Sun on Fire

by Viktor Arnar Ingolfsson

“I took him to the emergency room. They gave him a couple injections and his back seemed to improve a little after that. The cold didn’t get any better, though, nor did his mood.”

  “What an asshole. But enough about Gunnar, we’ve got to press on. Who were the main characters out there in Berlin?”

  Birkir produced a list and read out the names. “They’re all in their forties and fifties,” he added. “Anton and the ambassador are the oldest.”

  Magnús took the paper and scrutinized the names. “The media are pissed that we didn’t let them have the names right away. I’m afraid this’ll start to leak out soon, and then these guys will get no peace. We’ve gotta fix this stat.”

  He paged through Birkir’s report again. “What’s your opinion?” he finally asked.

  “There’s something very strange going on here,” Birkir said. “Everything seems to indicate that Anton decided at the last minute to visit the ambassador. But somehow the murderer had this knife ready.”

  “Couldn’t there be some perfectly reasonable explanation?”

  “Who would carry a weapon like that to a poetry reading and an embassy reception?”

  “Not many people, I guess. No chance some other party was involved?”

  “No. The security systems rule that out.”

  “What clues have we got?”

  “We have the two candlesticks, one with its base broken open, and we have a palm print from the ambassador’s desk. That’s all.”

  “So, our priority is to get prints from everyone on the list. If we’re lucky, that’ll give us the solution. What’s your feeling about these guys?”

  “We’ve only spoken to the ambassador and his wife—and one of the guests, Jón Sváfnisson. It’s hard to know what to make of him.”

  Magnús nodded and said, “I’ve seen him in the street. His behavior is gross, to say the least.”

  Birkir said, “We watched him get kicked out of the Frankfurt Book Fair yesterday for stirring up trouble. And then he was on the same flight as us today. This time he was sweet as candy—just sat and read Günter Grass’s The Tin Drum the whole way. Didn’t even have a single beer. And yet he’s even bigger than Gunnar and you could see he wasn’t comfortable in his seat.”

  “I don’t think he’s violent,” Magnús said, “but I wish he were more conscientious on the home front. His house isn’t far from where my wife and I live, and it’s not exactly an asset to the neighborhood, to be honest. He inherited it from wealthy parents, a big luxury villa, but he doesn’t take care of it. The yard is completely neglected and full of junk. He rents out rooms, and some of his tenants are, shall we say, unusual.”

  “Unusual in what way?”

  “Oh, all kinds of artsy types and eccentrics. Really rowdy mob when they all get together. There are also tons of birds in the yard.”

  “Birds?”

  “Yes, they’re attracted by the food he puts out for them. The neighbors’ cars get covered in droppings, and folks find the screeching very annoying. The residents’ association has been trying to find ways to get the situation under control, but it’s difficult because it’s a private house.”

  “Any illegal activity in the house?” Birkir asked.

  “Nothing actually illegal, no, but it’s a blot on the landscape, and it could be lowering property values for the whole area.”

  Birkir said, “I’ll take a look at it tomorrow. I need to talk to Fabían, and he’s one of the tenants.”

  “You won’t have any trouble finding the house,” Magnús said. “It’s got ‘Jónshús’ painted in large letters on the front. One of the many things that make it a dump.”

  20:30

  Before Birkir finally went home, he finished off the paperwork from Berlin. Nobody had told him to do it right away, but he didn’t want it waiting for him at the start of the next workday; there would be plenty of other things to do. Don’t leave till tomorrow what you can do today—he’d learned that from old Hinrik, his foster father, when they used to tend the few sheep the old man kept in a shack by the coast on Vatnsleysuströnd, west of Reykjavík.

  Birkir’s home was on the second floor of a quaint building in Bergstadastræti, in the old center of town. The apartment was cramped and oddly laid out, but he had lived there for many years and was used to it. He found it cozy, and he’d made it his home.

  He began by unpacking his suitcase. Dirty clothes went straight into the washing machine, everything else to its proper place in the closet. The only thing he’d added to his luggage in Germany was a small, attractively framed, black-and-white photograph of a woman playing the violin. He’d bought it in an antique shop in Frankfurt while waiting for the flight to Iceland. He walked around the apartment with the photo, trying to find a good place to hang it. The walls were covered with pictures, all devoted in one way or another to the same subject—people or figures with string instruments: violins, cellos, double basses. There was a mixture of photographs, oil paintings, watercolors, and drawings—large works and small—and, on shelves here and there, a few figurines mirroring the same theme.

  His new photo and its frame looked to be at least one hundred years old; for this he had paid what he felt was a reasonable sum. Actually, the age of these artworks wasn’t as important to him as the diversity of the collection.

  Birkir found a good spot in the living room. He fetched a hammer and a nail, measured the position carefully, and tapped the nail into the wall. He hung the picture on the nail and stepped back to contemplate the result. He was pleased. The shape and design of string instruments gave him a kind of feeling of inner security, brought on by some vague recollection or image from his childhood. His memories from Vietnam were otherwise very fractured, and his experience at a refugee center in Malaysia is what had first brought any kind of perspective to him. By then he was an orphan being fostered in a large family.

