The Flatey Enigma

by Viktor Arnar Ingolfsson

  It didn’t take the head of the division long to race over his subordinate’s text.

  “The Flatey enigma?” he erupted in a rage. “What childish nonsense is that?”

  “The magistrate’s assistant in the west seemed to feel it was important,” Dagbjartur answered defensively.

  “Oh yeah? And what’s this? A child out of wedlock. That might be worth looking into. Who’s this woman?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Don’t know! What have you been up to over these past few days?”

  “This.” Dagbjartur pointed stubbornly at his papers. “But no one knows who this woman is.”

  “Aren’t there any birth records from those years that we can go through?”

  “Everywhere’s closed on the Whitsunday weekend.”

  “Right, well, keep going and keep me posted.”

  For the remainder of the day Dagbjartur tracked down the friends, relatives, and colleagues of the reporter, Bryngeir, to dig up some information about his life and habits. His colleagues at the paper seemed to be mostly relieved to be free of him, although no one had the effrontery to say so straight out.

  The list of relatives was a short one. His maternal grandfather was in an old folk’s home in Stokkseyri, and he had an uncle on his mother’s side who was a farmer in the east in Or?fi. Dagbjartur tried phoning the grandfather but was informed that the old man was deaf and unable to talk on the phone. When he finally reached the uncle in Or?fi, it took the man some time to remember he had a nephew by the name of Bryngeir. He hadn’t heard of his death, but betrayed little emotion. He did, however, ask if the man had left any assets behind.

  Most of Bryngeir’s friends considered themselves to be more acquaintances than close friends and showed no sign of grief. He wouldn’t be dearly missed, it seemed.

  Collecting a few snippets of information from here and there, Dagbjartur managed to build a reasonable personal profile of Bryngeir and submitted it to his boss that same evening.

  Question twenty-two: Who were the soldiers of King John of England? Seventh letter. Earlier that summer, the English king had sent King Sverrir two hundred warriors when he was in Bergen; they were called the Ribbalds. They were as swift on their feet as beasts and were great archers, audacious, and had no qualms about committing bad deeds. The answer is “Ribbalds,” and the seventh letter is d.

  CHAPTER 39

  The women in Innstibaer had not ventured outside because of the weather that morning and hadn’t seen anyone. They attended to their chores, but they were surprised that no one had come to pay them a visit. The goodwife from Svalbardi usually popped over to them after the lunchtime radio news and gave them a rundown of the main events in the outside world. They couldn’t afford the luxury of a wireless in Innstibaer, so the two ladies relied on other channels for news. Newspapers didn’t reach them until they had been through several other readers. District Officer Grimur bought the Icelandic Times, and Asmundur in the island store bought Morgunbladid. The Times was passed on from Grimur to Gudjon in Radagerdi, whereas the Svalbardi family bought Morgunbladid from Asmundur the storekeeper at half price when he’d finished reading it. Hogni, the teacher, on the other hand, bought the social democratic paper, which he preserved meticulously in folders. The farmers then donated their papers to the library after they had read them, which was when the women could take a look at them with the other islanders. By that time the papers were normally several weeks old and the news had grown stale, but the serialized novels they contained were classics and very popular in Innstibaer. When the papers had been on the paper racks of the library for several months, they were placed in a bin by the gable of the building, after which they were destined to end their days shredded in the privies of some of the poorer families on the island. The little that was not recycled in this manner was given to the Ystakot clan to be used in the fire.

  No news came that day, and Hogni, who also used to pass by in the afternoon for a cup of coffee, didn’t show. They had coffee ready in the flask and had saved a bit of the cookies, which Ingibjorg of Bakki had sent over to them on Whitsunday. They hadn’t spotted the district officer going out to sea that day, so the teacher was probably at home. He was bound to pop over to them.

