Daybreak

by Viktor Arnar Ingolfsson

  “We have a question!” Dóra yelled from her computer.

  Gunnar jumped to his feet and hurried over to her. He read aloud from the screen:

  “Question three: They give a man the taste for death. Who is the man? You have ten hours.”

  Dóra typed the sentence into Google. Six thousand hits. She quickly began scrolling through the results.

  “Well, this one’s easy,” said Gunnar. “It’s a poem by someone called A. E. Housman. We’ll send the answer in the morning.”

  23:10

  Birkir found Jóhann Markússon in the security company’s cafeteria drinking coffee from a thermos and eating a thick sandwich.

  Jóhann glanced at his watch. “We have thirty minutes,” he said. “What do you want?”

  “The body of your friend Leifur was found this morning.”

  Jóhann’s good eye looked quickly at Birkir.

  “In the river?”

  “I can’t tell you that now. But tell me about your friendship.”

  The good eye looked back at the sandwich. “How do you know we were friends?”

  “I saw a photograph of you together. How did you know each other?”

  Jóhann took a large bite out of the sandwich and chewed as he thought. At last he said, “Leifur and I were best friends starting in elementary school. We were always together. Almost right up to when he disappeared.”

  “How come you got along so well?”

  “We always had the same interests. It was soccer and skiing when we were little. By the time we were older, it was traveling, body building, and cars. Finally, when we were old enough, it was guns and hunting. We both left school at seventeen and started working. Sometimes together, sometimes separately. Preferably somewhere we could make good money quickly. We just raked in dough for a few months and worked out in the evenings. Then we took time off to have fun. We’d go skiing abroad, or to a tropical beach somewhere. We liked to just do whatever crazy thing came into our heads, and keep at it until the money was gone.”

  He stopped, and took another bite of his sandwich.

  “Why did you part ways?” Birkir asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You weren’t living in the north when Leifur disappeared.”

  “Just a coincidence. I wanted to spend a few months in the south. We hadn’t talked much about it, but I was assuming Leifur would come south, too, to work. Nothing seemed to have changed. I assumed we’d be hanging out together again soon. Then there were a few weeks when I didn’t actually hear much from him, but I was busy, and it didn’t occur to me to see how he was doing. Then came his disappearance and the appeal for information. I would have gone up north immediately, of course, but I was in the hospital because of my eye, and I wasn’t allowed to move. The cops in the north called me, and I explained where our usual hunting grounds were. Naturally, I was stunned when they contacted me to say he’d killed himself. Still can’t believe it, actually.”

  “So it came as a surprise to you that he took his own life?”

  “It wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d gotten killed in an accident. He was totally daring, and sometimes reckless. But, as I told you, I found the news of the suicide hard to believe.”

  “What did he do that was dangerous?”

  “He was into extremes. He’d go rock climbing without a rope or a harness. He’d snowboard or ski on slopes that were almost vertical. He’d do anything: dive into the sea from steep rocks, fly a hang glider, parachute off a cliff. He didn’t know what vertigo was. And he drove like a maniac.”

  “What about you? Didn’t you take part in this?”

  “Yeah, sure. But he always took bigger risks. There are certain safety precautions that I always took, but he didn’t worry about that at all.”

  “Did you have any enemies?” Birkir asked.

  “Enemies? Nah, we didn’t bother anybody.”

  “How did you meet Hjördís?”

  “Hjördís? Why do you ask?”

  “I’m trying to get a perspective on Leifur’s situation. That means finding out a few things about his other friends.”

  Jóhann looked cautiously at Birkir. Finally he said, “Oh, all right. I’ll tell you about Hjördís. She’s a bit special.”

