Daybreak

by Viktor Arnar Ingolfsson

  Time passed, and Gunnar had nearly finished his beer by the time Dóra spoke again. “No. I can’t find the complete text anywhere on the net.”

  Gunnar turned to Emil. “Do you have this book?”

  Emil shook his head. “You’ll have to go to the library.”

  “It’s closed. How am I going to get in?” Gunnar looked at his watch. “We’ve got barely an hour to answer this.”

  Emil shrugged. “Maybe you’ll have to break in.”

  As Gunnar pondered this problem, he noticed a familiar face by the counter and instantly got an idea. He finished his beer, stood up, and strode to the bar.

  “Kolbrún,” he said.

  Kolbrún Gudjónsdóttir looked up at Gunnar in surprise, then nodded and said, “Well, if it isn’t the fat cop himself. What in the hell do you want?”

  She wore a thick, black leather jacket, jeans, and sturdy leather boots.

  Gunnar took her arm. “You told me you were a cleaner for the City Library in the evenings. Have you finished cleaning for tonight?”

  “Yeah, I was down there just now,” she said, shaking off Gunnar’s grip.

  “I need to borrow a book.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Can you let me in?”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  “It’s really important. Do you have keys?”

  “Yeah, but I wouldn’t dream of letting you in. I’d be fired. Besides, I have no intention of waiting on you—I’ve been working since eight o’clock this morning.”

  “I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “What do you think you can do for me?”

  “Maybe something to do with your father’s farm. I could talk to the executor and try to get him to sell the farm to you.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “I can try talking to him. I can be very convincing sometimes.”

  Kolbrún thought it over. “Just one book?”

  “Yes.”

  “Got a car?”

  “No, but we can walk. It’s not far.”

  “We’ll take my bike. It’s just outside.”

  He followed her out of the bar. A big old Harley-Davidson was parked up against the sidewalk, a white helmet strapped to its saddle.

  “I haven’t got a spare helmet,” she said as she put it on. “But you’ve got a thick skull.”

  She mounted the motorcycle and kick-started it. The engine roared into encouragingly lusty life.

  Gunnar got on behind Kolbrún and put his arms around her hips, the bike almost sinking to the ground under his weight. She gunned the accelerator, and Gunnar had to hold on tight as they rode off. In little more than a minute the powerful machine took them to the library, where Kolbrún stopped on the sidewalk in front of the main entrance and they dismounted. She opened the outer door with her key, they entered, and she tapped in a security code to open the inner doors. There was enough light for them to see their way around, and they made for the foreign fiction section on the second floor; the novels were arranged in alphabetical order of authors, and between Cervantes and Theresa Charles were two titles by Chandler—one of them was The Big Sleep.

  Gunnar took down the book and moved to where there was better light before paging to chapter twenty-eight.

  He phoned Dóra and began carefully to dictate the words of the first sentence.

  “What kind of ritual is this, for fuck’s sake?” Kolbrún asked when the reading was over and Gunnar had hung up.

  “I’ll tell you another time,” said Gunnar, and he returned the book to its place on the shelf.

  “Do I get a lift back to the bar?” he asked when they were outside the library once more.

  “No. I’m going home,” she said. “Remember what you promised.”

  Gunnar nodded. “Oh, one more thing,” he said. “Do you know Hjördís…” He couldn’t remember her last name. “Her father’s a doctor. They lived in Boston.”

  Kolbrún seemed to be of two minds as to how she should answer. Finally she said, “Yeah, I do know a girl called Hjördís, actually. I looked after her in Boston when she was little. I worked as an au pair for the family.”

  “Are you in contact now?”

  Kolbrún nodded hesitantly and said, “We sometimes gossip at the fish store. She also borrows my bike sometimes; she contributes to its maintenance in return. Why are you asking about her?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” Gunnar replied.

  Kolbrún’s expression indicated that she was not happy with this answer. Without a word she put on her helmet and was gone, leaving Gunnar standing there, wondering whether to return to the bar for another beer or go straight home. He decided to go for the beer. He deserved it.

  WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 27

  09:00

  When Dóra got to work and turned on her computer, there was a new e-mail in the inbox:

  Question seven: What is Jake Martin’s other name? Reply by three o’clock, please.