  He fed a CD into his music player, and the Andante con moto in E major from Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony sounded through the apartment as he went around with a watering can, tending his twenty-seven potted plants.

  Gunnar arrived at work, stiff and stuffy, supporting himself on a pair of crutches he’d kept since that time he’d slipped on the ice and broken his leg. María, his mother, had dug them out from under a bag of empty beer bottles in their storeroom. He tottered around awkwardly and very slowly.

  “I can’t straighten my back,” Gunnar said to Birkir. “I need these to keep me from falling on my face.” He banged one crutch on the floor for emphasis.

  “Obviously,” Birkir said. “When you lean forward like that, your center of gravity is in front of your toes.”

  “Get me a large cup of tea,” Gunnar said. “White with sugar.”

  “Anything else?”

  “A roll of paper towels. I need to blow my nose.”

  “Wouldn’t you be better off in bed?”

  “We’ve got a murder to solve, and you’re not going to manage it without me. Now go and get me that stuff.”

  While he waited, Gunnar sat down and switched on his computer. He had already checked some Icelandic and German news sites when Birkir put a steaming hot cup and a roll of paper in front of him. Gunnar tore off two pieces of paper and blew his nose—cautiously, not wanting to aggravate his back pain.

  “Anything new?” he asked.

  “Yes, actually,” Birkir replied. “One of the embassy guests has a criminal record. Assaults some years ago.”

  “Who?”

  “Lúdvík Bjarnason.”

  “The exhibition manager?”

  “Yeah. In his younger days he did some debt collecting.”

  “What, for loan sharks?”

  “Something like that.”

  “How long ago?”

  “The latest case was twenty years ago. After that he turned to more constructive occupations.”

  “So there isn’t necessarily any connection there,” Gunnar said. “Anything else?”

  “No, nothing interesting. I�
�m trying to get ahold of the other guys on the list.”

  “How are you doing?”

  “Mixed results. How did you sleep?”

  “Badly.”

  “Your back killing you?”

  “It’s like a broken piece of wood. I should never have gone on that goddamned trip. My cold isn’t helping, either.”

  “Are you seeing the doctor again?”

  “No. He’ll just start lecturing me about my weight,” Gunnar said, gripping the edge of the table as he sneezed. “Ouch,” he said, trying to straighten his back.

  “But he’s right, isn’t he? You are too heavy, aren’t you?”

  “Don’t you start,” Gunnar said, and blew his nose again. “I’ll just do indoor stuff today,” he added nasally.

  “OK,” Birkir said. “Helgi Kárason is coming here around one o’clock, you can talk to him. I’ll go see Starkadur and David in a few minutes. They said they’d be at home. After that I’ll visit Fabían Sigrídarson. Evidently he’s confined to bed, so it doesn’t matter what time I get there. I’ve spoken to them all on the phone to arrange things.”

  “So what about Lúdvík?”

  “I haven’t been able to get ahold of him. I’ve got a cell number, but he’s not replying.”

  “I’ll try to locate him,” Gunnar said. “Listen,” he added. “Remember that I told Mom that we went to Egilsstadir. You’ve got to back me up if she asks.”

  “OK, and I’ll tell her you got lumbago and caught a cold going there.”

  “Yeah, you do that, but only if she asks. You need a good memory if you’re going to string my mother along—she sees through everything. I get my intuition from her.”

  “She would have made a good cop,” Birkir said.

  “Better than most,” Gunnar replied.

  11:30

  Starkadur and David’s home was the middle story of a triplex on the west side of town. Birkir rang the doorbell and waited.

  A well-groomed man in his forties answered the door.

  Birkir introduced himself and showed his badge. “Are you Starkadur or David?”

  “I’m Starkadur,” the man said. He wore a pale-brown shirt and matching pants, with a gaudy bandanna around his neck, and a light-colored sweater draped over his shoulders and tied loosely across his chest. “Please come in.”

  “Thanks,” Birkir said and entered the apartment. The stale air bore witness that smokers lived there.

  “Sorry about the mess,” Starkadur said. “David’s getting ready for an exhibition, and there’s stuff all over the place.”

  Birkir looked around. It was true there were large fashion drawings hanging everywhere, with fabric samples pinned to them, but apart from that the apartment seemed homey and clean.

  “Come on in and have a seat in the kitchen. Tea or coffee?”

  “A glass of water would be good,” Birkir said.

  “Sparkling or natural?”

  “Just tap water, please.”

  Starkadur took an elegant, tall glass from a cupboard, turned on the faucet, and tested the temperature of the water with a finger; when he was satisfied it was running cool enough, he placed the glass under the stream and filled it.

  “You know why I’m here,” Birkir said as he accepted the drink.

  “Probably that revolting man at the embassy,” Starkadur replied, filling another glass with water.

  “Revolting man?” Birkir switched on his voice recorder and looked searchingly at Starkadur. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Yeah, that Anton guy. Wasn’t he murdered?”

  Birkir recorded the formal identifiers before replying, “Yes, Anton Eiríksson was killed Sunday night at the embassy in Berlin.”

