Sun on Fire

Home > Other > Sun on Fire > Page 21
Sun on Fire Page 21

by Viktor Arnar Ingolfsson


  Birkir didn’t know how to respond to this speech, and for a while neither of them spoke. Finally he asked, “Have you noticed any unusual comings and goings here?”

  Fabían looked at Birkir in surprise. “Nothing here is either usual or unusual. Sometimes people turn up and sometimes people leave. Like the moon, waxing and waning.”

  “Have you seen Jón Sun Poet this evening?”

  Fabían smiled weakly. “All my life people have been asking me questions. ‘Who are you?’ ‘Where are you?’ ‘What is there behind the darkness?’ I think I’ve only given confident answers to one or two of those questions,” he said.

  Dóra popped her head around the door. “We can’t find anybody here,” she said. “We’re just finishing in the basement.”

  Birkir stood up to leave. “Thanks for the chat,” he said to Fabían.

  Outside on the landing, Rakel was waiting for him. “This scares me,” she said. “I know you’re a good man and that I can talk to you in confidence.”

  “What are you scared of?”

  “I’m scared for Jón. I think he’s having one of his manic episodes, and it bothers me that he’s not at home. He can lose his sense of judgment under these circumstances.”

  “You really don’t have any idea where he might be?”

  “No. Somebody called him Saturday evening—some guy. Jón doesn’t have a cell phone, so if anyone wants to get ahold of him, they call the landline. He left the house yesterday morning carrying an old cassette recorder, and I haven’t seen him since.”

  “Did you hear any of the phone conversation?”

  “No. Jón didn’t really say anything. He just listened. Then he scribbled something on a piece of paper and took it with him.”

  “What sort of paper?”

  “You know, a white piece of paper. Lined.”

  “I mean, where did he get the paper?”

  “There’s a pad by the phone for messages and stuff. When folks answer and need to pass on a message, they write it down and pin it to a corkboard next to the phone.”

  “Can you show me?”

  Rakel nodded and led him down the stairs. By the front door was a little telephone table with a chair next to it. Rakel pointed to the small notepad and ballpoint pen on the table.

  “Do you use this a lot?” Birkir asked, carefully picking up the pad.

  “No,” Rakel replied. “Most of us have cell phones so folks can call us directly, or text us. Or e-mail us. It’s mainly Jón who gets messages here.”

  “Has anybody used this pad since Jón wrote on it Saturday?”

  Rakel glanced at the corkboard. “No, these are all old messages. There’s nothing new here. I don’t think anybody’s used the pad since then.”

  “Can I take this with me?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Listen.”

  “Yes?”

  “Please be gentle with Jón if you find him. He’s a good man. He’s just not too well at the moment.”

  21:40

  The chief of police had instructed them to set up an incident room to coordinate the search for Magnús and Arngrímur. Birkir looked in and saw several people either talking on the phone or examining a large map of Reykjavík. They’d decided on a systematic search of empty houses in the city—there were plenty of them, thanks to the financial crisis—and some on the team were at work making lists of these places. Then there were others who evidently felt it would help to talk loudly or march back and forth waving documents.

  In Mosfell, the SWAT team had found a small frightened woman in an apartment that, according to the National Register, was supposed to be Lúdvík Bjarnason’s address. She swore he was abroad and not expected back anytime soon. She was not actually certain that this was his home at all, because their relationship was somewhat vague. Lúdvík came and went, and didn’t tell her much about his movements. The woman was able to show the policemen a few boxes containing Lúdvík’s personal things, as well as some clothes in a wardrobe. That was all.

  Birkir found Anna in the forensic lab. She was standing by a sink, and quickly extinguished a cigarette under the tap when she heard someone coming.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said, relieved.

  “You’re still working,” he said.

  “Yes. I’m completing a preliminary report on the Austurbrún case, the dead safe-breaker. We’ll continue tomorrow.” She nodded at some photographs lying on the table. “We have footprints.”

  Birkir looked at one of the photos, which showed an indistinct print in something that could be a very fine layer of dust, with a red-and-white ruler laid next to it. The image had been computer-enhanced and the outlines exaggerated with a black line. It was a print from a shoe with a plain sole.

  “Pretty ordinary,” he said.

  Anna picked up another photo and handed it to him. “This seems to be the other foot.”

  Birkir stared at the picture. It showed a smaller print, a shade wider but significantly shorter.

  “It looks like a specially made shoe for a crippled foot,” Anna said. “This could be a big help to us.”

  “Where do you get shoes like this?”

  “We’ll find out tomorrow,” Anna said. “This will do for tonight.”

  “Just one more thing,” Birkir said, carefully fishing Jón the Sun Poet’s notepad out of an envelope. “I need to know what was written on the last bit of paper before it was torn out,” he said, laying the pad down on the workbench.

  Anna took out a magnifying glass and peered at the pad. “I’ll have a look at it. You go home. It’ll be on your desk tomorrow morning.”

  “Thanks,” Birkir said. “But please call me right away if you detect an address or some sort of location.”

  Anna nodded.