  A search offered three hundred sixty thousand web pages for this name.

  Soon after, Gunnar arrived; on reading the e-mail he called Emil, waking him up. He read the question to him.

  “Jake Martin. Is it spelled J-A-K-E?” Emil asked irritably.

  “Yes.”

  “Before three o’clock?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll give it a try, but this is starting to bore me.”

  “It’ll be over soon,” said Gunnar. “I can sense it.”

  But his senses hadn’t at all prepared him for what happened next.

  Magnús came storming into the conference room brandishing a newspaper.

  GOOSE HUNTER MURDERS: POLICE TRAIL YOUNG LESBIAN was the banner across the front page. Beneath it a badly lit picture showed the apartment house where Hjördís lived.

  “Who leaked this?” Magnús thundered at his subordinates.

  The members of the team looked at one another in silence. They all shook their heads in unison.

  “This means that we’ll have to pick up the woman right away and talk to her. We will also need a warrant to search her apartment,” Magnús said.

  10:30

  “Are you nuts?” Hjördís said to Birkir when he announced that she was under arrest and was to accompany him to the police station. Gunnar, Dóra, and Símon were also present. Hjördís was wearing a thick tracksuit and a fleece jacket.

  “Were you on your way out?” Birkir asked.

  “No. I went for a short walk. I just got back.”

  “We’ll wait if you want to change your clothes,” Birkir said. “Our female colleague will watch you.”

  “I’m drowning in work and well behind schedule. What in hell do you want with me?”

  “We’ll explain that at the station. We also have a warrant to search the apartment. Our colleagues will do that while we talk to you.” Birkir indicated Dóra and Símon.

  Hjördís looked in disbelief at the paper Birkir held in front of her.

  “Do I have to put up with this bullshit?”

  Birkir nodded. “I’m afraid so,” he said.

  “All right. Let’s get it over with.” Hjördís turned to Dóra. “I want all my work stuff to be the way I left it when I return,” she said.

  “We will also need to have your computer checked,” Birkir said.

  Hjördís shook her head. “This is persecution. Are we in a police state now, or what?”

  “We need you to explain some things. It won’t take long,” Birkir said unconvincingly.

  “Fucking bullshit,” Hjördís said and disappeared into the bedroom followed by Dóra. Ten minutes later they reappeared and went into the bathroom. Another ten minutes passed before Hjördís came out and said she was ready. Birkir indicated that she should follow him, which she did, having grabbed a coat and put on shoes. Gunnar followed.

  “I want an attorney,” she said once they were in the car.

  “Do you have anyone particular i
n mind?” Birkir asked.

  “No. I just want a female one. I’ve had enough of men.”

  Gunnar called Magnús on his cell. They had to respond positively to this request. As a result, they had to wait for two hours in the interrogation room until the attorney got there. They used the time to take Hjördís’s fingerprints—with her consent but after some discussion.

  “I don’t know what you think you’ve got on me,” she said, “but these fingerprints can only prove my innocence. I hope.”

  Finally the attorney arrived. “Urdur Jónsdóttir,” the small, gray-haired woman in her sixties greeted Hjördís. “We can begin.”

  She threw onto the table the newspaper with the scoop on Hjördís.

  “We’ll begin by discussing this.”

  Hjördís reached out for the newspaper and read the headline.

  “My God,” she said, throwing her hands up. “Is this a nightmare?”

  Urdur said, “I don’t know what sort of game you police think you’re playing, but your business with this young woman had better be based on something solid. Let’s hear it.”

  Gunnar spoke. “In our investigation into four murders, your name, Hjördís, has been mentioned three times. You have admitted that there has been conflict between you and your neighbor, Fridrik Fridriksson.”

  Hjördís interrupted Gunnar. “Listen, pal. There was no ‘conflict.’ That was one-sided harassment that I did my best to ignore.”

  “All right, maybe so,” Gunnar said, “but since then a witness has stated that you knew the late Vilhjálmur Arason. That contradicts what you said in an interview with my colleague.” Gunnar nodded toward Birkir.

  “You mean the old guy?”

  “Yes.”

