House of Evidence (4 page)

H
refna lay awake in her bed gazing up at the white ceiling. In spite of having worked long into the night, she had woken early, around ten o’clock, unable to sleep any more, and now she had been just lying there for an hour.

I’m a detective, she thought. Once upon a time that had seemed a big word to her. Two years ago she was just a cop, a woman in an ill-fitting uniform that had been designed with a man’s body in mind. It had been a relief to not have to wear that outfit anymore. Now, however, she was thinking about her plans for the future. She knew she had abilities that were not being exploited in this job. The only thing she lacked was self-confidence, but that had grown as she had gotten older. At thirty-three years old, she was ready to tackle something new, which is why the resignation letter was in her handbag.

Hrefna missed those lazy mornings long ago when she had been able to sleep in. That had all changed when Elsa was born. She had been only eighteen years old at the time, and now Elsa was fifteen. Elsa was going to be okay—indeed, Hrefna felt at times that her daughter was the more mature of the two of them. In a way, they had grown up together, but Elsa was quicker and more successful at exploiting the talents she possessed.

Hrefna sat up on the side of the bed and shivered. The window was open and a cold breeze was blowing in; she was wearing only panties and her yellow-and-red Led Zeppelin T-shirt. She reached for her thick bathrobe that lay under a pile of clothes on the chair next to the bed, and, after putting it on, went into the bathroom.

Her blond hair was far too long, she thought, as she looked at herself in the mirror over the sink. She brushed her teeth carefully, noticing the front tooth that was crooked and overlapped its neighbor. Her dentist had tried to convince her that she should have it fixed, but she didn’t want to; someone had once told her that it made her look aggressive and she liked that.

Elsa was already at school and Hrefna was on call that day after four long shifts in a row. Perhaps she would have the day off and could use the time to do some long-overdue tidying of the apartment. The last few days had been grueling.

A young woman in her twenties had brought forth a charge of rape, and she had taken the victim’s statement. This was her usual role in the detective division and probably the only reason she had been recruited there. They felt they needed a woman for such interviews, and she was good at it. She knew that in order for a case to hold up in court, the victim would need to know exactly what had happened, and Hrefna was adept at getting the women to express themselves. The victims often had problems finding the right words to describe what had happened to them, and she was able to help them by showing them previous reports. For while each crime was unique, the language for these crimes had long since been standardized.

In this particular case, the young woman had reported the rape on Monday morning. She was an air hostess, and had been alone at home in her apartment on Sunday evening when an old
boyfriend of hers had phoned, asking if he could come over. She agreed, since they had parted on friendly terms and she could hear that he was feeling miserable. Although he had been under the influence of alcohol when he arrived, she had offered him a beer. He talked and she listened, and finally she asked him to leave, as she had a flight the following morning and needed to get up early. But he didn’t leave. And not wanting to argue with him, she climbed into bed fully dressed and fell asleep. She woke later in the night, took off her jeans, and fell back to sleep.

The next thing she knew he had slid naked under her duvet.

She told him to get out, but he got on top of her, and when she tried to scream, he covered her mouth. Then he was inside her. She couldn’t breathe and when she had at last managed to free herself from his grip, she screamed and cried. He stopped then, got up, dressed, and left. She had lain, curled up and shaking, for several hours before daring to move. Then came uncertainty: Would this count as rape? Did she want to charge him? She phoned a girlfriend and, in tears, told her what had happened; her girlfriend came over immediately and they went together to the police station, where they were sent to see Hrefna.

After the victim had made her statement, Hrefna sent her to the hospital for an examination, and the subsequent medical report stated that the capillaries in her eyes evidenced temporary oxygen deprivation and the skin around her lips was reddened from when his hand had covered her mouth; a bruise was evident on the inside of her thigh; and no semen was found in her vagina.

The accused was arrested and brought in for questioning. The man did not acknowledge rape of any kind. He said he had had sexual intercourse with this woman many times, and they had for a time been going steady.

“What is a guy to think when a woman he’s visiting goes to bed?” he had smirked.

He did admit that the woman had started crying and screaming, which was why he had stopped immediately. He said he hadn’t even had an orgasm.

Hrefna was convinced that the man would be found guilty. The doctor’s note supported the woman’s testimony, and the guy was stupid. He had confessed too much. He was dumb enough to think that the woman’s behavior indicated consent.

Hrefna was in the shower when the phone rang. It was Erlendur. He would pick her up in ten minutes.

Diary I

August 5, 1910. On board
Sterling.
Second day at sea. Vestmannaeyjar in sight. Played bridge and read from
Hjemmet
and
Familie Journal
magazines to practice my Danish…

August 6, 1910. Third day at sea. Sat up on deck and thought. I sense clearly that I am at the beginning of a new and important period in my life. I shall spend a long time in distant lands…

August 12, 1910. We sailed into Øresund early this morning. There were forests of ships’ masts and land visible on both sides as we progressed, with thick-trunked trees and stately farms. Soon the skyline was broken by towers; the big city was upon us.
On tying up at the quayside, one could see wide, cobbled streets and many-storied houses. Everywhere multitudes of people and a variety of vehicles. I find the trams most remarkable…We students are received at the Customs Wharf and escorted to a hall of residence…

August 13, 1910. Walked about the city with my companions and looked at places of significance. I became separated from the rest of the group at the train station. The station building is enormous and has an arched roof. There are four tracks beneath the roof. I am told that an even larger train station is being built here in the city. I spent most of the day in the station, watching the trains come and go. People streamed in, ready to travel, and disappeared into the passenger cars. Whistles were blown and the trains ground into motion amid much discharge of steam and smoke…

September 3, 1910. Studies begin at the School of Engineering. The president gave a speech outlining the school’s history. It was founded through the agency of the famous physician H. C. Ørsted, in accordance with royal decree, on January 27, 1829. In his speech the president gave a detailed account of the enormous importance all natural sciences
have, together with mathematics, for the physical and cultural development of all nations…This winter I shall prepare for the engineering entrance examination by attending classes in mathematics and physics. I shall also read philosophy at Copenhagen University…

H
alldór had noted the time of the call in the pocket diary lying open on his desk: 11:27 a.m. Now, as he got into the car, it was 11:35.

He directed Egill to one of the older areas of the city; a neighborhood where Halldór and his wife often went for walks. The house in question was one he was familiar with, and although it had an address, it was usually referred to simply as Birkihlíd.

As they drove, he read to Egill what he had noted during the phone call: “Male aged about fifty, dead for several hours, clear signs of violence, no one else in the house, lives alone, the housekeeper found him.”

Egill drove fast and the car slid about in the snow but Halldór didn’t protest, he just held on tightly. As they arrived at Birkihlíd, Halldór noted the time: 11:46.

A large police car was parked outside the house, and next to it stood two women chatting. A small boy wearing waterproof pants and mittens that were too big for him came shuffling along the sidewalk dragging a toboggan.

The detectives paused at the gate, peering into the garden.

“This snow might prove useful,” Halldór remarked.

Clear sets of footprints were visible, and it was obvious they belonged to at least three different people. Egill nodded, and they both looked down at the sidewalk in front of the gate. Many feet had already trampled a deep track through the snow. Nothing to be gained there.

They passed through the gate and made their way toward the house, keeping well to one side of any visible footprints. As they came up the steps, the front door opened and a young police officer looked out.

“You had, of course, to walk all over any footprints,” Egill barked without further greeting.

The young man squirmed. “We had no idea what had happened.” Then he added, a bit more confidently, “But we’ve taken care not to touch anything inside.”

“Including the doorknob you’re clutching at the moment,” Egill replied.

The policeman yanked his hand from the knob as if it were red-hot.

“Go and get some people to close the area off,” Halldór ordered. “Cordon off the whole garden apart from the track we took. There’s yellow plastic tape in our car in case you haven’t got any. Follow our tracks and make sure that anybody else who comes near the house does the same.”

The two detectives then stepped inside the lobby. Directly opposite the front door was the entrance to a larger, inner vestibule, with a window to one side that allowed sunlight in. To the right of where they stood was a large space for hanging coats, and to the left a closet for footwear and a small chair.

Once inside the inner vestibule, they saw the lifeless body of the victim on the floor. He was slumped against the doorpost of the parlor. Another police officer, an older man, approached. He had taken off his uniform cap and was clutching it between his hands. Halldór wondered if this was a sign of respect for the dead or just an indication that the officer was too hot.

“The lady who found him is in the kitchen,” the policeman remarked by way of a greeting.

They didn’t need to talk to her just yet, Halldór decided; Hrefna would do it when she arrived.

“Go to her. Make sure you don’t touch anything, but you can give her some water to drink,” he told the policeman.

Halldór and Egill moved toward the body. The man did look to be about fifty years old, though it was difficult to tell for sure from his now snow-white face. The man’s eyes were half-open, dull. He was dressed neatly, in dark gray, well-pressed trousers, a white shirt, a blue bow tie, and a light-gray knitted vest. A hole in one of the shirt elbows had been mended. On his feet he had well-worn slippers made of black leather.

To the left of his chest, beneath his heart, was a black hole in the vest with a dark stain trailing down to the floor, where it ended in a pool of congealed blood. Halldór bent down and examined the hole carefully. Tiny black specks were visible on the vest around the hole.

“Gunshot wound from close range,” he said, straightening up.

“Looks like he bled to death,” Egill added.

Halldór followed the trail of blood across the parlor floor with his eyes. Egill did the same and then exclaimed, “Fancy parlor or what!”

Halldór contemplated the furniture: three heavy leather sofas, two three-seaters and a two-seater, formed a wide U in the center of the floor in front of the fireplace, with a pair of low coffee tables between them. Beautiful woven rugs lay on the shiny, varnished floor. While the furniture was clearly all quite old, it was remarkably unworn. One of the dining chairs lay on its side between the leather sofas, and it was there that the trail of blood ended.

He turned back to the body. There was blood on the knees of the trousers and the toes of the slippers, and the trail on the floor showed signs of smudging.

“Looks like he crawled here himself,” Halldór said. “I doubt he’s been dragged here.”

Egill returned to the lobby, where there was a low table made of dark wood. An old black telephone with a steel dial rested on it, and underneath it had a shelf containing some newspapers and a telephone directory. Beside the table was a matching chair with an embroidered cushion and an upholstered back.

“This is odd. It looks as if he’s tried to get help, but gave up just before reaching the phone,” Egill said, coming back into the parlor.

“That’s true,” Halldór replied. “Maybe he just couldn’t manage to get any farther.”

Egill was not satisfied with this explanation.

“But he could have written some clue on the floor, in blood. There’s plenty of it.”

“He was probably thinking about something else,” Halldór answered, looking at the chair lying on the parlor floor. It had been removed from the dining room and placed there. That must mean something. The chair was the only thing out of place in the room. “It’s not easy to pin down the direction of the shot,” he continued. “It looks as if he was by the chair, probably sitting on it, and then knocked it over when he was hit.”

Halldór removed a small flashlight from his coat pocket and knelt down, shining the light underneath the chair.

“Well, there’s no gun here,” he said. “So he didn’t shoot himself.”

He examined the dining chair a bit more carefully. Based on its current position, it had most likely been facing into the parlor, in which case the shot would have come from the bay window. It could, of course, have come from a different direction, but nevertheless he checked the thick drapes that covered the windows. They seemed intact. He drew them slightly apart, letting daylight into the room.

The windows were also undamaged. Halldór could see the street from where he now stood, and he noticed that Jóhann from forensics had just arrived.

“Go and tell Jóhann to start by checking the footprints in the snow,” he told Egill, before turning his attention back to the chair. Why had it been moved over there? Maybe the housekeeper could explain it. He hoped that Hrefna and Erlendur would arrive soon.

Diary I

October 24, 1910. My studies are progressing well and I lead an orderly life. Not something that can be said of all my fellow students. Minerva, goddess of wisdom, and Bacchus, god of wine, fight for their souls. It is mainly my visits to the train station that affect my studies. I was tested in front of the class today and gained a “meget godt,” a merit grade…

November 2, 1910. I and seven of my fellow students have established a Rise-and-Shine Club among ourselves. Members of the club are obligated to meet at seven o’clock each morning except Sundays. I was
voted treasurer, and have to note down the names of those who do not attend, and they must pay a fine. The funds thus accrued are to be used to pay for a celebration for the club members. This is an attempt to keep us comrades focused on our studies…

November 4, 1910. I like the mathematics and physics very much. Philosophy, however, I find tedious, though I do try to pay just as much attention to it as to the other subjects, in order to get good marks. I am now convinced that I have chosen the right course of study, and am very happy to have followed my instinct. In my work as an engineer I shall have to deal with a great number of problems posed for me by life and nature. These I shall solve with a scientifically disciplined mind…

December 5, 1910. The Rise-and-Shine Club has been disbanded. Helgi did not once show up, he always oversleeps. Others owe less. Little of the amount due has been paid…