House of Evidence (8 page)

June 6, 1913. The final BSc examinations are imminent. I shall miss this college, but I nevertheless feel certain that my decision to go to Berlin is the right one…

H
ave you worked for these people for long?” Hrefna had resumed her questioning of Sveinborg, wanting to find out more about the family that had lived at Birkihlíd.

“Yes, forty-five years this coming spring,” Sveinborg replied, as she poured coffee for the two of them and sat down opposite Hrefna. “I began working for the family in May 1928.”

“That’s a long time. You must have been happy there.”

“Yes, the family has always treated me well.”

“Can you describe the household for me?”

“When I started out, there were four of us in service,” Sveinborg replied. She stopped briefly to think before continuing. “There was an older woman, Mrs. Elínborg, who looked after the kitchen and did the cooking. Her husband was called Hjörleifur, and he did outside work and managed supplies. Then there were the two of us maids, me and Magga; I mainly looked after the children, who were lovely. We domestics lived in the two basement rooms.” Sveinborg smiled faintly at the memory, and went on, “At that time it was very much an upper-class establishment. Merchant Alfred had actually retired, and old Mrs. Kirsten was in poor health. Jacob Senior, the engineer, was, on the other hand, highly regarded in town, and Elizabeth was a real lady; visitors
were constantly coming and going, and there were wonderful parties. What with everything, we domestics were kept very busy during those years.”

“What sort of a man was Jacob Senior?”

“Jacob Senior was an extremely handsome man. He was polite and considerate, and everybody felt comfortable in his presence. He inspired confidence, if I may put it like that. He had very elevated ideas on many things, and it was interesting to listen to him when he sat at table with important people and bombarded them with his ideas on all kinds of projects.”

“And Elizabeth?”

“She was a good mistress; somewhat dictatorial, it is true, but that was the norm in those times. It was sometimes difficult to please her because, in the beginning, my understanding of English was limited. The mistress never spoke Icelandic, but she understood it well enough. Occasionally Jacob had to interpret when he came home in the evenings, and it irritated her having to involve him in the running of the house. But he didn’t mind.”

“What has the household been like in recent years?”

“Everything changed when Jacob Senior passed away. The mistress stopped holding receptions, and the domestic staff was given notice. I stayed on because I had gained a reasonable understanding of English. Later my duties were reduced as well, as Jacob Junior was studying abroad and Kirsten had gotten married, so I moved into my own apartment and worked only half a day. Naturally the mistress had to reduce her outgoings.”

“What has your job consisted of lately?” Hrefna asked.

“I would usually go there around eleven in the morning and prepare lunch. Jacob Junior used to come home at lunchtime to eat with his mother, and he kept up the habit after she died. When I had cleared up after lunch, I would do the cleaning. The mistress
used to give me instructions of what to do, and I have maintained her routine ever since she passed away. I always go over all the main rooms once a week; she was very firm about that. Round six o’clock I would start to prepare supper, which I served at seven o’clock sharp. Jacob and his mother always used the dining room in the evenings, but recently Jacob Junior had taken his meals in the kitchen with me, both at lunchtime and in the evening. When I’d cleared up after supper and prepared breakfast, I would go home.”

“And what is your salary?”

Sveinborg looked away. “It would not be considered generous today,” she demurred. “The house is very expensive to run, and Jacob Junior is not a high earner. But I get my pension and I own my apartment outright.”

“Can you describe your day yesterday in Birkihlíd?” Hrefna asked.

“Yesterday was a Wednesday, when I usually clean the main rooms and wash the floors. They are not used much, but there is always a bit of dust. The stamp collection came back from the exhibition over the weekend, and the frames were very smudgy, so I gave them a good polish. Jacob was going to put them into the safe.”

“There’s a safe in the home?”

“Yes.” Sveinborg thought for a bit, and then whispered, “It’s under the desk in the office.”

“Do you know what is in it?”

“Jacob keeps his stamps in it, and some of the diaries are kept there.”

“What diaries?”

“Jacob Senior’s diaries. He kept a diary throughout his entire adult life.”

“Do you know where the key to this safe is kept?”

“No, I didn’t need to. I would never open the safe.”

Hrefna didn’t doubt her. She dropped the subject of the safe, and asked to hear more about her routine yesterday.

“I always putter about in the kitchen while the afternoon serial is on the radio; they are reading Jón Gerreksson’s biography right now. The serial finishes at three o’clock, and after that I went out shopping, as I usually do on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. I always go to the same neighborhood store; Jacob has an account there that he settles every month. An old friend of mine lives next door to it, and I always visit her; she is now in terribly poor health, so I also do some shopping for her as well.

“When did you get back to Birkihlíd?”

“Before five o’clock.”

“What did you do then?”

“I’d finished in the main rooms, so I stayed in the kitchen. I cleaned the floor and put potatoes on to boil. I was going to cook haddock fillet; it’s usually fish on Wednesdays.”

“When did Jacob get home?”

“It must have been after six. He went straight to his study upstairs. He usually worked there until I told him supper was ready.”

“When did you go home?”

“As soon as I had cleared up after dinner.”

“What time was it then?”

“Sometime after eight, I think. I don’t know the exact time; I don’t wear a watch. I just hear on the radio what time it is,” Sveinborg said apologetically.

Hrefna smiled. “Approximately is good enough for me. Was Jacob at home when you left?”

“Yes, he rarely went out in the evening.” Sveinborg thought it over. “He usually watched the news on the television after supper, but when I went into the television room to say good-bye, he wasn’t there. I found him downstairs in the office. I thought perhaps he was putting his stamps away.”

“What did you say to him?”

“I just sort of said good-bye. I told him that there were milk and cookies if he wanted a snack later in the evening, and that everything was ready for breakfast.”

“What was his reply?”

“He just said thank you.”

“Did you know if he was expecting visitors that evening?”

“No, if so, I would, of course, have stayed longer and served coffee to the guests.”

Hrefna looked at the cup in front of her. This seemed to be Sveinborg’s favorite occupation, supplying people with good, strong coffee.

“Er…” Sveinborg suddenly began, hesitantly, “do you think that Jacob Junior was…shot with a gun?”

Hrefna put away her pen and looked at the older woman. “Yes, that is what it looks like.”

Sveinborg shook her head. “This is a dreadful notion,” she said.

“Yes?” Hrefna waited for further explanation.

“Yes, well, it’s like this,” Sveinborg replied. “Jacob Senior also died in the parlor in Birkihlíd, almost thirty years ago. He was also shot with a gun. Thank goodness the mistress did not have to relive this.”

“Who shot him?” asked Hrefna.

“Nobody knows; they never found him.”

Diary II

July 10, 1913. Elizabeth and her friend Miss Annie Barker met me at the quay in London. They have organized a ten-day hike round northern England with three of their friends…

July 20, 1913. We struck camp and set off on the last leg of our journey at dawn. We walked all day. We are now proceeding along the Scottish border. We men carry the best part of the burden in our knapsacks, but the girls carry small knapsacks as well. Elizabeth’s energy amazes me. I lead the walk but she is always right behind me; she is enjoying the trip even though we are all exhausted…

July 25, 1913. Elizabeth invited me to dinner at her parents’ home along with Miss Annie. The Chatfields are extremely formal and polite. Afterwards we attended a concert given by a large orchestra. A work by the Czech composer Antonín Dvořák, the New World Symphony, was the one that will stay in my memory. He was born in 1841 and died in 1904, according to the program. This is the last evening of my visit…

J
óhann and Marteinn had brought some bags into the parlor, one including a camera and various accessories; another, equipment to collect fingerprints; and a third holding containers for the samples they hoped to collect. They then set up powerful spotlights on tall tripods around the parlor, leaving the windows covered.

While Fridrik waited to supervise the removal of the body, Jóhann began taking photographs of it, first full-body shots from several angles, and then close-ups of the entry wound, outside as well as inside the clothing.

Jóhann got Fridrik’s permission to take samples of the deceased’s fingerprints right away, rather than leaving it for the postmortem, which he was relieved not to have to attend. He drew from one of his bags a metal horseshoe-shaped tool, which somewhat resembled a shoehorn, that he used for fingerprinting. It had slots through which he could thread paper tape printed with five squares. He also withdrew a small inkpad containing special fingerprinting ink and, grasping one of the deceased’s hands, pressed each finger onto the inkpad and then onto the paper in the tool, whose horseshoe shape ensured that the impression of the whole fingertip was clearly reproduced on the paper. Jóhann
processed both hands, and then covered them with plastic bags, securing them with rubber bands around the wrists.

He would have liked to check if the deceased had fired a gun recently, but it was not possible. He did have equipment back at the lab for doing a so-called paraffin test, where warm paraffin wax was applied to the hands to see if they revealed nitrates left by a gunshot, but recent research had shown this method to be very inaccurate so Jóhann had stopped running these tests. There were new methods involving expensive chemical tests, but he did not possess that equipment. In any case, a positive result would not have shown whether the deceased had fired the gun himself or had used his hands to protect himself from a shot fired from very close range.

Finally, he took out a clear plastic box from the samples bag and, with a small pair of scissors, cut a lock of hair from the victim’s head and placed it in the box. He wrote the name, place, and time on a sticky label, and affixed it to the lid of the box.

Two officers had brought in a modest aluminum coffin, and after Marteinn helped Jóhann put the body into a large plastic zippered bag, it was set in the coffin and taken away. A postmortem would soon take place to establish cause of death, and Jóhann would have the clothes sent to the lab, each garment individually wrapped in plastic.

With the deceased no longer present, the atmosphere at the house changed considerably, and all unconsciously heaved a sigh of relief. Their next task was to examine the scene; if there was the smallest crumb of evidence that could point to the perpetrator, it was Jóhann’s job to find it.

Marteinn was given the task of vacuuming. He used an ordinary vacuum cleaner, but with a specially made nozzle into which a very fine filter could be slotted; anything the cleaner picked up
would get caught by the filter, and could be extracted easily and examined under a microscope if necessary.

Marteinn was to clean the floors and furniture in stages, replacing the filter each time and placing the used filter into a labeled plastic container. This way, they would be able to identify exactly where in the parlor they had found a particular piece of evidence—a hair, for example, or some cloth fibers.

Meanwhile Jóhann examined the trail of blood. It seemed to indicate that the man had dragged himself across the floor, but Jóhann wondered if there were any other imprints in the blood. There didn’t appear to be, but nevertheless he took photos of the whole trail. The spot where the man had been shot was, of course, of particular interest; there was a lot of blood in a small area here, but also droplets dispersed over a wider area, and it was these droplets that caught Jóhann’s attention. He placed a numbered label next to every drop and took a photograph of the whole area, and then set the camera above each drop to take an accurate close-up that included the numbered label and a millimeter-scale ruler. He could use this to help determine the angle and range of the shot.

He then examined the fruits of Marteinn’s work; the filters were remarkably clear. There had hardly been any dust on the floors and furniture—the parlor had obviously been recently cleaned, though there was a bit of soot on the floor next to the fireplace.

Finally Jóhann turned his attention to fingerprints. He pulled on a pair of white cotton gloves and surveyed the room for drinking glasses or similar objects that somebody was likely to have touched, but there was nothing of that kind here. The dining chair looked like the only thing that had been recently moved, so Jóhann photographed it where it lay, then moved it carefully onto a white cloth that he spread out on the floor.

Jóhann chose a gray powder from his bag that would not cling to the varnish on the chair. Fingerprint powder works by sticking to traces of grease left behind when a finger touches an object; the grease carries the same pattern as the finger itself, and the powder therefore displays an accurate copy of it. The trick was to use the right powder for the circumstances. It must not cling to the surface bearing the fingerprint, and it must be the correct color: black powder was used on light surfaces, gray powder on dark ones. Different methods were applied depending on whether the fingerprints were old or recent.

This powder was designed to show up on only recent prints, those containing grease and moisture, and not old prints, which consist mainly of salts. Jóhann applied the powder to the chair with a soft brush. He then carefully blew the dust off the surface, revealing prints left there by hands that had held the chair and probably moved it; there was also a single handprint on top of the chair back. Jóhann photographed all these prints with a special lens, before transferring each print to a card by carefully placing adhesive tape over the print, peeling it off again, and sticking it to the card to produce a clear reproduction of the original fingerprint.

Jóhann had a good impression of a right-hand thumbprint from the chair that he now compared with the samples he’d taken from the deceased. It was the same fingerprint; there was no doubt about it. The victim had carried the chair to the place where it had lain—a conclusion that would no doubt cause some disappointment, but that was not Jóhann’s concern. He was just pleased to have an answer. His task was simply to establish facts; other people had to interpret them to find the perpetrator.

As he was brushing some gray powder onto the telephone receiver in the lobby, it rang. Jóhann was so startled that he nearly dropped the vial of fingerprint powder. He blew the powder
off and picked up the receiver, holding it by the bottom of the mouthpiece.

“Hello?”

“Jóhann, this is Hrefna. Sveinborg, the housekeeper, just told me that this isn’t the first time murder has been committed in Birkihlíd. The father of the deceased was fatally shot in that parlor in 1945. Let me talk to Halldór.”

Jóhann fetched Halldór from upstairs, reminding him to put on gloves before handing him the telephone.

Halldór listened with interest to Hrefna, saying little. When the conversation came to an end, Jóhann asked for the phone again.

“Hrefna,” he said, “I need to get the housekeeper’s fingerprints for comparison. Can I pop in on you in a little while?”

“Yes, I’ll prepare her for it. She’ll probably offer you coffee,” Hrefna replied with a smile.

“Sounds good to me,” Jóhann said, putting the phone down.

He needed fingerprints from both Sveinborg and Matthías to compare with other samples. Matthías was still in the house, so that was easy, but he would need to pay a visit to Ránargata later, on his way to the lab. It might have made more sense to send Marteinn on such an errand, but Jóhann wanted to do it himself; after all, Hrefna was there.

Jóhann had been attracted to Hrefna from the moment he began working for the detective division. His attempts at chatting her up had not produced any results though.

“I really don’t want to have a relationship of that kind with a colleague,” Hrefna had said good-naturedly when he tried to invite her out to the cinema on one occasion.

Nevertheless they had a good working relationship, and often had coffee together in the lab. Jóhann, Erlendur, and Halli,
Erlendur’s son, had even helped Hrefna and Elsa move into their new apartment.

When Jóhann finished his work in the lobby, he turned his attention to the office.

Diary II

August 20, 1913. Arrived in Berlin this morning. I rented a room in a cheap hotel for one night…

August 21, 1913. Took a tram to Steglitz and paid a visit to a lady who rents out cheap rooms to students. She will accept me if I pay the rent in advance…

August 22, 1913. Sightseeing in the city. Pictures of Kaiser Wilhelm in every shop window. Most of the houses look similar, like boxes with flamboyant decorations in the front. Everything is very clean here, as all the streets are washed during the night. There are policemen on every corner…

September 6, 1913. College begins…

September 9, 1913. Professor Schmidt revises the history of the railways. I have to make a great effort to understand the German language. He details some experiments in building locomotives early last century. He mentions the Englishman George Stephenson in particular as one of the pioneers
who built practical steam locomotives during the years prior to 1830. He describes the first German railroad, which was built between Nürnberg and Fürth in 1835…A bit of vocabulary I need to master: Rails = Schiene, Sleepers = Schwelle, Gravel = Schotter…I must practice pronouncing the voiced sch-sound…

October 2, 1913. The landlady has assisted me with a number of small things in the last few weeks, but when I paid the rent this morning she presented me with a bill. Every single little favor is detailed and priced, for instance three schillings for fastening a trouser button, 27 schillings in total.

October 12, 1913. Draftsmanship lessons all day. Drawings of road cross-sections (Ger. Querschnitt), ditch and fill…

October 19, 1913. A college friend, Helmut Klee, invited me to supper in his parents’ home on Akazienallee. They are excellent people. Helmut has a younger brother named Björn. He did not know that his name means bear (Ger. Bär) in Scandinavian languages, and was thrilled when I told him that. I must remember to write to Matthías…