Birkir spent some years with the uniformed police in Reykjavik before he got a position in the detective division, where he concentrated on violent-crime investigations. He was good at the job, and it proved to be a bonus that he sometimes had a different way of looking at things than his colleagues who had spent their whole lives in Iceland. He tended to be generally suspicious, and never jumped to conclusions. People’s appearances or facial expressions hardly ever fooled him.
Birkir had two hobbies: classical music and long-distance running. The music kept his soul happy and the running kept his body fit. There was good balance between the two. He had started this particular day by running ten kilometers before his shift. He would try to repeat this the following morning, preferably going a bit farther.
Birkir returned to the living room after his shower and sat down to listen to Jean Fournet’s recording of Gabriel Fauré’s Pavane. Then, craving something warm and rich, he went into the kitchen to fix himself a hot chocolate topped with whipped cream.
There was an ironing board in the living room—not one of those common, lightweight boards that are folded up after use and put in a closet, but the kind that remains permanently installed. Birkir stepped up to it now, removed his pants from the hanger he’d hung nearby, and began to press them. He listened to the Adagietto from Mahler’s Symphony no. 5 as he carefully ran the iron over the creases in the pants, pausing every so often for a sip of hot chocolate. All the while his thoughts were on the man who had been shot down on the edge of a potato field in Dalasýsla in the early morning hours, and why his death had come so suddenly.
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 22
09:30
“This is it,” Gunnar said.
Birkir slowed the car and swung into a parking lot. All around them towered modern commercial buildings, one of which housed the law office where Ólafur Jónsson had worked.
On the high-rise in front of them a large digital billboard flashed advertisements in quick succession, and featured a clock with huge red neon numerals that read 09:32. Then 09:33.
“Time’s getting away from us already,” said Birkir. “Shall we split up?”
“Okay,” Gunnar replied, struggling to extract the last jelly bean from its bag with his thick fingers.
“I’ll go talk with the widow, you deal with the coworkers,” Birkir said.
Gunnar dropped the jelly bean he’d finally managed to get a hold of and immediately started looking for it on the floor. “Where did the damn thing go?”
Birkir shook his head. “Get out, and then maybe you’ll find it.”
“Yeah,” Gunnar replied, opening the door and easing himself out of the car. “Ah, here it is,” he said, plucking the candy from the seat. “Will you pick me up afterward?”
“Take a taxi,” Birkir said, putting the car in gear. “I might be some time.”
“Okay. Right.”
Gunnar entered the office building and looked around. It was an impressive space. Large windows let light into a soaring lobby that had a wide spiral staircase and a sleek glass elevator.
He studied the information board on the ground floor. The offices of the company Ólafur had worked for, ICinnheimtan, were on the fourth floor.
Gunnar looked longingly at the elevator but decided to walk up the stairs; he needed the exercise and there was no hurry.
He spotted two surveillance cameras high up on the wall, one of which soundlessly directed its lens toward him. Better behave, he thought, nodding in the direction of the camera, and he started walking, slowly and steadily, up the staircase. He studied each floor as he climbed. This kind of modern architecture was all about glass and open spaces, and he wondered if the people who worked here minded the lack of privacy. The hushed silence around him was disturbed only by his own muffled footsteps. He heard the soft sound of a bell as the elevator started its ascent. It was empty, summoned by somebody on an upper floor.
Arriving on the fourth floor, Gunnar looked through the glass wall into the spacious reception area of ICinnheimtan, where a secretary in a black suit sat at a desk and worked at a stylishly designed computer. There was nothing else on her desktop, not even a pen. Behind the woman was a dark-gray partition wall with four office doors.
“Good morning,” said the secretary as Gunnar opened the glass door and walked in.
She had flowing black hair and wore black square-framed glasses. Even as she directed her attention at Gunnar, her fingers continued to work the keyboard.
“Good morning, I’m from the detective division.” He showed his ID. “I need to talk to your boss.”
She made no reply, her fingers still tapping away. A door opened and a man appeared. He wore a dark-gray suit, a white shirt, and a black tie. His black hair was combed straight back, and although his face was good-looking, it lacked expressiveness. A dummy in a shop window, Gunnar thought, trying to assess what type of man he was dealing with.
“My name is Tómas Benediktsson. Please follow me,” the man said, opening a different door. “We have been meeting to discuss our reorganization.”
Gunnar looked back at the secretary. She must have announced his arrival through her computer. They seemed to be people of few words.
Tómas said, “Ólafur’s death is obviously a dreadful blow for us all. He was a key member of the team and a much-liked colleague.”
They entered a small conference room that had a glass-topped table and black chairs. No cabinets, but there was one classy painting on the wall that featured strong colors and rough brushstrokes.
“Any news on the investigation?” Tómas asked.
Gunnar shook his head, “Unfortunately, no. Nothing yet.”
“Is that so? Well, what can I do for you?”
“You can tell me about what Ólafur was working on. Did he have enemies?”
