1925. I have been re-examining my cost calculations for the railroad. Prices are all coming
down so it is right to review the figures. I also think it would be safe to reduce the width of the track bed by 10%. Taking all this into account the railroad should cost only 5,750,000 krónur…

June 6, 1925. I met with the minister today to discuss the railroad. I showed him the new costings and he was quite impressed with them. I reminded him that it was now 20 years since the telephone first arrived in Iceland, and that we now have 190 telephone exchanges in the country and more than 3,000 telephone apparatuses. In earlier days the telephone and the railroad were mentioned in the same breath, and many considered that the railroad was a greater necessity than the telephone…

July 10, 1925. There are reports from neighboring countries that motorized railcars are becoming more and more common on their railroads. They are of many different types, and use either gasoline or diesel oil for fuel. Their main disadvantage is the rather poor uphill traction. I can also foresee the viability of electric railcars, as it is not unlikely that the Sog waterfalls will be harnessed before long…

August 18, 1925. There was a report in
Ísafold
about a railroad accident in France. I do not like
this reportage. I hear the opponents of the railroad use this in the presentation of their case; they say that railroads are dangerous. They ought to report all the accidents caused by automobiles worldwide. I also hear that many people think that motorcars are better equipped to get about in heavy snow, because it is reported in foreign news if a train is delayed by snowfall for a few hours; nobody thinks it newsworthy if cars get stuck in snowdrifts for days on end…

August 27, 1925. Cannot see that there will be many engineering projects to be had this fall, so I am going to do some part-time teaching in English, Danish, and mathematics…

October 12, 1925. At about half past three last night, Elizabeth was delivered of our perfect, beautiful son. She had been in labor since yesterday, under the care of Dr. Eiríkur and an experienced midwife. I was allowed into their room after Elizabeth had had a short while to recover after the birth. He is a very bonny baby. I sat and watched him well into the morning as he slept in his crib…

A
t four o’clock that afternoon four men gathered in Jacob Kieler’s office at Birkihlíd to open the safe: Halldór and Jóhann joined Matthías Kieler and a marshal from the civil court. An empty cardboard box sat on the desk, awaiting the contents of the safe.

The only person missing was the locksmith.

Halldór glanced at his wristwatch. “He promised to come at four o’clock.”

The marshal checked his watch, too. “In that case, I’ll read out the warrant while we wait.”

Jóhann paced the floor while the man recited the terms of the warrant, stating that the detective division had permission to open up and investigate the contents of a locked receptacle belonging to the estate of Jacob Kieler, born October 12, 1925, died January 18, 1973.

Meanwhile Jóhann couldn’t help but wonder where Jacob Junior had kept the key. Why hadn’t they found it during the house search? All the keys they had found had been tried, and none had fit the lock. Jacob Junior must have had a good hiding place for it, presumably somewhere close at hand, and perhaps close at heart. And that’s when the idea struck him: the elaborate
model of the railroad station Jacob Kieler kept right here in his office.

He tried lifting the roof off the station building, which proved detachable, but found no key there. The roofs of the other buildings also came off, but none hid a key either.

“I shall have to cancel this meeting if he doesn’t turn up soon,” the marshal said impatiently.

Matthías had been standing there silently, still wearing his overcoat and hat; now he sat down, sighing. “Is this Icelandic punctuality?”

Halldór smiled apologetically.

The model station had a complex system of tracks and sidings, including a turntable onto which rolling stock could be moved and turned round; Jóhann first tried making it turn, which it did easily, and then found he could lift it completely off its base, revealing, in a compartment beneath, a large key.

Jóhann walked past the three men and fit the key into the lock; it turned, and the safe door popped open. The atmosphere in the room lightened immediately as Jóhann withdrew the contents of the safe and placed them on the desk. The marshal pulled out his notebook and began recording each item as he did so.

Twelve packets of ammunition, various sizes.

Seven hardback books, handwritten, labeled as engineer Jacob Kieler’s diaries.

Old documents parceled together with string.

A framed photograph.

A key on a string.

Jóhann straightened up. “That’s all.”

The four men examined the photograph first; it was a black-and-white of a gleaming new railway train, its locomotive in the foreground, probably painted black, bearing the inscription in Gothic lettering on its side: Iceland Railroad Company Ltd.

“Have you seen this picture before, sir?” Halldór asked. All eyes were now intently on the last Kieler male.

There was a long pause before Matthías replied. “No.”

“What about this key, then?” Halldór said.

“May I see it?” Jóhann asked, taking the key from the desktop. He went over to the gun cabinet and tried the lock; the key fit.

“This will need further examination,” Halldór stated, scanning the ammunition on the desk. “Jóhann will do that in the forensics lab.”

Matthías stood up. “With your permission, I shall take the diaries into safekeeping.”

“No, that will not be possible,” replied Halldór, taken aback. “They are important for our investigation of the case.”

“But my brother’s wishes are clear,” Matthías said firmly. “He wanted to protect these books from unauthorized access.”

Halldór bristled a bit and then said emphatically, “I can assure you that they will be treated in strict confidence; one of my team will read the diaries, and all that is not relevant to the present investigation will remain private.”

Matthías turned to the marshal.

“Do I have to put up with this?” he asked sharply.

“Yes, the law is unequivocal.”

Matthías looked at each of them in turn, and then left without saying good-bye.

Wordlessly, Halldór watched him depart, and then, turning his attention back to the contents of the safe, transferred all of it
to the cardboard box. The marshal had them each countersign the record of their meeting, and they left, locking the door behind them. On the front steps of the house they met a man dressed in a parka and carrying a toolbox, “Is there a lock here that needs opening?” he asked, after removing a half-smoked cigar from his mouth.

Diary X

March 27, 1927. AT LAST, AT LAST! The Althing has passed a government bill granting the Hydroelectric Company a franchise to build a railroad between Reykjavik and Thjórsá River. The state treasury will contribute 2 million krónur on completion of its construction, and the Hydroelectric Company will provide the balance, 6 million krónur, with capital from abroad. Compared with the cost estimates for the power station at Urridafoss, this is relatively cheap. The state will be in charge of operating the railroad on its completion…

March 30, 1927. I met the agent of the Hydroelectric Company. He now has all the data on the railroad, and we shall be having further talks before long. He has every confidence that construction of the railroad will start this coming summer. It will require 200 laborers, and we shall probably hire experienced
men from Norway; we shall endeavor to select respectable, temperate, and hard-working men…

April 11, 1927. Made an agreement with Kristján for me to employ him on a permanent basis. He is a skilled draftsman and admirably capable when we are surveying…

June 14, 1927. I still have heard nothing from the Hydroelectric Company. This is becoming inconvenient, as I have turned down other projects. I have discussed this with the Employment Minister, as I felt sure that the government will have assumed that the passage of the bill into law was sufficient to ensure commencement of the works…

July 5, 1927. I am not getting any replies to my letters to the Hydroelectric Company. I am becoming very worried about this…

November 15, 1927. I have not been able to do anything today, and hardly even managed to pick up this book to write these lines. The short days of fall sit heavily on me.

November 16, 1927. I am ill. I feel as if my head is burning.

November 17, 1927. I am ill.

November 19, 1927. Got up around noon and went outside briefly. The weather is bright and there is sunshine, albeit a little cold.

November 20, 1927. I felt well today and was able to work. Elizabeth is happy; she has been worried about me…