  Hallbjorg sat by the kitchen window and peered through the rain falling against the glass. She wanted to be able to see guests when they appeared in front of the house and to be ready to open the door. Contrary to their habits, they had locked the front door. Over the past two days, they had heard many stories about that terrible man from Reykjavik, who had been loitering around like the village drunk and causing trouble everywhere. The two women had, therefore, not dared to leave the house unlocked. But they were somehow restless. Even though they wouldn’t admit it to each other, they were quite eager to hear the latest gossip about this troublemaker.

  Hallbjorg finished knitting the woolen sock and cast on the new one, but she glanced out the window at regular intervals. Gudrun had put down her knitting and picked up an old copy of Morgunbladid. She read out the serialized novel, A Life by Guy de Maupassant, part 15. This was their routine. One of them would read out loud while the other continued with her work. It enabled them to use their time more efficiently. But more often than not it was Gudrun who did the reading, because she had better eyesight for it and Hallbjorg got hoarse if she spoke at length.

  Finally Hallbjorg became aware of some movement outside the house and saw through the window that the goodwife from Svalbardi was on her way up the steps to them and seemed to be in a hurry. Hallbjorg stiffly hoisted herself to her feet to unlock the door.

  Question twenty-three: No horse could carry him. Fourth letter. Rognvald married Ragnhild, the daughter of Hrolf Nose. Their son was Hrolf, who conquered Normandy. He was so enormous that no horse could carry him. He was dubbed Hrolf Walker, or Ganger Hrolf. It is from him that the Norman earls and English kings descended. The answer is “Hrolf Walker,” and the fourth letter is l.

  Kjartan said, “The guest’s answer to this was ‘Ganger Hrolf,’ and the letter is g.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Asmundur, the storekeeper, was on tenterhooks. As soon as he had opened the store in the morning, he had heard news of a terrible mishap in the cemetery. He then contacted Thormodur Krakur, who told him that the reporter from Reykjavik had been found dead there, lying on a grave. Details of the story became clearer as the day progressed. And it was good for business. Islanders popped into the store several times in the day under the pretense of running errands, but above all to hear more news. And naturally they felt compelled to buy something to conceal their blatant curiosity. But no one dared to linger in the store for too long. Instead, they would come back again later and something else would be bought. Customers from the neighboring islands traveled over for the same reasons.

  The story that was circulating went as follows: Bryngeir, the reporter from Reykjavik, had been found horrendously mutilated in the churchyard early in the morning. There were mixed opinions as to what had happened to him, and the district officer had banned all access to the cemetery and guarded the gate. Police from Reykjavik were expected to arrive to investigate the case any moment. The magistrate’s assistant had been spotted coming out of the churchyard and walking down to the school to Hogni. He had then gone home to Bakki and had not come out again. The doctor had been the first person to phone the crime squad in Reykjavik. Then the district officer had phoned several times. The priest offered to hold a prayer meeting in the school at four, since the church was now in the off-limits zone that was being guarded by the district officer.

  Asmundur retold this story countless times as he served the customers, who bought all kinds of unnecessary goods during the course of the day.

  Question twenty-four: The wooden man. Third letter. Earl Hakon invoked his guardian spirits, Thorgerd Altar-bride and her sister Irpa, to perform whatever sorcery was required in Iceland to kill Thorleifur. Hakon ordered the figure of a man to be made out of drift
wood. Then a man was killed, and his heart was cut out to be placed inside the wooden figure. He was then dressed and given the name of Thorgard. They endowed it with such devilish powers that it could walk and talk with men. He was dispatched on a ship to Iceland and arrived when people were assembling at the Althing. One day Thorleifur stepped out of his booth and saw a man crossing the Oxara river from the west. Thorleifur asked the man for his name. He answered that his name was Thorgard, and at the same moment he thrust the halberd at him and through his middle. As Thorleifur was hit, he struck back at Thorgard, who vanished into the earth so that only the soles of his feet could be seen. Thorleifur wrapped his tunic around himself and walked back to his booth. He told people what had happened, and when he threw off his tunic, his guts spilled out. He died there with a good reputation. The answer is “Thorgard,” and the third letter is o.

