Daybreak

by Viktor Arnar Ingolfsson

The sheriff explained their business and showed her the warrant.

  “Where’s Gudjón?” Gunnar asked.

  The woman looked at him. “What business is it of yours? Is there anything on this piece of paper that says he has to be here today?” Her front teeth were crooked and one of the lower ones was missing.

  “Who are you?” said Gunnar.

  “Kolbrún. I’m Gudjón’s daughter. Who the fuck are you?”

  Gunnar showed his police identification.

  She examined the card thoroughly, as if to memorize the name, and finally said, “Dad went looking for sheep this morning up in the highland pasture. Gutti, my son, got leave from school to go with him. Thank goodness, that’s all I can say,” she added, glaring in the direction of the SWAT team waiting by the cars.

  “Anybody else with them?” Gunnar asked.

  “No. It’s just the two of them, and four horses. They’ll be back this afternoon. Hopefully not too late; there’s a storm brewing.”

  The sheriff directed the patrolman to take the SWAT team with him to search the outbuildings, while he led Gunnar and Birkir into the farmhouse itself. A faint musty smell was everywhere. They walked down a narrow corridor into the kitchen, where a bucket of warm soapy water stood on the table. The floor was damp.

  “Don’t you dare mess up my clean floors,” Kolbrún said, taking the bucket off the table.

  “We’re only looking for guns here. It won’t take long,” the sheriff said. “Big objects like that should be easy to find.”

  Kolbrún emptied the bucket into the sink. “Why don’t I just show you Dad’s gun?” she said. “Then you can stop this crap and fuck off home.”

  Gunnar asked, “Is it at all possible your father got into a fight with Ólafur?”

  Kolbrún seemed to have expected this question. “In the past, Dad might well have gone after that fancy dude and given him a whack with whatever came to hand. That wouldn’t have surprised me in the least.” She looked fixedly at Gunnar. “But he never would have attacked anyone with a firearm. Dad didn’t shoot the guy. You can forget that idea.”

  “Why might your dad have wanted to tangle with Ólafur?”

  Kolbrún hesitated briefly. “Dad’s bitter as hell over the way he was cheated out of the land. It may all have been legal, if you can call it that, but people took full advantage of our shit situation. Legal theft would be the right word for it.”

  She turned and pointed to a pantry just off the kitchen. “Dad’s gun is in there on the top shelf to the right.”

  Birkir disappeared into the pantry and returned with a shotgun, which he handed to Gunnar butt first.

  “Now you’ve got what you came for,” Kolbrún said. “This is the only gun in the house.”

  Gunnar examined the weapon. “I think it’s an old Spanish AYA,” he said, opening the action and sniffing the barrels. “And I don’t think it’s been used for a long time.”

  Kolbrún nodded and said, “Dad’s eyesight is so bad these days that he couldn’t shoot anything, fox or fowl, let alone a human. You should have saved yourselves the trip.”

  She looked at the three men. “Is that it for today, then, assholes?”

  “I think we should have a look around anyway,” the sheriff said, leaving the kitchen. Birkir followed him.

  Gunnar pointed at the empty bucket that Kolbrún had set down on the floor. “Doesn’t your dad get domestic help from the parish?” he asked.

  “No, and he can’t see well enough to clean properly himself. I always give the house a good scrub when I come to visit.”

  Gunnar asked, “Were you here yesterday?”

  “No, I arrived this morning.”

  “How? I didn’t see a car outside. Did you take the bus?”

  “I came on my motorcycle. It’s in the barn.”

  “Why did you come now?”

  Kolbrún looked at Gunnar in surprise. “Why now? What sort of a question is that? What do you think?”

  Gunnar shrugged. “To see your son?”

  “Yeah, and my dad, too. My menfolk need me just now. They’re in shock over what happened. I mean, a man was shot dead within shouting distance. They aren’t totally without feelings, as some seem to think.”

  Gunnar nodded. “How come your dad lost the farm?”

