Thorolfur shook his head with a skeptical air. “What was it that you needed so badly to think about?” he asked.
“I needed to catch my bearings a bit.”
“Have you gone astray?”
“No, but a lot has happened over the past days, and I’m not used to dealing with this kind of stress. I normally try to avoid situations I can’t mentally handle. It takes very little to knock me out of kilter, and then I get depressed.”
Thorolfur waited a moment before asking, “Is there anything special you’d like to tell me before I put my first questions to you?”
“Anything special?”
“Yeah. Something that you feel could clarify this case?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Very well. We’ve been informed that you knew the late Bryngeir and, moreover, that you served a prison sentence for manslaughter.”
Kjartan looked apologetically at Grimur before answering. “Yes. Both of those assertions are correct. I knew Bryngeir, and I did time in prison. But I still maintain that the killing was an accident.”
“Bryngeir was connected to this manslaughter case,” said Thorolfur.
“Yes.”
“Tell me about that.”
“Do you want to hear the whole story from the beginning?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’ve heard many long stories today, so one more won’t make a difference.”
Kjartan loosened his collar. “Very well then. The story starts when I was in my final year at high school and I joined a club called the Jomsviking Society.”
“Jomsviking Society? Who are they?” Thorolfur asked.
“The Jomsvikings were a pack of young swashbucklers from the ancient town of Jomsborg at the end of the tenth century. Their story ended when they were defeated in a battle against Earl Hakon in Norway.”
“Tell me about this club.”
“There were about thirty boys in it, who were either finishing high school or in their first or second year at university. A bunch of lively, intelligent young men, most of them from well-off families. I was an exception, since I had very little money and was withdrawn.”
“What was the purpose of this club?”
“Officially, it was meant to be a reading or cultural club, but at the same time it was a semi-secret society. It had been running for several decades. New members were selected from pupils in their final years, and normally people left the club when they were well into their university studies. There was, therefore, a constant turnover of fresh blood in the club. When I joined they held meetings once a month, often in little halls or on the premises of a company that the father of one of the members managed. For the fun of it, we’d have readings of racy limericks that members had dug up or composed themselves. Sometimes up-and-coming authors were asked to read something or deliver a lecture. We held debates, and on some occasions music or even plays were performed. There was a touch of cultural snobbery about it all. There was a fair bit of drinking involved, too, and sometimes the gatherings degenerated into semi riots as the evening progressed.”
“What drew you to this club?”
“Vanity.”
“Oh?”
“I was pretty well read in various foreign authors. My uncle, who was a sailor, used to bring me back quite a few books from abroad, which I loosely translated for the meetings. I was therefore able to supply some pretty good reading material. I thought it would give me some kudos when I was invited to join, and I enjoyed having a drink or two.”
“What happened then?”
“When new members were taken in, they had to kneel under the sword, as they called it. The club owned an old Viking-style sword. It was a good replica they had gotten some skilled blacksmith to make for them many decades earlier. And the sword was both heavy and sharp. One of the members held the sword up in the air over the block, and the new member was supposed to kneel under it. Part of the Jomsviking saga was read out during the ceremony, and at some point in the text, the sword would be swung down. The patter went something like this in the end: ‘A hirdman took hold of the hair and twisted it round his hands and held Sveinn’s head on the block with both hands, as Thorkell prepared to slam down his sword.’ That was the cue, when the words ‘slam down his sword’ were spoken, the sword was supposed to be swung. The new member could always see the executioner’s shadow and get his head out of the way in time. The longer you could hold your head on the block for before the sword dropped, the braver you were considered to be. In the story the hirdman’s hands are cut off when Sveinn pulls his head off the block, so everyone at the meeting would shout out in unison, ‘Whose hands are in my hair?’ and that was it, the new member had been initiated.”
“Why were you holding the sword on this occasion?”
“There was a certain prestige to it. When you’d been a member of the society for a while and created a niche for yourself, then you got to draw the sword once and that elevated you to a higher status. Bryngeir suggested I be given the role that night.”
“But there was an accident?”
“Yes, there was an accident-or it looked like an accident. I swung the sword down on cue and could see that Einar had pulled his head away from the block under me. But then it was like he’d hit a wall because he bounced right back just as the sword was coming down. It struck him in the back of the head and he died instantly.”
“It must have been a shock for you?”
“Yes, of course, horrific. When the sword hit the obstacle, it seemed hard at first, the way you’d expect the block to be, but then it was strangely soft. When I realized what had happened it was as if I’d been hit by a train, and I collapsed with my head hitting the edge of a table.”
Kjartan lifted his hand and stroked the scar on his forehead.
“So it was an accident, then, or what?”
“Yes, of course, a horrendous accident. But then someone said I’d swung the sword too soon. And instead of backing me in the police investigation, my companions testified that I had swung the sword faster and harder than normal. They said that this was normally a harmless prank that put no one in danger.”
“Was that true?”