“He had many opponents, like almost everyone in our profession does, but enemies? Hardly.”
“What was his job here?”
“Financial claims, foreign and domestic. The IC part of the firm’s name stands for International Collectors. We work in collaboration with a multinational conglomerate.”
Gunnar was trying to write the English words in his notebook. “I-N-T…How do you spell that?”
Tómas spelled the two words slowly and clearly.
“What can you tell me about his purchase of the farm?” Gunnar asked.
“It was a small job he undertook on behalf of a relative of his. Collecting an overdue personal surety. He actually referred the case to another law firm that we use for small claims. A million is our usual threshold for—”
“Hang on,” Gunnar interrupted. “One million krónur—that wouldn’t get you a decent secondhand car. Was the claim less than that?”
The lawyer smiled politely. “I meant that in this firm the minimum is one million euros. The claim was considerably less than that.”
“Ah, I see.” Gunnar grinned. “Then what?”
The unexpected sight of the gap between Gunnar’s front teeth put the lawyer off his stride momentarily, but then he went on. “Though, as I say, another firm was actually handling the claim, Ólafur kept oversight of the matter on behalf of the claimant, and when the farm was put up for auction he bid for the property against the loan fund representatives, seeking to safeguard his relative’s interests. He himself had been looking for a farm with hunting resources, and this property suited him reasonably well despite its distance from Reykjavik. The price was also acceptable.”
“Did he go there often?”
“He tried to go whenever he could. There’s a trout stream there, as well as good hunting, especially for geese and ptarmigan. If the forecast was good, he would sometimes leave town at four o’clock in the morning, bag a few geese on their morning flight, and then drive straight back to town and be at his desk by eleven. I went with him twice on trips like that. He invited me to come yesterday but I was busy, unfortunately—if that’s the right word.”
“What sort of gun did Óla
fur have?”
“Wasn’t it found next to him?”
“No. It had been taken.”
“He had a decent gun, a Remington 870 Wingmaster pump-action. I was actually trying to get him to buy an automatic, but he wanted to stick to his Remington. He was a very good hunter, too.”
“I heard that there had been some disagreement with the tenant of the farm.”
“Yes, that’s right. The former owner seems to be a bit strange in the head, if I can put it like that. Ólafur let him stay on as tenant and work the farm. Some people would have been grateful, but that man was not.”
The lawyer paused, got up, and looked at his watch.
“What do you mean by that?” Gunnar asked, not moving.
“He was supposed to pay a small amount of rent to help cover property tax and other official dues. But he never coughed up anything to speak of, and then he actually began to be abusive and indulge in vandalism.”
“Vandalism?”
“Yes. Damage was done to cars belonging to Ólafur and friends he’d invited to come hunting on the farm. Two cars were scratched up, and one had its tires slashed. At one point some game was stolen.”
“Did Ólafur report this?”
Tómas sat back down. “Oh yes. Ólafur contacted the sheriff, but the tenant denied it, and of course it wasn’t possible to prove anything. There were no witnesses and the authorities were not particularly interested. So in the end Ólafur gave the guy formal notice to quit.”
“How did that go?”
“It’s in the hands of the sheriff. Ólafur got a lawyer to serve an eviction notice when the man refused to leave the farm.”
“How did the original claim come about?”
“I’m not familiar with the case. I’ll give you the name of the lawyer who dealt with it.” Tómas wrote something on a piece of paper that was lying on the table.
“Has the tenant ever threatened Ólafur?” Gunnar asked.
“He used violent language when they spoke with each other, some of which could probably be described as threatening.”
“Do you think that the man is dangerous?”
“I wouldn’t like to test that myself. It’s impossible to guess what a guy like that might do if pushed. I assume he’s a suspect. Is he?”
Gunnar ignored this question and asked, “What will happen to the farm now?”
“It will become part of the estate. The division will be complicated; Ólafur was married for the third time, and there are children from both previous marriages. There is a marriage settlement covering the properties. I assume that an administrator will be appointed. I might make an offer for the farm to simplify that part for the family. They are hardly going to want to keep it after this dreadful incident.”
“No, probably not,” Gunnar said. “Where were you yesterday morning between five and eight o’clock?”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“I was…at home asleep.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“My wife—ah, no, she’s in London, so I was alone at home.”
“Children?”
“No. You don’t really think that I had anything to do with this?”
“These are questions that all of the staff here will have to answer. I have to start with someone, don’t I?”
“I see.”
“You knew that Ólafur was going hunting yesterday morning, and where. Did anyone else here know?”
“He most certainly would have told the front desk secretary he was going to arrive late. A few of the staff here know where he hunts. But it’s out of the question that any of us had anything to do with this.”
“That’s good to know,” Gunnar said. “But now I’d like to talk to the others. Please send them in here one at a time, in alphabetical order.”
10:05
Birkir drove to the Grafarvogur district and found the address where Ólafur had lived with his young wife. It was a newish house, unpainted, with large windows. The garden was only partially planted.