  Hjördís looked at Birkir. “I’ve only ever seen him in the picture you showed me. What bullshit is this, for heaven’s sake?

  Urdur asked, “Did this witness point at Hjördís in a lineup?”

  Gunnar shook his head. “No. He recognized her from a photo.”

  “Then that doesn’t prove a thing,” the attorney said.

  Gunnar continued. “You know Kolbrún Gudjónsdóttir?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is your relationship with her?”

  “She looked after me when I was little.”

  “And now, at the present time?”

  “I buy fish from her.”

  “And you borrow her motorcycle. Right?”

  Hjördís leaned toward Urdur and spoke briefly to her, too softly for the others to hear. Urdur nodded and Hjördís said, “Yes, I have borrowed her bike.”

  “Why didn’t you tell this to my colleague when you were discussing Kolbrún yesterday?”

  “Because I’ve only got an American motorcycle license. I don’t know if it’s valid for Iceland, and I was afraid of getting into trouble.”

  Gunnar glanced quickly at Birkir. “Details have emerged to suggest that you quarreled with Leifur and Jóhann.”

  Hjördís was astonished. “That’s not true at all. We were all very good friends.”

  “Something happened between you in Spain just over a year ago.”

  “No.” Hjördís shook her head. “Nothing happened.”

  “You left your hotel in the middle of the night and went back to Iceland ahead of the two of them.”

  “I went back to Iceland ahead of them. That was the plan all along. I was preparing for my studies. And I didn’t leave in the middle of the night. It was an evening flight.”

  Gunnar glanced again at Birkir, who shrugged his shoulders indecisively. Gunnar turned back to Hjördís and said, “We have testimony that says Jóhann and Leifur raped you on the last night you spent together.”

  “Raped me?” Hjördís sprang to her feet. “That’s not true. Who says such fucking horseshit?”

  She looked questioningly at the policemen, but when they didn’t answer she sat back down. “Has Jóhann been arrested?” she asked.

  “No, not yet. He won’t be arrested unless you bring charges.”

  “I won’t bring any charges. There was no rape. This is a lie. Who the hell told you this?”

  “Did you have consensual intercourse?”

  “No, of course not. We never slept together. I always slept in the living room, and they slept in the bedroom, unless they had girls with them.”

  Gunnar looked at Birkir in bewilderment but turned back to Hjördís and pushed a photocopy of a postcard toward her.

  “Did you write this postcard on Leifur’s behalf?” he asked.

  Hjördís looked at it in surprise. “No, of course not. That is not my handwriting.”

  “You do not admit to having copied his handwriting?”

  “No. Why would I have done that?”

  Urdur put up her hand to stop her and said to Gunnar, “Where are you going with this? There are no links between my client and these deaths. Your line of questioning seems to rely on nothing but hearsay, and has not the slightest connection with the murders. Please get to the point if you’ve got anything on my client, or shall we just walk out of here now?”

  Elías poked his head into the room. He said nothing; he merely shook his head. Hjördís’s fingerprints had not matched the prints on the plastic wrapped around Leifur’s corpse.

  “Do you read crime novels?” Gunnar asked.

  “No, no, don’t answer that,” Urdur said. “Enough is enough. Hjördís and I are walking out. Now.”

  Birkir and Gunnar had nothing to say. Then, when Birkir was just about to open his mouth to speak, the door opened again. It was Símon. With a look on his face as if he had just had an orgasm, he placed on the table a clear plastic bag containing two pieces of camouflage material.

  “We found this in the trash,” he said breathlessly.

  “In what trash?” Urdur asked.

  “The trash in the basement of Hjördís’s apartment building,” Símon said, looking knowingly at the young woman.

  Urdur said, “What does this trash have to do with my client in particular? Please enlighten me.”

  Gunnar turned to Hjördís and said, “Have you seen this before?”

  Hjördís picked up the plastic bag and examined the scraps of material. She leaned toward Urdur and they conferred quietly for a moment. Finally Urdur nodded and Hjördís said, “When I got back from my walk this morning, I emptied my mailbox. There were just some fliers and an unmarked white envelope containing this stuff. I assumed it was something some kids had been playing with, so I chucked it along with all the other bits of paper into the garbage chute on my way upstairs. That’s all I know. What are these things?”

  “These pieces of fabric may be linked to two of the murders,” Gunnar said.

  Urdur took up the newspaper and held it up in front of them. “You have advertised this young woman’s address thoroughly enough to give the murderer an excellent opportunity to plant this so-called evidence in her mailbox this morning. Was there anything else?”

  Gunnar and Birkir glanced at one another. Birkir shrugged.

  “No,” Gunnar said.

  “Then, we’ll leave.” Urdur said and stood up. She indicated that Hjördís should follow her. “I’ll drive my client home. I’ll be sending you my invoice,” she added.

  The three detectives watched as the women walked out of the room.

  “Does she get to leave—just like that?” Símon asked, now looking as if somebody had squeezed his testicles.

  “Yes,” Birkir said. “The whole thing is one big fucking mess.”

  14:35

  Anna took the camouflage specimens to her lab.

  Birkir and Gunnar sat and waited. There didn’t seem anything else to do. Finally Gunnar’s cell rang. It was Emil Edilon.

  “We have a hypothesis regarding this ‘Jake Martin’ question. It was the Crippled Critic’s suggestion. Want to hear it?”

  “You bet.” Gunnar grabbed a pen.

  “In 1973, a film based on a crime story by the Swedish couple Maj Sjöwall
and Per Wahlöö was produced in the States. The original was called Den skrattande polisen in Swedish, and it was one of ten books in a series about a detective named Martin Beck. Are you with me?”

  “Yeah, I know about those books. Go on.”

  “The story is about a massacre on a bus.”

  “Another mass murder?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay.”

  “So, in America the movie was called The Laughing Policeman, and it was an adaptation set in San Francisco instead of Stockholm. Walter Matthau played the Martin Beck character but they changed his name in this version to Jake Martin. Do you get it?”

  “You mean that the answer to the question ‘What is Jake Martin’s other name?’ is ‘Martin Beck’?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll have to give it a try. We haven’t got anything else.”

  Gunnar hung up and looked at the clock. “The deadline’s in fifteen minutes. If it really is Hjördís who’s been playing with us, she’ll have to get to a computer somewhere to reply. We’ve still got her two.”

  Birkir replied, “I don’t know what her role is in this drama, but I’m worried she’ll tear Jóhann to pieces because of the story he told me. Maybe I should warn him.”

  He tried Jóhann’s cell number but only got voice mail. He left a message: “Please call Birkir at the detective division.”

  Gunnar posted the answer to question seven before joining the others in the incident room for a briefing from Anna.

  “First, the camouflage pieces. These are definitely the missing halves of the bits taken from Ólafur’s and Fridrik’s clothing. We have a blank white envelope in which the pieces were found, but the only fingerprints on it belong to Hjördís.”

  “I knew it!” said Símon.

  “That’s not remarkable,” Birkir replied. “She told us she took the envelope out of her mailbox and opened it.”

  Anna continued. “Over the last couple of days we’ve mainly been concentrating on the shotgun pellets. Our findings are interesting.”

  She lit a cigarette and took out a large board with two cross-section pictures of shotgun shells.

  “This display shows a cardboard shell,” she said, pointing to one of the pictures with her cigarette. “We can forget that type, as we now know that all the shots in question were from plastic shells.” She indicated the other picture and went on, pointing out the relevant details as she spoke. “The primer, which ignites the powder when the gun is fired, is at the bottom. Between the powder and the pellets is the wadding. It’s made of plastic. Its lowest part, the cushion, is a kind of shock absorber that mitigates the impact on the lead pellets when the powder burns, minimizing the deformation or shattering of the pellets caused by the shock of the explosion. The top part of the wadding, the shot cup, acts as a kind of shield around the pellets, protecting them and the interior of the gun’s barrel as it’s fired. There are slits in the sides of the shot cup so that as the shot emerges from the barrel the cup peels open and disintegrates. Once it has served its purpose, the pellets are free to spread. These plastic cups, particularly the cushion component, vary in design according to the type of shot employed. The fragments from the shot cups fall to the ground between ten and thirty meters from the marksman.