“No, it was part of the ritual to ensure that the sword remained firmly planted in the block after the strike.”
“According to my information, you blamed Bryngeir for the accident.”
“Yes. When I was over the initial shock a few days later, I was able to recall the scene. I’m sure that Bryngeir was standing behind Einar and kicked him back onto the block.”
“Weren’t you believed?”
“No, and someone even testified that Bryngeir wasn’t in the room. It was used against me to give me a heavier sentence when the verdict was reached. They said I was making false accusations. I spent five years in jail, as you undoubtedly know.”
Thorolfur nodded. “So you just came here and took the law into your own hands!”
Kjartan shook his head. “I never asked to come here. I expected to be doing other things when I accepted this summer job.”
“How did you react when you met Bryngeir here?”
“I didn’t know who the reporter was until I saw Bryngeir dead in the churchyard. It was a terrible shock for me.”
“Where were you on Sunday evening?”
“I went for a walk across the island and popped into the library on the way back. Doctor Johanna was there.”
“Did you know that she’d been the late Einar’s girlfriend?”
“I didn’t know that then, but I do now.”
“How did you first find out?”
“She told me late that night after a long conversation.”
“Did she tell you that Bryngeir had confessed to her that he had caused Einar’s death?”
“Yes.”
“How did you respond to that?”
“I was greatly relieved to hear it.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Eve
n though I believed the accident hadn’t been my fault, it was good to hear it confirmed. Not that it could take away all those years of hell I had to go through.”
“You perhaps wanted to reap vengeance on Bryngeir?”
“I’ve been struggling to find peace with myself and start a new life. Bryngeir wasn’t supposed to come into the picture.”
“But he did come into the picture?”
“Yes. He was like a resuscitated ghost there in the churchyard. I thought I’d had a nervous breakdown when I saw him there yesterday morning.”
“Do you feel better today?”
“Yes. I went to Johanna yesterday afternoon to ask her for something to help me. She gave me some tranquilizers, and I managed to recover.”
“It was pretty handy finding a shrink on the island you could go to.” That last comment came from Lukas, who had just entered the room and joined in the interview. “But I find these coincidences a bit odd,” he continued. “A notorious boozehound of a hack arrives here from Reykjavik. Within twenty-four hours he’s pranced all over the island, creating a racket and offending people left, right, and center, and yet you two innocent lambs hadn’t the faintest idea that he was here! Isn’t that just a little bit too incredible?”
“I knew about the reporter, but I didn’t know who he was. I later came to the conclusion that he’d tried to avoid me and Johanna. I guess that’s hardly surprising.”
“Yeah, sure, that’s what he did, but then he decided to pop in to see Johanna on Sunday night,” said Lukas.
A crew member from the coast guard ship stuck his head through the door and handed Thorolfur an envelope.
“We were both in the library that night,” Kjartan continued. “So he must have found the door locked when he arrived.”
“But what if he bumped into the two of you together?” said Lukas. “With no other witnesses around, and you with a newly purchased penknife in your hands. Wouldn’t it have been tempting to even the score with that monster?”
Kjartan gave a start and groped his trouser pockets.
“You did buy a penknife in the store, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but I think I’ve lost it. There’s a hole in my pocket.”
“Right. But I think the story went like this: Bryngeir went to see Johanna. He entered the doctor’s house, which was unlocked, and poked around when no one answered. Johanna was, yes, in the library chatting to you. Being the scoundrel that he was, Bryngeir, of course, took the opportunity to look around the doctor’s house, even though there was a dead body lying in there. And what do you know? He found Professor Gaston Lund’s papers, which Johanna had put aside last fall, after she’d taken the sleeping old man to Ketilsey. Something must have put Bryngeir on the right track in the Lund case, according to what witnesses say. Anyway. Then Bryngeir staggers outside and decides to walk across the churchyard when who should he meet in the middle of it but you and Johanna. And you hadn’t lost your penknife then yet, had you? So after saying good evening to him, you both pin the punk to the ground with his face pressed into the ground to smother his cries and start carving up his back and pulling his lungs out through the cuts. Or was it maybe the doctor who did that bit? Anyway, when you were done you draped him over a tombstone and went home to celebrate a job well done. You just didn’t have the good sense to look through his pockets, where you would have found the papers he’d stolen a few moments earlier.”
Kjartan answered none of this, but stuck his hand into his pocket and pulled out a bottle of pills.
“What’s that?” Thorolfur asked.
“This is the medication I got from Johanna. I think I need one. These are outrageous accusations.”
Thorolfur snatched the bottle of pills from him, read the label, and stuck it into his pocket.
“Not just yet. My colleague’s hypothesis is not improbable, but it needs to be completed somehow. I’ve just received the preliminary postmortem report, according to which Bryngeir drowned and had been dead for a long time before he was carved up.”
This time it was Lukas’s turn to be baffled. “Drowned at sea?” he asked.
“No, in freshwater,” Thorolfur answered.
“In freshwater? But are there any ponds or streams on this island?” Lukas was addressing his question to District Officer Grimur.
“No, just the swamp, but that’s almost completely dry after the long spell of warm weather we’ve had,” Grimur answered.
Thorolfur read the sheet again and then looked at Kjartan. “Our colleague in Reykjavik seems to think it’s possible that Bryngeir drowned in a bathtub, and there’s one of those in the doctor’s house, I believe. Maybe the man was dragged into the bath before he was carved up. So you must have found him in the doctor’s house and taken care of him there. Isn’t that possible?”
Kjartan seemed to have stopped listening, but his shoulders were trembling. Thorolfur pulled the bottle of pills out of his pocket and slammed it on the table in front of him.
“Here, take your pills and tell us the truth!”
Kjartan looked at Grimur. “Could I have a glass of water?”
Grimur rushed into the corridor and swiftly returned with a cup full of water.
Kjartan slipped two pills into his mouth and took a sip. Finally he said, “There is just no other truth to tell you.”
Thorolfur shook his head. “We’ve checked everyone’s movements here on Sunday night and the early hours of Monday morning. There was nothing unusual. You and Johanna, on the other hand, were up and about into the early hours and had every motive to want to see the reporter dead. You’re going to have to tell me a hell of a lot more if you want me to start believing you.”
“I didn’t go near Bryngeir,” Kjartan repeated.
“Go over the evening for me,” said Thorolfur.
“Johanna and I were at the library until the early hours of the morning, and then I walked her home and left her outside her house. It had started to rain, so I rushed home to the district officer’s house and crept up to my bedroom in the loft. I didn’t know anything about Bryngeir before Grimur sent for me in the morning.” Kjartan wiped the sweat off his brow with the palm of his hand.
“What the hell were you doing in the library all night?” Thorolfur asked.
“Johanna was telling me about the Flatey Book.”
“Is that something you could talk about all night?”
“Yes.”
“What time was it when you went to bed?”
“I wasn’t keeping track of time, but it was daylight. I would guess six in the morning.”
Thorolfur pondered a moment and then said, “You’ll accompany us on board the ship. There’s a cabin reserved for you there. Johanna will be kept under observation at the doctor’s house. Both of you will be asked to write a full account of every single moment of that night. It’ll be interesting to see how your details match up.”
Question thirty-seven: The place where a man’s laughter is located. First letter. A man’s rage is located in his gall, life in his heart, memory in his brain, ambition in his lungs, laughter in his spleen, and desire in his liver. The answer is “spleen,” and the first letter is s.
CHAPTER 54
A cloud of gloom hung over the district officer’s dining table that night. Grimur, Hogni, and Ingibjorg sat in the kitchen eating fried kittiwake eggs, puffin breast, and sugar-browned potatoes. There was plenty of food to go around because Ingibjorg had expected both policemen and Kjartan to join them for dinner. But they were on board the coast guard ship and would be there all evening. Probably overnight, too. Bjorn Snorri Thorvald’s funeral was scheduled for eleven the next morning, after which the coast guard ship was supposed to depart in the afternoon. Johanna and Kjartan were to go with them for further questioning. The detectives were now convinced that they were responsible for Bryngeir’s death and that Johanna had also played some role in Professor Lund’s fate.
“There’s no way that Kjartan and Johanna had anything to do with this
nonsense,” Ingibjorg said decisively. “I know people, and I can see it in their eyes when they’re speaking the truth.”
Grimur looked bewildered. “It is very strange, though. All the islanders have been able to account for their movements that night. And they were the only two people who were up. Not that I bring myself to believe that there’s anything bad about Johanna. And Kjartan seems like such a decent guy, too, even if he had that stroke of bad luck in his youth.”
Hogni’s mouth was full of food. He liked it.
“Mmm, maybe they found him dead and just did those things to mock him,” he said.
“No, no, no,” said Ingibjorg. “Not my Johanna.”
They finished the meal and drank coffee afterwards. The sky had cleared, and the evening sun now appeared in the west. Grimur felt somehow restless. “Come on a walk with me,” he finally said to Hogni. “I find it easier to think in the evening air. We can collect the cattle for the night while we’re at it.”
The men stepped outside and walked over the eastern slope. Thormodur Krakur was carrying water to his shed. He didn’t answer when they said good evening to them and just vanished behind the shed door with his buckets of water.
“Everyone seems to be in a somber mood this evening,” said Grimur. He looked around. “This is where Bryngeir was last seen alive,” he said, puzzled. “And it’s from here that he was going to walk across the island to visit Johanna. What route could he have taken?”
“Well,” Hogni answered, “he must have taken the road and followed it down. I walked that way with Inspector Lukas today. He was timing it and measuring the distance. It’s six hundred strides.”
One of Thormodur Krakur’s cows bellowed loudly from within the shed.
The Flatey Enigma Page 23