  “About time.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “He was such a disgusting pedo.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Pedo—a pedophile.”

  “You mean he abused children?”

  “Yeah, it’s been common knowledge for years. It’s incredible that he was never indicted. Horrifying stuff.” He took a pack of cigarettes from one of the cupboards and lit a smoke with a lighter that he held, as Birkir noticed, in his right hand.

  “Do you know any individuals who were his victims?”

  “I don’t personally know any of his victims—just that everybody in the association says he’s a pedophile.”

  “What association?” Birkir asked.

  “Our Lesbian and Gay Association.”

  “Was Anton a member?”

  “Absolutely not! They would never have approved him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Monsters like him cause the worst discrimination against us. Some uninformed folks believe that all gays lust after kids.”

  “I see what you mean,” Birkir said. “It must be difficult to deal with that.”

  “Exactly. Our relationships and sex lives are like everybody else’s—based on mutual respect, love, and equality. Any abuse is utterly distasteful to us. Sexual orientation is not what makes someone an abuser.”

  “You met Anton at a meeting with the ambassador at the embassy, correct?”

  “Yes, but only very briefly. I don’t know what the ambassador thought we wanted with that man. Not surprisingly, Anton left the room as soon as we told him what we thought of him.”

  “What room?”

  “We were in the ambassador’s office.”

  Birkir took a sip of water. “Anton went up to the ambassador’s office a number of times after that. Did you see anybody follow him?”

  “No, for God’s sake, I practically covered my eyes when he passed.” Starkadur held his hands over his face to emphasize his words.

  “Was David with you at all times?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Did you go back up to the fourth floor any time later on?”

  “No. There was no reason for me to go up there.”

  “Whom did you and David talk with during the evening?”

  “Mainly the ambassador’s wife. She wanted to discuss the spring fashion trends—and, being polite guests, we listened.”

  “But you were the first ones to leave?”

  “Yes, and we should’ve left much earlier, but David sometimes needs the services of the embassy, so we didn’t want to offend the ambassador and his wife.”

  “Did you consume alcohol during the evening?”

  “Sure, there wasn’t much else to do other than get stewed. I had an awful hangover the following day and I feel like I’m still recovering. But I know for sure that I didn’t kill that monster, even if I would have liked to. Did someone smash his head in?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Just curiosity.”

  “I can’t answer that question.”

  “Oh well. I guess we’ll find out eventually.”

  “The details will probably be released when we’ve finished our inquiries. Tell me, what do you do for a living?”

  “Computers. I’m a systems analyst. Freelance. I’ve got a workspace here in the basement. You should call me if you ever find yourself in trouble with your home computer, if you get a virus or something like that. I’m pretty affordable.”

  “Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind.” Birkir checked his list of notes. “Did you know the other guests?”

  “I’d met most of them at some point.”

  “Did any one of them seem more likely than the others to commit murder, in your opinion?”

  “No, definitely not. These were not people given to violence.” Starkadur laughed, and was still laughing when they heard someone open the front door and enter the apartment. “Come in, love,” he cried out. “There’s a cop here telling jokes.”

  “Good morning,” David Mathieu said. He was a man of exceptional beauty, although, being just over forty, not in the first flush of youth. His Mediterranean complexion and brown eyes contrasted with his silver-gray hair—still very thick—and neat, somewhat darker, mustache. His mouth was well shaped, hi
s teeth white and straight, his nose delicate. He was slim, erect, and graceful of movement.

  “I was asking your friend here about your visit to Berlin,” Birkir said.

  “You mean my husband,” David said.

  “Yes, Starkadur,” Birkir said, looking from one to the other.

  “Starkadur is my husband,” David said firmly. “We are married.”

  “Got it. Starkadur, your husband, told me that you met with Anton Eiríksson at the embassy on the evening he died.”

  “Yes, the ambassador had the idea I could make use of his connections for the manufacture of my fashion line.”

  “Did that not work out?”

  “No, it was out of the question.”

  “Why?”

  “Anton was an out-and-out slave trader. His specialty was finding manufacturing companies and offering to seek out cheaper production facilities for them. He boasted that there was nothing that he couldn’t get made for half its current cost.”

  “Is that unreasonable in the global market?”

  “Oh, absolutely. Anton sought out the poorest areas of Asia where there’s no control over child slavery or employment rights generally. He used to visit well-known fashion designers with complete garments—exact copies of their own lines, same materials, same finish. Even identical labels. He would offer the copies to them at half the price they were paying their own producers. He’d tell them that, whether they liked it or not, these products would be out there in the market. Most people threw him out, of course, but some opportunists may have made deals with him.”

  “Did he specialize in clothing?”

  “No. He dabbled in everything. He sought out factories where the working conditions were good and people were paid proper wages. He’d find out what they were producing and have the same stuff made in one of his slave bins. Then he’d show up at the company whose merchandise it was, and offer his version of the product at half the price. He didn’t need many deals like that to earn serious money.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Everybody in my line of work knows this. Word gets around fast. Anton represented the very worst in this game. He was totally unscrupulous. His death is no loss to the world.”