There were no spots near the house, so Birkir had to park some distance away and walk back. He rang the bell and had his police ID ready when a young woman opened the door and peered out.
“My name is Birkir. I’m from the detective division,” he said by way of introduction. “Are you the wife of the late Ólafur Jónsson?”
“No, I’m her sister,” the woman replied, taking shelter behind the door.
Birkir looked at his notebook and found the name. “Is Helga available?” he asked.
The young woman looked at him suspiciously. “She’s resting,” she said.
She turned to look at someone behind her and said, “Mom, there’s a foreigner asking if Helga is in. He says he’s from the police.”
A woman in her sixties immediately appeared.
Birkir said, “It’s really important that I get to ask Helga a few questions. It’s related to the police investigation.”
“What is there to investigate?” the older woman asked. “Haven’t you arrested that wretched farmer yet?”
“No. Nobody has been arrested.”
“Oh, are you waiting for him to shoot more people?”
“There’s nothing yet to indicate that the tenant of Litla-Fell is responsible for Ólafur’s death, if that’s what you mean,” Birkir said. “May I come in?”
The two moved aside and showed him into the living room, where several well-dressed women sat drinking coffee. A couple of the women looked inquisitively at Birkir, but the rest pretended not to notice him.
“Do you have a specific reason to suspect that Gudjón committed this crime?” Birkir asked. “Anything that might assist us in our investigation?”
The older woman answered, “Ólafur told us to watch out for that fellow. The situation was so bad that he’d stopped taking the children up there. He was just waiting to get him off the farm.”
“Was Gudjón threatening him?”
“Ólafur wouldn’t have warned us against him without good reason. He said he wasn’t scared himself, as he never went near the farm. And he was armed. It just wasn’t enough. That man is an animal and he lives like a wild beast in that hovel.”
“Did Ólafur not have other enemies?” Birkir asked.
“No, of course not. Everybody was really fond of him. And now my little girl is a widow at the age of twenty-five.”
The woman’s voice cracked, and tears flowed.
“May I speak to her?”
“I can tell you all we know,” the woman said, sniffling and straightening up. “I gave Helga a sleeping pill and she just fell asleep, finally. She didn’t sleep a wink all last night.”
Birkir gave up. “I’ll be back later,” he said, and stood up to take his leave.
11:45
At the station the detectives reconvened in the incident room.
Gunnar was the last to arrive. He had walked back from the law office, stopping at home to fry three eggs and half a pack of bacon. It took him a while to get going again after this meal, as he had managed to get yolk on his shirt. His attempts to remove the stain with lukewarm water only made it worse, but trying to change his shirt had proved to be a problem since he had recently gone up a size and didn’t have a clean one that was large enough. He was forced to squeeze into a too-small button-up, leaving the top button undone and skipping a tie.
The team reviewed its progress so far and discussed its next move. Magnús decided that Gunnar and Birkir should return to Dalasýsla to search the farm. Having seen the incident report, the district judge for Western Iceland had issued a search warrant for the house and all the outbuildings at Litla-Fell. There were clear grounds for a thorough examination of the premises and a full investigation into Gudjón’s version of events. The evidence of an argument between him and Ólafur was the only lead the police had as of yet, and it was noted that the farmer had refused to show his shotgun to the officers on the scene despite explicit requests to do so.
Magnú
s accompanied his men down to the parking lot. He urged them to conduct the search tactfully and wished them a good journey. A four-man team of SWAT officers followed in a second car; since there was at least one firearm at the farm, they didn’t want to take any risks.
They traveled in convoy as far as Borgarnes, where Gunnar insisted on stopping to buy a sandwich while their companions went on ahead.
The sheriff and the policeman from Búdardalur were waiting in the patrol car at the Litla-Fell turnoff. Gunnar and Birkir arrived at three o’clock, but they had to wait another forty minutes because the SWAT team had gotten lost and taken the road to Snæfellsnes. It took several phone calls to direct the men back on the right track.
Gunnar was bored and restless. He didn’t expect the trip to yield any results, and he wanted to get the search over with so they could return to town. Birkir, on the other hand, sat there silent and expressionless. He was never impatient.
It began to rain. Threatening clouds were approaching from the south and an easterly wind was kicking up.
When the others finally arrived, they had a short discussion on tactics and then drove slowly toward the farm, where they parked all three cars in a line in the farmyard. They all got out, and the sheriff, Birkir, and Gunnar approached the house.
The sheriff knocked firmly several times. They heard somebody moving around inside and were surprised when a woman answered the door.
“What’s all this goddamn banging for? You want to break it down or what?” she said, stepping outside and shutting the door behind her. “What the fuck do you want?”
She was a sturdy, tall, reasonably shapely woman in her thirties. Rather broad hips, thought Gunnar, but that didn’t have to be a drawback in a woman. One could have described her sharp-featured face as pretty had her nose not been flat and badly broken. Her dark hair, with the remnants of a blonde rinse, was combed back off her face and held in place with a headband.
Daybreak Page 5