  Kolbrún hesitated. Finally she said quietly, “It was, of course, mostly my fault. I made a mistake and nobody could, or would, help us. There were, on the other hand, many who wanted to make it worse.”

  “What happened?” Gunnar asked.

  Kolbrún seemed to be of two minds about whether to explain further.

  “It might help to eliminate your dad from our investigation if we know the full story,” Gunnar said.

  “Okay, then. I’ve been particularly unlucky with the men in my life and have probably made a number of wrong decisions over the years.”

  She turned back to the sink and filled a glass with water before continuing.

  “Four years ago I began living with a guy who was a recovering alcoholic. We bought a little store in a new suburb of Reykjavik and things actually went quite well in the beginning. Of course, we had to take out a loan, which Dad underwrote. I worked in the store from seven in the morning until three in the afternoon, when my partner took over and worked until eleven thirty. He did the buying and the finances and I looked after the housekeeping. Since he’d been declared bankrupt, due to his drinking, the business was actually in my name; I had to sign everything he gave to me, and often I just didn’t have time to look carefully at what I was signing. That’s what led to all my troubles later on.”

  Kolbrún took a sip of water. They could hear Birkir and the sheriff moving around on the upper floor. She looked up at the ceiling and shook her head.

  “What troubles?” Gunnar asked.

  “The shop was going well,” Kolbrún said, as if she hadn’t heard the question. “There was a lot of construction going on in the neighborhood, and the workers on the sites were good customers. I cooked soup at lunchtime and it became very popular, along with the sandwiches. Business was quieter in the evenings, and we decided to add slot machines and the national lottery to attract customers. Unfortunately, my partner turned out to be a compulsive gambler. At first, he just played the machines in the evenings, and sometimes did the lottery and the football pools. But it wasn’t long before he was spending practically all of his time on it. He acted totally ecstatic when he won and seemed to completely ignore the large amounts of money he paid out to play. In the end, his gambling got way out of hand, and one month we couldn’t pay our business loan installment because he spent so much. Then I found out that there was nothing left to pay the sales tax or any other debts with, either. He hit the bottle and took off with what was left of the money. That was the last I saw of that asshole.”

  Kolbrún gave a wry smile and set her glass down on the counter. “It took me some time to work out the financial situation, but by then it was all too late. The beneficiary of the guarantee that Dad had signed spotted a chance to make some profit. He’d sold us the shop for a pile of money, but now had a chance to get it back for next to nothing, even though we’d already paid back a large part of the loan and established a good business.”

  She reached up to a cupboard for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, and lit a smoke.

  “By the end of that month, I didn’t have a króna to pay what was owed to the lottery company or anyone else. Because the business was in my name, I ended up in prison for withholding sales tax. So Dad lost the farm for a pittance. There was no way for me to help him while I was inside, and when I got out it was all over. The only thing I can do now is to work like a maniac and hope I’ll get the chance to buy the farm back. Maybe that can happen now, with the new owner dead; his wife will hardly want to build a house here after what’s happened.”

  Gunnar did not mention that he knew of another potential buyer.

  “Where do you work?” he asked.

  “I work in a sea
food store during the day, and then I work as a cleaner at the City Library in the evening,” she said. “I’m looking for extra work every other weekend. Do you know of anything?”

  Gunnar shook his head. “Do you think it’s good for you to work so much?”

  Birkir and the sheriff entered the kitchen before Kolbrún had a chance to reply.

  “What the hell are you looking for?” she said. “I showed you Dad’s only gun.” She blew cigarette smoke in their direction.

  “We’re looking for another weapon. Whoever shot Ólafur took his gun,” Birkir replied.

  “What a bunch of jerks.” Kolbrún shook her head.

  The policeman from Búdardalur entered.

  “Did you find anything in the outbuildings?” the sheriff asked.

  “No, but we had a call from Reykjavik on our car radio.” The policeman was very agitated. “Another goose hunter has been shot. Down south in the Rangárvellir district. It happened this morning.”