  CHAPTER 41

  It was still raining at eleven when two detectives arrived in Flatey. They had left Reykjavik by car, shortly after Johanna had phoned the criminal investigation department in the capital and requested assistance on Grimur’s behalf. A coast guard ship that happened to be a short distance away in the West Fjords sailed to Stykkisholmur to meet them and then take them to Flatey. The ship was now moored to the new pier and looked gray, wet, and bleak in the evening twilight.

  Grimur received the investigators on the pier, and the only other people there apart from him were Thormodur Krakur, holding his handcart and dressed in his black suit, and the three generations of men from Ystakot. Valdi had seen the ship approach from the south and went down to grab the ropes as usual. Kjartan, on the other hand, had asked to be relieved of any further participation in the investigation after the discovery in the churchyard, and said he was ill and had gone to bed.

  The chief investigating officer greeted Grimur first. “I’m Thorolfur,” he said, before introducing his partner: “Lukas from forensics. He’ll be examining the scene and assisting me in the interrogations.”

  Thorolfur was a vigorous and slim man in his early sixties. His white hair had started to thin slightly and was combed back. His weather-beaten and clean-shaven face was wrinkled, as if it had been exposed to too much sun. Lukas, on the other hand, was younger, probably in his thirties, short, and chubby, with thick lips and rugged skin that stretched over a broad face crowned with light brown hair.

  Two men were on the deck of the coast guard ship, preparing it for the night at the pier. Figures could be glimpsed through the illuminated windows of the bridge.

  The policemen were suitably dressed for walking in the rain, wearing good raincoats and rubber boots. They carried two heavy bags with them and an oblong box, similar to the casket they had used to transport Professor Lund to Reykjavik. The older policeman gratefully accepted Thormodur Krakur’s offer to carry their luggage in his cart.

  They set off, Thormodur Krakur at the front with the cart and the others behind him. Grimur recounted the events of the past few days to the policemen and the little he knew of Bryngeir’s movements over the past twenty-four hours. Thorolfur asked how many people were on the island, including both locals and guests.

  “There were fifty-two people here this morning,” Grimur answered after some thought.

  “How many of them would’ve had the physical strength to do something like this?” the policeman asked.

  “Well, that I couldn’t say. Most of the adult men and probably some of the sturdier women.”

  “We’ll question everyone from confirmation age up to their eighties tomorrow. How many would that be?”

  Grimur silently counted. “That’s probably twenty-two men and fifteen women. There are two old men in their nineties, and the rest of them are kids below confirmation age.”

  The policeman was silent and pondered. “This shouldn’t be difficult to solve,” he finally said. “The elimination process should narrow the group down quite rapidly. I just hope that the perpetrator doesn’t panic and do something stupid.”

  The sun was still in the air somewhere behind the dark clouds of rain, but was nevertheless beginning to fade. They walked past the doctor’s house, where there was a light on in the window. Grimur didn’t lead them up the shortcut to the churchyard, but instead he took the road that was more manageable for the handcart. Finally they reached the church, which was open. Hogni stood in the hallway, wearing his sailor’s overalls and sea hat, watching the approach of the men. He greeted them with a wave.

  The inspectors took their luggage off the cart and carried it into the church. They then thanked Thormodur Krakur for his help and told him he could leave, but that it would be good if they could hold on to the cart. Thormodur Krakur dithered until Grimur said, “Just go to bed, Krakur. I’ll take care of your cart.”

  Thormodur Krakur tilted on his toes. “Very well, District Administrative Officer. I’ll be off then, even though I never like to be the first to desert the battlefield.”

  Grimur turned to Hogni. “You can go, too, Hogni. You’ve done your shift now. Drop off by my place and get my Imba to make you a cup of coffee. No one wants to be alone tonight.”

  Hogni was visibly relieved. He took Thormodur Krakur by the arm.

  “Come on, pal. Your good clothes are drenched.”

  They walked down the slope from the church, without looking back.

