House of Evidence (3 page)

I
t was eleven o’clock in the morning, and Sveinborg Pétursdóttir, a stocky woman who was getting on in years, was on her way to work from her home in Ránargata, east through the Kvos then up toward Laufás. Day was just breaking, but the streetlights were still lit, casting an eerie glow over the snowflakes that drifted earthward in the stillness. There was not much traffic on the streets; most people were now at work and the new snow had already covered their footprints.

Sveinborg plodded on slowly but steadily. She was wearing woolen socks and a sensible pair of wellingtons that were covered by her heavy, long skirt. She wore a blue nylon parka and had a thick wool hat on her head.

This was the route she had walked most days for nigh on twenty-six years. Before that she had been a live-in housekeeper at her current place of employment, so altogether she had been at the house for forty-five years. It was her opinion that having a good employer and the ability to walk to work was life’s greatest happiness.

She paused at a gap in the ice on the edge of Tjörnin Lake, took a paper bag out of her pocket, and picked out a few pieces of bread, throwing them one at a time to the hungry ducks paddling in the
meager opening. She often stopped here in bad weather, knowing that there would be few people around to feed these poor creatures that she counted among her best friends. She watched the birds squabble over the crumbs, and tried on her next throw to divide the bread more evenly between them. One of the ducks seemed to be fighting a losing battle, so she threw the next bit in its direction.

“Here you are, ducky,” she said softly, “there’s a bit for you, and don’t let those bullies take it, now.”

When the bag was empty, she folded it up and tucked it into her pocket.

She crossed Fríkirkjuvegur, plowed through the snow diagonally across Hallargardur Park, and continued up Skothúsvegur. A few minutes later she paused for a moment on the sidewalk in front of her destination to catch her breath.

Birkihlíd was a handsome villa by Reykjavik standards, comprising a single main story with unusually tall windows, a large attic area under its steep roof, and a semi-sunken basement. The exterior walls were pale-gray roughcast and the roof was covered with red diamond-shaped tiles. A large bay window in the front, topped by a balcony leading to a large garret room, lent the house a distinguished appearance. The house name was displayed in relief lettering on the front of the bay, and below it the year it was built, 1910. Broad steps led to the front door on the home’s left-hand gable, behind which was a later addition that, although quite tasteful, somewhat disturbed the balance of the whole.

The garden was enclosed by a tall stone wall topped with close-set metal railings between sturdy concrete posts. Flanking the garden were the majestic birch trees that had inspired the name of the house, their massive branches crowned with a thick layer of snow.

Sveinborg pushed open the heavy gate. Bypassing the front door, she headed toward the back of the house, where there was another, less imposing entrance. She took a large key from her bag and unlocked the door. Brushing off the worst of the snow, she took her coat off and hung it on a hook.

Entering the kitchen from the rear vestibule was like stepping back in time fifty years. Though the kitchen was nicely decorated and everything in it was spotless and perfect, there seemed to be nothing less than half a century old. The room was nearly three times as long as it was wide, and at the far end, just past the breakfast area, was a door leading to the dining room. Large worktables lined the outside wall, and along the inside wall stood a coal-fired range with a steam extractor above it. Antiquated kitchen utensils, pots, and pans hung from hooks everywhere.

Sveinborg looked into the kitchen sink and saw that it was empty. Her plump features registered surprise.

Jacob hasn’t eaten anything, she thought, unless he’s also cleaned the dishes, and it wouldn’t be like him to do that.

On the inside wall, where the ceiling sloped down beneath the staircase to the second floor, there were some large cupboards, one of which she opened to reveal a newish refrigerator. There, on the shelf where she had left it, was a plate of carefully arranged cold cuts covered in plastic wrap.

“Oh, he hasn’t touched his breakfast,” she said out loud.

She looked up toward the ceiling and listened for a moment, but could hear no one moving about.

“Perhaps he’s not up yet,” she said, more quietly this time.

She went back toward the rear entry, turned, and ascended the narrow staircase to the attic rooms. There she came to a wide corridor that stretched the length of the upper floor. A little farther along the corridor was the head of another, much wider,
staircase leading down to the main lobby. She continued along the corridor and looked into one of the rooms on the left. There was a made-up bed, a bedside table, a large clothes closet, and a chair. This was a relatively comfortable room, somewhat more modern than the other living quarters in the house.

He was not there. Sveinborg was becoming anxious now, and felt a strange premonition. She went downstairs using the main staircase, and it was when she reached the middle landing, where the stairs turned a full ninety degrees, that she saw him. Jacob Junior was sprawled, legs outstretched, against a pair of double doors that opened into the parlor. His legs pointed toward the parlor and his head hung limply on his chest. Beneath him lay a pool of congealed blood.

Sveinborg felt a chill seize her heart and creep up her neck to the roots of her hair. She made her way down the stairs step by step, leaning on the massive carved-oak handrail for support. When she reached the bottom she hesitated for a moment, as if she dared not let go of the rail, but then moved toward him and tentatively touched his forehead. It was ice-cold.

She pulled her hand back, turned, and ran to the front door.

“Help, help,” she called faintly from the front steps, but there was nobody to hear her cry.

She retreated to the lobby, stumbling toward the old telephone by the window. She retrieved the directory from a low shelf and quickly leafed through it with trembling hands.

“Police, police,” she repeated frantically, paging back and forth until she at last found the number she was looking for, and then shakily dialed 1 11 66.

Diary I

July 16, 1910. Started the day early at Reykholt. Wonderful weather, sunshine and clear skies. Had salmon to eat, with melted butter and bread to accompany. Before setting off today we had coffee and sandwiches with all kinds of fillings, meat, sausage, etc. The pastor refused to accept any money for the accommodation, but we were allowed to pay for the picnic. Traveled diagonally across Reykholtsdalur valley by Kópareykir. Here there were young women washing clothes in a hot spring…

July 17, 1910. As we arrived at Svínadalur, we met a man who told us that a motorboat would be sailing that evening from Saurbær to Reykjavik, carrying passengers. We hastened our journey and managed to arrive in time to be ferried on board…

July 18, 1910. Arrived Reykjavik at six a.m. after a difficult sea crossing. Everybody was up by the time I got home, cold and tired. Slept for the better part of the day…

H
alldór was standing by the north window, looking out. There was a good view to both the north and south from the detective division’s floor, though people working on the south side of the building often complained about the heat when it was sunny. Reykjavik’s Criminal Court headquarters was on the floor below, and Halldór knew that despite the good views, the building was cramped and in many ways unsuitable for so many staff.

It had finally stopped snowing, and by now was quite bright, though the wind was kicking up. Halldór could see north across the bay to Engey Island, and in the distance, snow-covered Mount Akrafjall, the dark-blue sea separating the two. The harbor was to the west, and a Coast Guard boat was just putting out to sea; Halldór thought it might be the
Thór
. The Coast Guard had plenty to do now, defending the new fifty-mile fishing limits.

It was a quiet morning in the detective division. One man had been arrested for alleged assault, and interviews in a rape case had been completed. Apart from that, two men had been taken into custody and charged with car theft and driving under the influence that had resulted in a fatal accident.

Halldór picked up binoculars that lay on the windowsill and followed the Coast Guard boat as it turned out into the bay
and headed into the north wind. From the back of the room came a series of rhythmic clicks and squeaks; a man was talking on the phone at his desk, squeezing a small fitness tool with his free hand.

“But he was totally unmanageable!” the man exclaimed.

Halldór put the binoculars down, turned his gaze back to the room, and looked sadly at Egill Ingólfsson, his subordinate. He knew what the case was about. Egill had supervised an arrest the previous Tuesday that had resulted in a confrontation and now complaints were being made.

Egill was tan and semi-bald, with snow-white, close-cut hair and a long pointed nose. His tight white short-sleeved shirt showed off an athletic chest.

“He already had the mark on his face when we arrested him,” Egill said, frowning and squeezing the fitness tool even harder.

The room contained three old desks, a few filing cabinets, and two typewriters. Innermost was Halldór’s small office.

At the other end of the room, Erlendur Haraldsson, another colleague, was trying on some ski boots and had scattered the packaging all over the floor. He had rolled his trousers up above his knees, displaying his hairy legs, and now crouched, rocking back and forth to test the fit of the boots. He was a little over six feet tall, with a slender frame that got wider the farther down you went.

“You have to break new ski boots in before using them for the first time,” he replied to Halldór’s unasked question.

Halldór simply nodded, feigning only minimal interest. Erlendur was about to take a winter vacation, going with his family on a long-planned ski trip to Austria the coming Saturday. They had been saving up for two years, and Erlendur hardly talked about anything else.

“Is Halli looking forward to it?” Halldór asked in order to say something. Halli was Erlendur’s younger child, a lad of seventeen, loved by everybody but educationally impaired and hard of hearing. He was good at math but challenged in other areas.

“I’ll say,” Erlendur replied. “He has become very good at skiing. He goes to Skálafell on his own by bus, and was working for his uncle in the Kerlingafjöll mountains all summer.”

“Now, you listen to me,” Egill barked angrily into the phone, “we arrested the guy; he resisted and got a few scrapes. I got some scrapes as well.” He put the fitness tool down and examined the back of his slightly scraped hand.

“Bloody rude of the lad to chew your knuckles,” Erlendur interjected.

“Oh yeah, is that what she says?” Egill spat into the phone, shooting an annoyed glance at Erlendur. He covered the mouthpiece and explained to Halldór, “It was the
girl
who complained.”

Halldór knew that Egill meant Hrefna Hilmarsdóttir, their colleague. They had been working together that week and it had apparently not been altogether peaceful.

Erlendur continued to offer his opinion: “Typical of these broads. Nothing but trouble.” He shook his head, pretending to be terribly shocked.

Halldór sat down and leafed through some reports that were ready for the prosecutor. He was irritated by the style of Egill’s writing about the assault and the report’s many spelling errors. He pushed the papers to one side, planning on correcting it later. He glanced at a report on an alleged rape that Hrefna had written; it was tidy and well written, but it was obvious where the writer’s sympathies lay. Hrefna occasionally forgot that everyone is innocent until proven guilty, but there was nothing in this report that actually overstepped the mark so Halldór approved it.

Just then his telephone rang.

“Detective division, Halldór speaking,” he answered and then grabbed a pad and began jotting down some notes. “We’ll be there immediately,” he said and hung up.

“A man’s been found dead,” he announced as he stood up. “The guys at the downtown station need help. They say there are signs of assault.”

Egill brightened, and then turned back to his phone call. “Look, I don’t have time for this; we’ve got work to do here.” He slammed the phone down, and called to Halldór, “I’ll get the car.”

Halldór turned to Erlendur. “Get Hrefna and follow us. Tell forensics too, and remember to change your footwear. Here’s the address.”

He tore a page from his pocket diary and passed it to Erlendur before walking out.

Diary I

July 21, 1910. Have at long last got rid of the fatigue from our journey, but am still suffering from a cold. Young Matthías has contracted scarlet fever and has to be in isolation in his room…

July 25, 1910. Went to watch a 500-meter running race at Melarnir. Ólafur came first. Not many spectators, only two to three hundred people…

August 2, 1910. My journey abroad is in preparation…