  He smiled momentarily. “Leifur and I had long since left school when Hjördís moved to Akureyri and started high school. Her dad was a doctor, and had come to work at the hospital. They’d lived in America before. Leifur and I were always at the gym, and that’s where we got to know Hjördís. She worked out whenever she wasn’t at school. We became friends. The high school gang was not her sort of crowd. She wanted action—working out, rock climbing, clay-pigeon shooting. Even though Hjördís is great with a shotgun, she never came hunting with us. It wasn’t for her—she couldn’t stand dead animals. She went to Spain with us three times. We had a ball. We hit the beach during the day for waterskiing, jet-skiing, diving—that kind of thing. Then we’d work out at the gym before dinner. At night we’d go out clubbing.”

  “Was there no romance between you?” Birkir asked.

  Jóhann grinned. “We weren’t really into that, but in the end I found out that Hjördís is one of us boys, if you know what I mean.”

  “She’s gay?”

  “Yeah. She only likes girls, but we didn’t know that at the time. Leifur and I both tried to get it on with her in the beginning, of course, because she’s a fucking classy chick. But she just said that she loved both of us and couldn’t choose between us. That’s how it was during those four years we spent together. Leifur and I were always picking up girls, but Hjördís was never with a guy and we just didn’t think about it. Leifur and I would have dropped her if she’d gone out with someone else—it would have been too weird. I think she liked being with us because we could save her from the guys who tried to hit on her. If anybody was making conversation with her and she didn’t dig it, she’d give us a sign and we’d be there like a shot. You should have seen the look on the guys’ faces when we showed up and both put our arms around her. They just froze in the middle of trying to pick her up and backed off immediately. I thought we’d continue to be friends after Leifur disappeared, and wondered if perhaps something more might develop. But then she showed up with a girlfriend and I finally understood how things were. Should, of course, have picked up on that earlier.”

  “Do you know where she lives?”

  “She was renting an apartment someplace on Kleppsvegur this summer. I can’t remember the building number.”

  “Do you know where she works?”

  “She works from home. I think she’s got projects she needs to complete before going back to college in New York.”

  “Did you and Leifur have any other friends?”

  “Friends? Maybe not particularly close friends, but plenty of buddies from the various sports we did.”

  “Can you make a list of them? Also, relatives, neighbors, colleagues, and anybody else you’ve had contact with.”

  Jóhann sighed. “I’ll try to jot down a few names. Is it okay if I give them to you tomorrow? My break’s over.”

  “Yeah, tomorrow will do.” Birkir stood up, but Jóhann remained seated.

  “Listen,” he said. “There’s something I’d like you to know.”

  Some moments passed before he continued. “Leifur was the best friend a man could possibly have. I haven’t really found my feet since he disappeared. Life is not fun like it was before, if you know what I mean. Sometimes I find myself on the brink of calling his cell number to tell him something I’ve been thinking about. His disappearance left a big empty space inside me.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Birkir said. Jóhann seemed to be tearing up.

  23:15

  Gunnar was thirsty after the evening meeting. He bought himself two hot dogs in the Hlemmur kiosk and then walked to the bar on Smidjustígur. On his way, he called home.

  “Mother, I’ll be home late tonight,” he said in German, then hung up.<
br />
  It had been a miserable day. Dealing with stupid riddles from a total nutcase of a killer was not his thing at all. He was beginning to regret that he hadn’t insisted on going to Akureyri with Birkir. At least there was a trail to follow there; time would tell whether there was any connection with the Gander.

  The bar was quiet except for a few regulars. There was some kind of meeting in the upper room. He rapped twice on the bar, and shortly afterward the bartender set his usual Holsten and Jägermeister before him and said “You’re welcome” in bad German.

  Gunnar replied with a “Thanks, jerk,” took the glasses, and sat down at a table opposite Emil Edilon, who was playing chess against himself. Then he looked cautiously around.

  “You can relax,” Emil said without looking up. “The Ginger Journalist’s gone north to Thingey. He’s going to take a look at the hole where they found that body.”

  Gunnar downed the bitters in one shot and grimaced.

  “Right, so it was on the news tonight?” he asked. “I didn’t know there’d already been a press conference.”

  “No, it wasn’t on the news. The Blue Baron’s brother sometimes drives the hearse up there. He called the Ginger One and told him all about it. He’ll probably get paid for the information.”

  “Ah. But now you’ve got something you can use for your thriller. You just need to change it a bit. Guys digging for an electrical pole out in the wilderness, or some such thing, find a body in the ground.” Gunnar took a sip from his beer.

  Emil looked at him with contempt. “Do you really think that a chance occurrence like that is material for a crime novel? There’s no way you can use complete coincidences in a plot line, never mind something as fantastical as this body’s discovery.”

  “But it actually happened. Surely that means it should work in a crime novel.”

  Emil Edilon shook his head. “A novel should not be about things that may happen, but things that are likely to happen. I hope you’re a better policeman than you are a writer. Did you get any more riddles?”

  “Yeah. We finally got an easy one. ‘They give a man a taste for death. Who is the man?’ It’s from a poem. The answer is A. E. Housman. That’s the guy who wrote it.”

  “No, no, no!” Emil gasped. “It’s a trap! It’s from a crime novel.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Gunnar suspiciously.

  Instead of replying, Emil took out the cell phone Gunnar had lent him; he seemed to have fully gotten the hang of speed dialing, and he quickly got through to somebody.

  “What’s the name of the murderer in P. D. James’s book A Taste for Death?” he asked the person on the other end of the line. Then, impatiently, “No, I need to know right away.”

  Turning to Gunnar, he said, “I’m talking to the Blue Baron. He sits at his computer all day and he’s lightning fast at Internet searches.”

  “Are you quite sure?” said Gunnar.

  Emil didn’t look up. He was listening intently, the cell phone pressed to his ear, pencil at the ready.

  “Yes, yes, that figures,” he said, scribbling something on his napkin. “No, it’s none of your business why I’m asking. Thanks and bye.”

  He looked at Gunnar. “Who is the man? Dominic Swayne is the man.”

  Gunnar took a sip of his beer and thought about this.

  “Okay. We’ll go with that,” he said and then downed his beer in one gulp. “Let’s have a game of speed chess.”

  “Loser buys the next round,” Emil said, and began to line up pieces.

  “Agreed,” Gunnar said.

  A mere ten minutes later, he went to the bar to buy fresh drinks for the two of them.

  “Well, look, if it isn’t the fat cop,” he heard someone next to him say. “Still chasing kids and old folks?” He looked to his right and saw Kolbrún Gudjónsdóttir.

  “So the lass from Dalasýsla is in town?” he said warily.

  She smiled faintly. “I’ll leave you in peace,” she said. “You’re not happy.” She turned her back to him.

  “Dead right,” he said, and ordered another round.

  TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 26

  07:40

  Gunnar arrived in good time at the squad room to give the reply to question three. He typed Dominic Swayne is the man, double-checked what he’d written, and clicked Send. He sat by the computer and waited.

  Dóra arrived at eight o’clock. “Morning,” she said. “Message from the Akranes police. They called this morning. They waited by the Hvalfjördur tunnel all night for the motorcyclist. He arrived at four thirty precisely.”

  Gunnar looked up, interested. “And?”

  “A young fellow. Lives in Kjalarnes and works as a farmhand north of Akranes. He has to be there early for the morning milking.”

  “No shotgun?”

  “No, no shotgun.” She looked at the computer screen. “Have we got a new question?”

  “No, but I got a better answer to question three from Emil yesterday.” Gunnar showed her the reply that he had sent.

  “Do you think that’s correct?”

  “Emil was very emphatic. Said it was a trick question. It’s a line from a poem, sure, but it’s also the title of a crime novel in which this Dominic Swayne is the killer. Cross your fingers and hope we got it right.”

  Dóra was silent, thoughtful. Gunnar opened a new browser window and began to read the news pages. “Is there any coffee?” he asked.

  Dóra didn’t respond to the question. “Who do you think is playing these games with us?” she asked. “Do you think it’s someone we’ve spoken with?”

  Gunnar shook his head. “I doubt it.”

  “What about Tómas, the lawyer who’s sleeping with Helga? Do we know anything about him?”

  “He had plenty of books in his house,” Gunnar said. “He hasn’t got an alibi for the first two murders. He was with Helga when the third was committed.”

  “There’s something weird about the third murder. I think that may be the reason for this quiz game. The Gander wants to delay us.”

  Gunnar nodded in agreement. “Good thinking.”

  Birkir entered. “What’s on the agenda?” he asked.

  Dóra replied, “I got a list of every valid firearm license in the whole country; it’s a few thousand names. Magnús wants me to compare them with the lists of names we got from the victims’ relatives.”

  Birkir looked at her with sympathy. “I would help you, but I have to talk to this young woman named Hjördís, who was friends with the two guys from Akureyri. I’m going to try to catch her around noon.”

  “I’ll be okay,” Dóra said. “I’ll do it on the computer.”

  “I found fingerprints.” This news came from Elías as he entered the room.

  “Where?” Gunnar asked.

  “The plastic wrapped around that body in the north had prints on it.”

  “Do we know who they belong to?”

  “No, but they’ll be good for comparison when we find our suspect. I think we’ve got all the fingers on both hands. Whoever wrapped the body wasn’t wearing gloves.”

  “Bravo,” said Gunnar.

  “Are the prints all from the same person?” Birkir asked.

  Elías nodded. “Yeah, we think so.”

  Gunnar said, “And now for the big question: Was the Gander at work up there in the north as well?”

  “Why don’t we just ask him?” Dóra suggested.

  “We can try,” Gunnar said. He typed, “How many people have you killed?” and sent it. They waited for several minutes, but nothing happened. Birkir was the first to lose patience and leave the room. Then Elías. Dóra turned to her task and began to flip through lists of names. Gunnar got himself a cup of coffee and sat down at his computer to resume looking at the news, and scrolled to a sports page.

  Half an hour later the computer signaled new mail. The subject line was: Question Four.

  Gunnar opened the e-mail and read it aloud.

  “Hurrah! A good reply to que
stion number three deserves an answer from me to one of your questions. I have killed three so far, and will kill another if you cannot solve question four: Who died? SSIEHITDSOABTEHHGTIPSUAEHKCAUTS”

  “He says he’s killed three,” Gunnar said. “That means he didn’t do the one up north, or that’s what he wants us to think. We’re going to have to treat it as an unconnected case.”

  He peered at the screen and reread the message. “But I can’t make any sense of this question at all,” he said, and checked his watch. “We’ve got until four o’clock.”

  “Is it German?” Dóra said.

  “No, not German. Can you try googling it?” Gunnar stood up. He knew Dóra was much more adept at computer tasks than he. She sat down and copied the string of letters into the search window. No results.

  Gunnar looked at the clock. “It’s probably too soon to call Emil. He’ll get grouchy if I wake him up this early. I’ll give him another hour.”

  12:15

  Birkir got to the apartment building on Kleppsvegur at noon. He saw Hjördís’s name and apartment number on the directory and was about to press her buzzer but abruptly changed his mind and instead buzzed the number for Fridrik Fridriksson’s family.

  The widow answered the intercom and Birkir introduced himself. A short while later he was standing in the apartment. He had interrupted their lunch: the children were seated around the dining table eating rice and sausages. At the head of the table sat the preacher, a napkin around his neck. In front of him sat a bowl of rice and an open Bible.

  “Bon appétit,” Birkir said. He showed the widow the picture of Hjördís and her friends. “Do you know this woman?”

  The widow nodded, “Yes. She lives in this building.”

  “Her name was on your list as…a prayer recipient,” Birkir said. “Whatever that means. Have you or your husband had any dealings with her?”

  The widow looked at the preacher. He stood, removed his napkin, and placed it on the table. He then took up the Bible, crossed the room to where they stood, and contemplated the photo Birkir held.

  “This woman lives here. That is correct,” he said.

  Birkir looked alternately at the widow and the preacher. “Do you have you a shotgun?” he suddenly asked.