  Lukas grabbed two large flashlights before the inspectors ventured into the churchyard. Grimur followed them, since he needed to show them the way. The body was clearly visible from the side of the churchyard because there was still some daylight, even though the rainy clouds had darkened the sky. It was close to the summer solstice, and the night would be very short.

  Lukas walked with a stooped back, pointing his beaming flashlight at his feet and the grassy path, while Thorolfur followed behind.

  “There’s no trail of blood,” said Lukas. “And no discernible footprints either.”

  When they reached the grave the body lay on, the policemen stopped.

  “Someone has been walking around here,” said Lukas, pointing at the crushed grass around the grave.

  “Yes, I walked there this morning and then the doctor,” said Grimur.

  “I’ll examine the whole churchyard more closely,” Lukas said to Thorolfur, “but if we don’t find any trace of blood, then the man was most likely killed on this spot.”

  He drew closer to the body and scrutinized its back.

  “The man must have been barely conscious when he was carved up. There are no signs of resistance. He seems to have been placed in this position, his clothes were pulled over the top part of his body, and then his back was slashed to pieces.”

  He examined the hands, feet, and finally the head. “There are no signs of him having been tied up and no visible injuries on the head. He is unlikely to have been unconscious from a blow to the head.”

  “What about alcohol?” Grimur asked “He was drunk when he arrived on the island, and as far as I know he never sobered up.”

  “That’s something the autopsy will reveal,” Thorolfur answered. “We’ll finish our examination of the scene, and then we’ll send the body off with the ship. They’ll take it to Stykkisholmur tonight, and there’s a van ready to take it straight to Reykjavik. We should get a preliminary report back within twenty-four hours.”

  Lukas fetched a camera with a big flash. He took several pictures of the body, changing bulbs after each shot. Grimur was blinded by the light when he made the mistake of looking into the flash, and the whole cemetery seemed to completely darken between shots.

  “It’s hard to believe the summer solstice is coming soon,” he said, looking up at the overcast sky.

  When Lukas had finished taking the pictures, Thorolfur bent over the body and loosened the coat around the waist. Holding the tip of the coat up in the air with the index of his left hand, he searched through the pockets with the other. The only thing he found was an almost empty bottle of rum. The drenched coat and bottle were placed in a large paper bag. Next,
Thorolfur loosened the jacket and searched through its pockets in the same way. There was a plastic wallet in one of the inner pockets. Seizing it, Lukas shone his flashlight on its soaked contents. A bus ticket from Reykjavik to Stykkisholmur, a press card with a photo of Bryngeir, and a checkbook with two checks left. From the other pocket he took out a wad that was held together by a thick rubber band. Lukas carefully loosened it. A Danish passport, wallet, and Danish notebook appeared. He opened the wet passport with great caution. The photograph was indistinguishable, but the name of its owner was still legible: Gaston Lund.

  Grimur was dumbfounded. “That’s the man who died in Ketilsey. What on earth was this man doing with his belongings?” he finally asked.

  “He seems to have made more progress in his investigation into Lund’s fate than you did, District Officer,” said Thorolfur.

  “Do you really believe there could be a connection between this deed and the death of the Dane?” Grimur asked.

  Thorolfur silently pondered the question before answering: “If there is a connection, it’s strange that these papers should still be in the reporter’s pocket. If he’d been killed because he knew too much about the Dane’s death, the papers would probably have been removed from his pocket. At the same time, it’s unlikely that two events of this kind could have occurred in a small community like this without them being connected to each other in some way or the perpetrator being the same person.”

  Grimur shook his head dejectedly. “I thought I knew all my people.”

  Lukas finished his job and then fetched the casket from the church. The policemen then lifted the body between them and carefully placed it in the casket. The paper bags with the clothes were also placed in the box. The body no longer looked like a red angel, and Grimur felt it now looked like a giant squashed bluebottle fly at the bottom of the box. He was relieved when the lid had been placed over the casket and screwed down. He felt he ought to say something appropriate, but the best he could come up with was the fragment of an old psalm: