It was a small room, with a made-up sofa bed against the wall and two old chairs on either side. The table stood in the middle, and the television was by the window, whose yellow-brown drapes were stained with damp at the bottom.
Gunnar’s mother, Maria Ludwig, had come to Iceland from Lübeck, Germany, in the spring of 1947, at the age of twenty-five. She had responded to an advertisement inviting German women to go to Iceland to work on the land. It seemed a sensible proposition, as the employment prospects for young, uneducated females in Germany after the war were very poor.
She had lost her fiancé right at the end of all the fighting. After surviving four years of military service almost unscathed, he lost his life during the Allies’ final offensive in northern Germany. By that time, he’d been a lieutenant in charge of a small team of teenagers who had been ordered to fight to the last man in defense of some bridge or other near Hamburg.
Upon her arrival in Iceland, Maria was employed by an old couple in the Húnavatn district in the north. They were nearly as poor as she was, and they couldn’t afford to employ Icelandic workers. Maria was not unhappy in the job, but life was hard work for all three of them. She learned only a little Icelandic; there was not much unnecessary conversation in this particular household. She stayed on with them for four years, until the old couple had to retire from farming. After that, Maria took whatever work she could. With no remaining close relatives alive in Germany, Maria decided to take Icelandic citizenship; this meant adding an accent to her name, becoming María instead of Maria. It wasn’t a major change, but even so, she felt she had lost something of herself. By 1959 she was in a relationship with a seaman from Siglufjördur, and in the fall of 1960 her son, Gunnar, was born. The relationship with the seaman didn’t last, and in 1963, María moved to Reykjavik. Gunnar never saw his father again, and when it became permissible for children to take their mothers’ names, he changed his patronymic, Sigurdsson, to the matronymic Maríuson. He got a job in the Reykjavik police force in spring 1982.
“Warum kommst du so spät?”
“I had to go out of town. There was a murder.”
“Schon wieder ein Mord?”
“Yeah. We’re up to our necks in this investigation.”
“Ach so.”
“Gute Nacht, Mutter.”
“Gute Nacht, mein Schatz,” María said, grinning toothlessly. She had begun to feel old age taking hold of her, and knowing she wouldn’t always be there to look after Gunnar caused her anxiety. She had a habit of challenging all females between the ages of thirty and sixty with the same question, “Sind Sie verheiratet?” But since old María was beginning to confuse German with Icelandic, most of the women she tried to interrogate didn’t realize that she was asking them about their marital status and never even replied.
Gunnar turned and stepped into the kitchen. He paused, battling the urge to have a glass of beer and a shot of ice-cold bitters. Both were in the fridge, but he’d set himself a goal to go to bed sober at least three evenings every week—and preferably four. He had also become much too fat, and he knew the excessive beer drinking was partly to blame. He came to a decision and shoveled several spoons of cocoa into a cup, mixing it with boiling water and some milk. Then he buttered three pieces of bread and topped them with thick slices of cheese.
As he snacked, Gunnar glanced at that day’s newspaper. The killing in Dalasýsla occupied the whole front page and three pages inside. The coverage included photos of the farmhouse and outbuildings at Litla-Fell and the investigators working in the fields. They’d evidently been taken with a powerful telephoto lens; nobody had been allowed near the crime scene, and the Búdardalur patrolman had kept everyone well away while the police had scoured the area. Gunnar recognized himself in one of the pictures. His shape was unmistakable.
There would be blazing headlines in the days to come, now that there had been another killing. Gunnar decided not to read any newspapers while the investigation was still ongoing. When it came to his job, he was like a sports enthusiast who liked to read the sports pages closely when his team was winning, but flipped through them quickly when there was a loss.
He got up to return the milk and cheese to the fridge, resisting—not without struggle—the temptation of the beer bottle within. He managed to overcome the craving, and he retired to the apartment’s only bedroom and went to sleep.
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 23
06:30
Birkir woke a few seconds before the alarm clock rang. He switched it off and peered through the window. He could tell from the poplars in the garden that the east wind had mostly subsided, but the wet windowpanes showed it was still raining. The thermometer showed five degrees Celsius. A chilly dawn was creeping in.
He fixed himself a quick breakfast: a glass of orange juice, a piece of toast, and a cup of strong loose-leaf black tea without milk or sugar. As he ate he donned light running gear and good shoes. He was out on the sidewalk before seven o’clock, and for the next hour he jogged gently through the Thingholt area, heading west over to Sudurgata, and then turning south toward Skerjafjördur. He had run six kilometers and was passing to the south of Reykjavik’s airport when his cell beeped to tell him that he had received a text.
It read: Meeting at nine.
Succinct and clear, the message from Magnús confirmed they would be working over the weekend. Birkir had assumed this would happen—the two unsolved homicides made it inevitable. It was not yet eight o’clock, so he had plenty of time, and he continued into Fossvogur; it was ten past the hour when he turned back toward home on Bergstadastræti, increasing his speed and running the last two kilometers in just under eight minutes.
Upon reaching home, he had a quick shower, shaved, and dressed. A freshly pressed suit was ready, as usual, on the hanger next to the ironing board in the living room. He held up a gray shirt against the jacket and chose a tie that went well with both. It was very important for him to be neatly dressed. He frequently sensed suspicion—sometimes even enmity—from strangers because of his race. Cleanliness and well-tailored clothes seemed to tone down these types of prejudice; that was the reason he bothered. He didn’t think of it as letting other people’s stupidity and lack of sophistication dominate his life. He simply found it easier to do his job when he felt respected. Besides, it didn’t feel like a burden to him to dress nicely. He felt a lot better when he was wearing clothes that he liked.
09:00
At police headquarters, more pictures had been put up on the wall of the incident room. The principal difference between the photos from Dalasýsla and those from Rangárvellir was simply the light; the former were taken in daylight, the latter at night under bright artificial illumination. The details were similar—maimed corpses, purplish blood.
The investigating team was unchanged, apart from Anna. It was her day off, so her colleague in forensics, Elías, was there instead. Once everyone was assembled, he gave a short description of the Rangárvellir crime scene.
“There was mud all over the place, and it was impossible to carry out a proper examination. We set up the lights and took photos so the body could then be removed. We closed the area off to traffic; there should be a patrol car there now, from Hvolsvöllur, taking care of security. We’ll go back when it stops raining and things dry out a bit. They’re forecasting better weather later today. Maybe then we’ll be able to find some footprints, and possibly even spent shells.”
The victim’s clothing was laid out on a plastic cloth covering a table. Every part of it had been soaked, either by water or blood. An old camouflage parka, pants, a fleece jacket, long underwear, and woolen socks. The parka lay facedown. Two blackened holes of different sizes passed through the back and front of the garment, and on the back someone had roughly cut a patch from the outer layer, revealing the white lining.
Elías said, “The killer pulled the fabric up and cut the circle with a knife. He did the same to the victim in Dalasýsla.”
Gunnar measured the patch wit
h a tape. “Diameter is about ten centimeters. The murderer likes to take a trophy,” he said.
Magnús read a description of the victim from his notebook. “Family man, about forty years old. Works as a freelance electrician. In the habit of going goose hunting on land belonging to relatives several times each fall.”
“Other interests?” Gunnar asked.
“Active member of a nonconformist Christian congregation. It doesn’t look as if he has anything in common with Ólafur Jónsson,” Magnús replied.
“Apart from goose hunting,” said Gunnar.
Magnús nodded. “We must, nevertheless, find a connection between them. Let’s ask the relatives to make a list of family members, friends, colleagues, neighbors, and any others who those two guys have had any interaction with. It should be possible to find the name of a mutual acquaintance—unless, of course, they were chosen completely at random, in which case, we have a psychopath who will murder just about anybody, and it all becomes more difficult. Shall we make up a name for this killer?”
“Let’s call him the Gander,” Gunnar replied, “as in Goosey Gander.”
Magnús wrote “the Gander” on the board and asked, “What do we know about the Gander?”
“He kills people,” Gunnar replied.
“Why?” Birkir asked, not addressing anyone in particular.
Gunnar replied, “Maybe he’s a fanatical wildlife activist who’s finally lost it.”
“You mean someone who’s against goose hunting?” Magnús asked.
“Yeah.”
Birkir said, “Well, nobody is likely to risk going hunting this fall—not now.”
Magnús looked at him. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that. I’ve heard about hunters banding together. They’re going to put guys with rifles on guard in the hunting grounds. I think some of them are quite ready to take on our killer. It’ll probably end in disaster, with the hunters shooting each other.”
Gunnar said, “I want to have a closer look at this debt-collection agency. It’s possible the Gander needed Ólafur out of the way for some reason. Then he kills another hunter to divert our attention.”
“Have you got anyone particular in mind?” Magnús asked.
“No, but I want to pursue this.”
“Okay,” Magnús said. “But we must also keep the family in Litla-Fell in mind. They had the opportunity, a possible motive, and, perhaps, the desire to murder Ólafur.”
Gunnar shook his head but said nothing.
“One thing came up yesterday,” Dóra said suddenly. “I almost forgot it when the second murder was reported.”
She blushed a little when the others looked at her. “I went and spoke to Ólafur’s attorney, the guy who deals with his personal affairs and who will be looking after the estate and the will and all that. He told me Ólafur called him last Tuesday to consult with him about divorce proceedings.”
“Really?” Magnús said. “He was intending to divorce his wife?”
“Yeah,” Dóra replied, “that’s what it looks like. But the attorney told me also that Ólafur’s death didn’t change anything for the wife. The terms of their prenup were that she’d get the same share of the assets whether the marriage ended in divorce or Ólafur’s death.”
Magnús was visibly relieved. “So we don’t have to worry that the wife resorted to desperate measures because of a possible divorce,” he said.
Dóra shook her head. “No, not because of the money, anyway.”
10:30
Birkir’s task was to visit Fridrik Fridriksson’s family, and he took off as soon as the meeting at headquarters was over. Inside their apartment building on Kleppsvegur, he found their name on the directory; they lived on the fourth floor. He rang, and a woman’s muffled voice came over the intercom: “Hello, who’s there?”
She buzzed him in after he introduced himself. The stairwell was clean, but it was painted dark brown and was rather dimly lit. Birkir stepped briskly up the stairs—perhaps a bit too fast, for on the landing of the third floor he walked straight into a tall young woman who was on her way downstairs. She wore jeans and a T-shirt, and he knew she was not wearing a bra the moment his face ended up between her breasts.
Birkir was used to meeting women who were taller than he was and hardly ever thought twice about it. He was quite happy being only five foot five, even though that surely made him at least a head shorter than most of the men in Reykjavik—natives of Iceland tended to be tall, not compact like Birkir’s own Vietnamese ancestors. In his view, height mattered less than being strong and quick, physical qualities he maintained through a disciplined exercise regimen. Still, the sudden, intimate contact with this unfamiliar woman on the stairs made him feel strangely small.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I didn’t see you.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “I’m not hurt.”
She was shapely and nicely proportioned, despite being well over six feet tall. She was blonde, with short hair, and she had a pretty, if unusual, face. She disappeared down the stairs.
Birkir continued on his way until he spotted an open doorway on the fourth floor occupied by a woman holding an open Bible to her chest. She was dressed in black from head to foot, and a large, golden crucifix hung on a chain around her neck. Her silvery hair was pulled into a knot at the back of her head.
Birkir introduced himself, and she invited him in.
“Are you Fridrik’s widow?” he asked.
The woman nodded.
“Allow me to offer my condolences on your husband’s death.”
“Thank you,” the woman whispered.
All the drapes were closed, and the apartment was dark but for a few lit candles. On the walls hung framed reproductions of paintings, some more famous than others, all with biblical subjects. Some were familiar to Birkir; he owned a large book filled with classic paintings depicting scenes from the Bible. He’d received it as gift for his combined christening and confirmation, which had taken place on the same day when he was fourteen years old. For some years afterward, he had occasionally leafed through this book in the hope that it would help him to better understand the Christian message. In that respect it had not been of much help, but now he recognized a few of the reproductions hanging on the walls: The Sacrifice of Isaac by Caravaggio; Madonna of the Fish by Raphael; The Last Supper by da Vinci.
Utter silence reigned in the apartment. At first Birkir thought the woman lived alone, but as he entered the living room he saw four children sitting together on a sofa—three boys and a girl. The girl was in her early teens; she wept quietly. The boys looked to be about four, seven, and ten years old. Although their eyes were red-rimmed, all were silent.
A man got up from a chair, approached Birkir, and introduced himself.
“I am the leader of the congregation this unhappy family belongs to. I am here to try to provide support and solace through prayer and invocation to our father God Almighty and our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.”
The man was stout, looked to be around fifty years old, and sported a black wig and a small mustache.
Birkir introduced himself, and the man took his outstretched hand. His hand was soft and his fingers stubby; Birkir had the chance to notice the details since instead of releasing his hand immediately, the man took it in both of his, bowed his head, and said, “May God Almighty be with you in your work and give you His guidance in your search for the evil that exists amongst us, and in its eradication. Amen.”
He finally let go of Birkir’s hand and looked up.
Birkir stared at the preacher bemusedly and then turned to the widow and asked, “Was your husband an avid hunter?”
The woman did not reply and looked instead at the preacher. He said, “Yes. Fridrik liked to go hunting. He considered it his calling to avail himself of God’s bounty, in moderation, to provide for himself and his family. He hunted both fish and fowl. The scriptures say: ‘Be fruitful and increase in number; fill the earth and subdue it. Rule over the fish of
the sea and the birds of the air and over every living creature that moves on the face of the earth.’” The man’s voice rose in pitch as this speech proceeded, as if he were preaching to a mighty congregation.
Birkir waited until he was sure the man had finished, and then asked, “Who knew that Fridrik was planning to go hunting this particular morning?”
At this, the woman finally had something to say. “Only us—me and the children, I mean. And his cousin out in the country. Fridrik called him the evening before last and asked for permission to hunt in the pasture, the same as usual.”
“Did Fridrik have any enemies?” Birkir asked.
Once again, it was the preacher who spoke up. “Satan is everyone’s enemy. His followers hide in many places, and they are also our enemies.”
The preacher crossed himself and continued. “Fridrik always upheld the sign of the cross, and he never flinched from such tasks as God Almighty has entrusted to our congregation.”
“Are you saying that he sometimes quarreled with people about religious matters?”
“We pray for those who encounter serious troubles and setbacks in their lives. Sometimes our prayers are not gratefully received. Sometimes people resist and retreat. But once they experience the wonder of the living faith, they kneel down and pray with us.”
“Can you think of anyone in particular with whom Fridrik might have quarreled?”
The preacher looked at the widow. She shook her head.
“Perhaps you’d like to think about it,” said Birkir. “We need you to make a list of everyone that Fridrik was in any way connected to, starting with family, friends, and colleagues. All the groups are listed on this sheet of paper,” he added, taking a folded sheet from his pocket and handing it to the woman. “Please also include the names of people you have prayed for recently. I’ll pick it up tomorrow, if that’s all right.”
11:00
Gunnar was driving west to the Dalasýsla district for the third time in as many days, only this time he was by himself. The weather had improved considerably, traffic was light, and the journey was not unpleasant. Now and again the sun broke through the bank of clouds, and once when he glanced up, a rainbow had formed in the west where showers were still falling. Beautiful fall colors were beginning to emerge in the countryside, and Gunnar took pleasure in his unhurried progress.
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