  19:30

  By the time Birkir and Gunnar neared Rangárvellir the wind was roaring, it was pitch-dark, and rain lashed against the car. They had no problem, however, finding the place they were looking for—the blue flashing light of a patrol car was visible across the flatlands from miles away.

  They knew they were getting close when a policeman dressed in rain gear and a reflective vest waved them down with a flashlight and demanded identification. After passing the checkpoint, they drove on and stopped when they reached a small cluster of parked patrol cars. Just beyond they could see three large rescue vehicles with lights blazing, and they could hear the drone of their powerful diesel engines despite the howling wind and thundering rain of the storm.

  Birkir peered through the windshield into the darkness; the wipers struggled vainly against the downpour. He could hear shouts and dogs barking. A man in a yellow raincoat appeared in the beam of their headlights, edged his way along the side of the car, pulled the rear door open, and got in. They recognized Thorlákur, the Selfoss detective.

  “The body’s out there in the meadow, about two hundred meters from the road,” he said, skipping the formalities. “Screw this weather.”

  “Have we got a name?” Gunnar asked, notebook ready.

  “Fridrik Fridriksson.”

  “What else do you know?”

  “The guy parked his vehicle nearly five kilometers down the road from here. Then he must have walked about a kilometer to a known goose-hunting ground and taken cover in a ditch. The decoys he placed were untouched. He seems to have sustained a gunshot wound right there in the ditch—we found a substantial amount of blood spatter in that area, along with his abandoned gun. Then he got to his feet and tried to run toward the nearest house; his footprints are deep and show that he was covering ground quickly, at least to start out with. The tracker dogs followed the trail until it ended here, where the body was found. The assailant must have chased Fridrik on foot and, after catching up to him, shot him at close range. We haven’t touched the body yet. We’re waiting for better lighting so we can do a thorough investigation and take some decent pictures.”

  “He hadn’t been missing long when you started the search. How come you didn’t wait to see if he turned up? Why did you start looking for him right away?”

  “One of his relatives called emergency services around noon to say that he hadn’t been in touch and wasn’t answering his cell. Everyone is jittery after that hunter in the west was murdered—not without reason, clearly. We thought it would be easy enough to take a look around. It didn’t take us long to find his car, and then his gun nearby. Those clues seemed suspicious enough to justify a large-scale search.”

  He unzipped his raincoat and fished out a digital camera.

  “We should be able to find decent tracks left by the killer in the mud,” Gunnar said.

  “I don’t know about that,” Thorlákur replied. “Four guys from the rescue team followed the tracker dogs and trampled all over the area around the body.”

  He leaned forward and held out the camera so that Birkir and Gunnar could see the screen. “There. That’s what it looks like.”

  The picture showed a man lying facedown on waterlogged earth. There were two large black holes in his back. Thorlákur flicked through a few more pictures of the scene. The muddy ground surrounding the body was covered in deep footprints.

  “Must have been very close range,” Gunnar said.

  “Yes, the first shot came from a distance of a few meters. The guy must have fallen, and the second shot hit him lying down. The killer had to be standing over him.”

  Birkir peered at the screen. “Is that a hole in the outer layer of the parka?” He pointed with his little finger; a white patch was visible on the man’s back next to the entry wounds.

  Thorlákur looked more closely. “I hadn’t noticed that.”

  “We’ll check that,” Birkir said. “Have you got his wallet?”

  “Yeah.” Thorlákur dug into another pocket, and drew out a bag.

  Birkir donned rubber gloves and extracted the soaking-wet wallet from the bag. He opened it and examined the contents: credit cards, cash, receipts.

  Birkir said, “Here’s a receipt from the gas station at Ártúnshöfdi, time-stamped at four twenty-five this morning.”

  “Hey,” said Gunnar immediately, “just like yesterday. Could it be the killer intercepts his victims at gas stations?”

  “Perhaps,” Birkir replied. Then, turning to Thorlákur, he said, “Can we see where the attacker parked his vehicle?”

  “It’ll have to wait until dawn,” Thorlákur replied. “But given what’s happened, there’s an earlier case we need to reopen and take a better look at.”

  “What’s that?” Gunnar asked.

  Thorlákur coughed a few times before starting his account. “Just over a year ago, a young man presented himself at the Selfoss county hospital. He’d been hunting geese in the Landsveit area to the north of here and had been hit in the chest and face. His clothes protected his chest, but a few pellets had gotten deep into his face and one eye. The doctor who examined him notified us right away and we did an immediate incident report. In fact, I typed it up myself,” he added, tapping his chest to emphasize the point.

  “The guy’s story was that he’d been creeping along a ditch toward some geese when some shots hit him. His reaction was to run back to his car and drive straight to the hospital. Apparently, he’d been hunting without a license. Later, we wanted to carry out a closer examination of the location, but he couldn’t find the exact spot where he’d been.”

  “Do you think there’s a connection between these cases?” Birkir asked.

  “I don’t know,” Thorlákur replied. “We investigated it as best we could, but we never found anything of significance. There were plenty of footprints and spent shells in the areas he showed us, but that’s no surprise since it’s one of the most popular goose-hunting grounds in the county. The guy stuck firmly to his story throughout. I actually suspected that he’d been out hunting with a friend who’d ended up shooting him by accident, and was lying to avoid trouble. The guy was young, and immaturity often accounts for a certain lack of honesty, so to speak. Maybe I was wrong, though; maybe someone did actually try to kill the guy. I don’t know. But he lost his eye as a result.”

  “Do you have his name?” Birkir asked.

  Thorlákur dug out his cell phone and dialed a number. After a brief conversation he turned back to Birkir. “Jóhann Markússon. Not long before this happened, he’d moved from Akureyri to Reykjavik. I contacted my colleagues up north last year, but they didn’t have anything bad on the guy. He had a valid gun license and all his stuff was above board. His only misstep was hunting illegally down here, it seems.”

  They heard a car approaching, and Thorlákur turned to look out the rear window. “Ah, here are the forensic guys from Reykjavik. I hope they’ve brought some decent lamps. Do you want to get a closer look at the scene?” he asked.

  Gunnar
peered out into the rain and darkness. “Let them check the area first—they’ve got all the gear for that. We’ll go eat in the meantime. Then we’ll need to speak to the landowner.”

  23:55

  It was raining in Reykjavik, too, when Birkir and Gunnar finally got back to town, and it was just as blustery as it had been in the east. Their drive over the Hellisheidi pass had been slowed by sleet and poor visibility. No question—fall had arrived.

  Gunnar gathered his things as Birkir pulled up outside an old apartment building on Skúlagata.

  “Good night,” Birkir said.

  “See you in the morning,” Gunnar replied. He got out and slammed the car door shut behind him.

  Inside the house the wind whined through the drafty front door and echoed around the ice-cold stairwell. Gunnar tiptoed up the stairs and slipped into the little apartment he called home. He shut the door gently behind him and crept along the hallway without switching the light on.

  It had been a long day, and the homicide investigation had not yielded any useful results—they’d gotten another body, and that was all. Gunnar and Birkir had gone to speak with the local farmer, who said he’d given Fridrik—and no one else—permission to shoot geese on his land that morning. There was nothing more to learn there, so they had driven back to the crime scene and sat in the car for a half hour, watching the forensic team’s lights out in the meadow and listening to the rain hammer the roof. They knew they couldn’t do much just now; they would only be in the way out there in the dark, plus they would get wet and dirty. After a short debate, they’d decided that going home was their best option. The case wasn’t going to be solved right away no matter what.

  A voice came from the living room. “Gunnar, bist du da?”

  He stopped and turned.

  “Guten Abend, Mutter,” he said.

  A stout, white-haired old woman sat in an armchair in front of the television; she looked as if she’d been dozing and had just woken up. She was dressed in a worn housecoat and gray woolen socks. On the table in front of her was an empty beer bottle and a small liqueur glass containing a few dregs of Jägermeister; smoke coiled up from a cigarette glowing in an ashtray.