  22:10

  Birkir found Gunnar at home in his kitchen. He had a stiff medical collar around his neck, and his mother was helping him eat.

  “Want the rest of the meat stew?” Gunnar asked hoarsely.

  “Yes, please, just a small amount.”

  María fetched a bowl and set it in front of Birkir.

  “What did the doctors say?” Birkir asked when he’d taken a spoonful of soup.

  Gunnar was having trouble swallowing. “They took an X-ray of my neck,” he struggled to say. “Said it’s just a sprain. A bad sprain, actually, and very inflamed, so I’ve got to wear this thing until it gets better.”

  “Oh, well, you got off easy,” Birkir said. “I hope you stay home the rest of the week and try to recover.”

  “I’ll come in tomorrow. I’m too restless to stay home while we’re still working this case. I can at least take phone calls.”

  “You sure?”

  “More or less. See how it is in the morning. I’ll be in if I’m not feeling any worse. What’s happening at the station?”

  “The police chief set up a special team—with him heading it—to supervise the search. We’re supposed to work with them.”

  22:30

  This was a long day for Anna. She often made life more difficult for herself through her reluctance to delegate when in the thick of things. She trusted no one. In a crime-scene investigation, she preferred to deal with all the menial tasks herself. That could mean working well into the night, and now Birkir had added this notepad to her workload.

  She began by removing the top leaf from the pad and examining it in different types of light. When that brought no useful results, she went out to the parking lot for a break to consider the best approach to what was an unusual challenge for her.

  After some fresh air and two cigarettes, she felt clear on how to proceed. She went to the equipment room and got a bag that contained a small metal box—an Electrostatic Detection Device, or EDD. She set the device on her workbench and switched it on. A fan started up, creating suction through the perforated top platen, which gripped the sheet of paper when she put it in place. She then covered the paper with a very thin Mylar film, over which
she waved the attached electrostatic wand for several seconds to create a positive charge in the paper.

  Another part of the kit was black toner powder, and she now carefully scattered some of this over the film’s surface. She knew the theory: The pressure of the pen used to write on a notepad causes the filaments of the paper below to break—and waving an electromagnetic field over the paper imparts a positive charge to the ends of those broken filaments, which attracts the negatively charged toner. But still it was like magic when the powder Anna dusted over the plastic film created a vivid copy of the last thing that had been written on the pad. Underneath, she could see a fainter image of an older message, probably a household shopping list for Jónshús.

  What Anna read was not an address—just a few rows of numerals. No reason, therefore, to call Birkir now. This would be tricky to decipher.

  23:00

  It had begun to snow when Birkir parked his Yaris in the reserved spot behind his house. He remained seated in the car for a little while, reflecting. Finally he made a decision—instead of going inside, he’d walk over to Jónshús and check the situation there.

  The falling snow was heavy and wet, and soon the ground was completely white. Birkir felt the snow pile up on his shoulders and in his hair, and now and then he stopped to brush the worst of it off. Between stops, he walked briskly and soon reached his destination. In a parking space just across the street from the house were two men in a car, its engine running and windshield wipers sweeping to and fro against the snow. These must be the plainclothes policemen the chief had put on watch there in case the Sun Poet showed up. He tapped on the side window, and the one sitting at the wheel rolled it down.

  “Good evening,” Birkir said.

  “Hi.”

  “Any signs of life?”

  “No.”

  “I wasn’t really expecting there would be,” Birkir said. “I’m just going to check on the folks in there.”

  “You do that,” said the cop, who then yawned.

  In Jónshús, all the lights seemed to be off—except for the glimmer of light coming from one of the living rooms. Birkir caught a glimpse of Rakel at the window.

  He trod his way through the yard and went up the steps to the front door. He pressed the bell once, briefly. After a while, the light above him came on, and someone peeked through the drapes covering a small window next to the door. Birkir knocked and shouted, “Detective division, Birkir Li Hinriksson.”

  The door opened and Rakel peered out.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” Birkir said.

  “What do you want?” Rakel asked. “I haven’t heard anything from Jón, and Fabían is asleep. I gave him a large dose of painkillers.”

  “I want to ask you a few questions.”

  “You do, do you? I don’t suppose there’s any point in my refusing.”

  “I’d be very grateful if you’d cooperate.”

  Rakel opened the door and stood to one side. “You’re welcome to come in. We’ll see about the questions.”

  It was dark inside. Rakel was wearing a thick bathrobe, and she led the way into the house. She said over her shoulder, “Everyone went to their rooms long ago. They weren’t very happy this evening.”

  “Why not?”

  “There’s something scary in the air.”

  “Is there something you know about?”

  “No, it’s just a feeling.”

  She ushered Birkir into the living room. A fire was dying in the fireplace, and Rakel added a couple of logs to its embers. Quiet music came drifting from the stereo. A scratchy vinyl record revolved on the turntable. Birkir knew the song but couldn’t work out who the performer was.

  “Who’s the singer?” he asked.

  “Joni Mitchell. The album’s Blue, from 1971. This is my kind of music. The old hippie records. We have a bit of a collection.”

  “Were you listening? I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”

  “I was just sitting here alone, thinking,” Rakel said, offering Birkir a seat. “There’s so much going on. Times change.”

  She sang quietly along with the music—“Blue songs are like tattoos”—but stopped after one line.

  “Were you into the hippie culture?” Birkir asked her.

  “The hippies had the most beautiful vision of the twentieth century, but many things in the movement also went wrong. The Woodstock festival was in many ways the pinnacle of that era, but the Manson murders, in the same week of August 1969, were its nadir. Sadly, few could properly handle the freedom the hippies created for themselves and the rest of that generation. I just try to focus on the beautiful things.”

  “You’re worried about Jón, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Has he been unbalanced lately?”

  “He’s been agitated and restless.”

  “Were there symptoms of mania?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. He’s not stable, that much is certain. His bipolar disorder is usually only a problem when he does a lot of heavy drinking. But he’s been sober lately. And he hasn’t been talking to us—when he’s manic he’s usually very gregarious and loud.”

  Birkir said, “I know that those of you who lived with Sunna in Sandgil have wanted to talk with ex-Sheriff Arngrímur Ingason Esjar. Helgi told me the whole story. Are you aware of some kind of action that Jón has planned?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think it’s plausible?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What were they going to do to Arngrímur?”

  “I don’t know. They haven’t included me in their plans lately. I’ve always been so cautious. They called it fear.”

  “But would you have wanted to get Arngrímur to confess?”

  “Yes, that would have been good. None of us emerged from those events unscathed. We survived them, each in our own way, but there was always this question: Why did it have to happen?”

  “I know you were all very fond of Sun. What made her so special?”

  “She was my best friend.”

  “Tell me more.”

  Rakel pointed at a framed drawing hanging on the wall, its paper yellowed and creased where it had been folded. “That’s a picture of Sun that Fabían drew a long, long time ago,” she said. “It’s the only one of her that we have.”

  Birkir stood up to take a closer look. It was a fine drawing of a beautiful girl playing a guitar.

  “But it’s better than any photograph could have been,” Rakel added. “Sun was singing when she woke up and singing when she went to sleep. She loved life as only the young can. She never argued with anyone, and soothed all who were bitter. The rest of us attempted to embrace the hippie way of life, but she was simply a child of nature. She came from the sparsely populated country of Northwest Iceland and didn’t feel the need to copy anybody. She was a genuine flower child. The two of us went for long walks in the area around Sandgil, sometimes a long way into the hills, and even all the way up Mount Thórólfsfell—there was a view into the Thórsmörk National Park when visibility was good. Sun loved everything that was beautiful—landscape, music, poetry, pictures.”

  “Was she completely perfect?” Birkir asked.

  Rakel smiled. “She was scared of mice.”

  Her smile disappeared as she added, “And fire.”

  Birkir got back home just after midnight. He slept soundly for most of the night, but toward early morning he woke with a start from a dream in which Jón the Sun Poet had caught him and was forcing him into a foul-smelling hessian sack. He lay a long while thinking about the dream. In it, he hadn’t been scared of Jón—it was the smell. Sometimes he dreamed about an unfamiliar smell—it could be a good smell or a bad smell, but it was always something he didn’t recognize from daily life. Something from his childhood, likely from Vietnam. He closed his eyes and inhaled through his nose, trying to find some image that went with this smell, but nothing came to him. It was as though he hit a wall whenever he thought about the day he arrived at that Malaysi
an refugee camp. He couldn’t recall anything in context before that time, just obscure fragments that popped up in response to some everyday event.

  He remembered, suddenly, that he had lots of work to do at the police station, and he got out of bed and rushed to get himself ready for an early start. He switched on the kettle to boil some water while he took a quick shower and shaved, after which he made himself a cup of tea and a piece of cheese on toast. Having eaten his breakfast, he headed out.

  On his desk was an envelope from Anna. It contained a printout of the image she’d retrieved from the notepad in Jónshús. She had erased all traces of earlier stuff, leaving just the most recent message—the one Jón had written:

  What did these numbers mean? Did they have any bearing on the case?

  He was scratching his head over this when Gunnar hobbled in on his crutches, wearing a cervical collar. It took him a good while to sit down.

  “You should have stayed home,” Birkir said.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, that’s what Mom said, too.” Gunnar sneezed and wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket. “Goddamned cold,” he said nasally.

  Birkir passed him the roll of paper towels he’d fetched for him the previous day.

  “Thanks,” Gunnar said, blowing his nose. “Anything new?”

  Birkir showed him the paper with the numbers on it. “What do you think these are?”

  “Bingo numbers?” Gunnar said.

  “I figure they’re directions to someplace,” Birkir said, and explained where the paper came from.

  “I pass,” Gunnar said. “I can’t make any sense of this.”

  Birkir’s cell phone rang. It was the front-desk duty officer. “There’s a woman here wants to speak with you.”

  It was Rakel. She handed Birkir an envelope. “I went for a walk this morning like I do every morning. I came across Jón, waiting for me by Hallgríms Church—he knows my regular route. He said the cops were watching our house, so he couldn’t come home. He said they were probably bugging his phone, too.”

 

‹ Prev