Daybreak

by Viktor Arnar Ingolfsson

  His first stop was at the roadside kiosk at Búdardalur, where he bought a Coke and a couple of hot dogs and loaded them up with ketchup, mustard, and raw onions. Having satisfied his appetite, he presented himself at the sheriff’s office, where he had a long conversation with the cop who had taken on the detective work in the district. The man had visited all of the farms in the vicinity of Litla-Fell and talked to their occupants, but nobody had noticed anything unusual the previous Thursday morning. None of the people he’d talked to had heard any shots or seen any emergency flares. The driver of the school bus said he had not seen anyone when he’d driven along the fork toward Litla-Fell at seven thirty in the morning; he did say that he would certainly have remembered, because there was never any traffic on that part of the route.

  The policeman had turned up one thing, however: he’d contacted the Roads Administration and gotten a transcript of the data from a computer at Brattabrekka that did automatic traffic counts at ten-minute intervals throughout the day. It showed that traffic had decreased by midnight Wednesday night, and that after two o’clock only one or two cars an hour passed along the road. At five forty, two cars had passed in a ten-minute period, then no traffic had turned up for a full thirty minutes. One of the cars could have been Ólafur’s, but who was in the other? Gunnar wished the computer data could tell him that. After six o’clock in the morning, traffic had quickly built up again.

  “Could any of the vehicles possibly have been a motorcycle?” Gunnar asked.

  “I don’t know if the counters are able to detect the difference between cars and motorcycles,” the policeman said. “I’ll check it with the administration. I’m also going to put out the word that we want to talk to anyone who drove over Brattabrekka that night.”

  “Maybe that will turn something up. We’ll see,” Gunnar said, getting up and taking his leave.

  There was nobody around at Litla-Fell as he drove into the yard, apart from two barking dogs. Kolbrún opened the door when he knocked.

  “What is it now?” she asked and looked over his shoulder at the farmyard. “No guns today?”

  Gunnar replied, “I need to debrief your boy. Then the case is closed as far as you’re concerned. I hope.”

  She ushered him into the kitchen.

  “Gutti is doing his homework. Dad is seeing to the animals in the outbuildings; if I know him right, he won’t come in until you’ve gone. Do you have any business with him?”

  Gunnar shook his head. “No.”

  “Good.” Kolbrún called her son, who moments later appeared in the doorway holding an exercise book and a pencil.

  “I can’t work this multiplication problem out,” he said. “It’s got fractions.”

  “You’ll have to get your teacher to help you on Monday,” his mother said. “I’ve forgotten all my math.”

  She nodded toward Gunnar. “This man needs to talk to you about what happened on Thursday. You must tell him the whole truth about everything he asks you.”

  “Can we go on living here now that the bad guy’s dead?” the boy asked Gunnar.

  “That I don’t know,” Gunnar said. “Can you remember Thursday morning?”

  “Yeah, I woke up when I heard guns. There were lots and lots of bangs.” He pointed his finger into the air and made shooting noises.

  “Where was your grandfather?”

  “He was awake, too, of course.”

  “Do you sleep in the same room?”

  “Yeah, we sleep upstairs.”

  “What happened then?”

  “The shooting finally stopped, and I went back to sleep for a bit.”

  “What did your grandfather do?”

  “He made porridge and woke me up again.”

  “You didn’t see a car?”

  “The school bus came to pick me up.”

  “You didn’t see another car?”

  “No. I only saw the bad guy’s car. It was parked below the hay field.”

  Gunnar thought a moment before asking the next question. “Have you been baiting the hunter?”

  “The bad guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No.”

  “The sheriff says that someone scratched the man’s car, and that something was stolen.”

  The boy shook his head emphatically and replied, “The black ram butted the car once and there was a tiny scratch. Grandpa and me didn’t do nothing. Grandpa told the sheriff. Once the guy reversed into a fence post, and then he said we’d damaged his car. Grandpa had to put a new fence post in.”

  “But did someone cut the tire of his car?” Gunnar asked.

  “That’s what the bad guy said, but Grandpa said he’d driven over a sharp stone.”

  “Did you ever steal anything from the man?”

  “No.”

  “Not even game?”

  The boy shook his head. “Lappi, one of our dogs, once ate a big trout that the guy had caught and left by his car. He said we’d stolen it, but Grandpa says people should know better than to leave food around when dogs are on the loose.”

  The boy looked firmly at Gunnar. “Grandpa also told me to watch out for the bad guy, because he was tricky and a liar. I kept away from him when he was here.”

  Gunnar jotted something in his notebook.

  “What did you do yesterday, you and your grandfather?” he asked.

  “What did we do? We went looking for sheep. Some stragglers were missing, and me and Grandpa rode up onto the heath to look for them.”

  “Did you have a day off from school?”

  Kolbrún replied, “I spoke to the teacher. We agreed it would do both Gutti and Dad good to go for a ride. It’s like all you people think this incident hasn’t affected them in any way. You should have offered them trauma counseling. That’s what would have happened back in town.”

  “You’re probably right,” agreed Gunnar.

  The boy said, “We found three yearlings, and a ewe lying on her back. Grandpa slaughtered her because she was so poorly. Then the weather got really bad, and I was soaking wet when I got home. But I wasn’t terribly cold.”

  Gunnar said, “Right, okay, that’s it. Thanks for your help.”

  He hesitated a moment and added, “Let me just have a look at this math problem that’s bothering you.”

  15:15

  Birkir pulled out the address and cell phone number of Jóhann Markússon, the man who’d lost an eye after being shot while hunting geese. His cell was off, so Birkir left a message and then sat down at his office computer and played Solitaire until Jóhann called back around four o’clock. After Birkir explained what it was about, Jóhann said, yes, if it was that important, he could come right away. He hung up, and Birkir turned back to the computer. He was just about to solve the game when the front desk notified him that he had a visitor.

  The man was in his twenties, rather tall, dark-haired, and fit. He was wearing the black uniform of a security guard.

  “Will this take long?” he asked. “My night shift is about to start.”

  His face was handsome, but he had divergent pupils that gave him a slightly strange expression. He wore small, elegant glasses that mitigated this effect somewhat. He had a few small scars on both cheeks.

  “I won’t hold you up,” Birkir promised and showed him into an interview room.

  “Tell me about what happened last fall,” Birkir said when they had both taken a seat.

  “When I was shot at?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think it’s got something to do with these killings?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “We’ll find out.”

  “Well, I hope it’s not related. Anyway, it was like this: I’d just moved to Reykjavik from Akureyri. By October, I still hadn’t found work, and one day I just decided it would be cool to go goose hunting—the weather forecast for their evening flight was good. I’d always lived in the north and done a lot of hunting in the countryside around Eyjafjö
rdur, but I was not very familiar with the hunting grounds here in the south. So, I headed off one afternoon and drove just east of Selfoss. I wasn’t sure it would work out with the geese, but that didn’t matter, because I was mainly in the mood to get outdoors and see the country. But when I got to the Landsveit district I saw some geese. They were quite a distance from the nearest house, so I didn’t bother to get permission. My plan was just to bag two or three birds, if I managed to get within range. I know it’s not right to do that, and I’m not usually a poacher. The circumstances just prompted me to take the chance.”

  Jóhann looked at Birkir as if he was expecting him to say that he understood, but Birkir simply asked, “What happened then?”

  “I drove as close to the place as I could and then parked and continued on foot for a couple more kilometers. Finally, I found a ditch I could sneak along. I still had about a half-kilometer to go, and I knew that my route wasn’t going to be easy. I’d gotten within about a hundred meters of the geese when I decided to peer up from the ditch to work out what to do next. But as soon as I raised my head I heard a shot and felt pain in my face. I jumped back down into the ditch and ran back to the car as fast as I could. I assumed I’d gotten into the line of fire of someone who’d seen a bird closer to the ditch than I’d been aware of.”

  “Why did you run away? Why didn’t you yell for help?”

  “I don’t know. Probably just panic. I was there without permission, and I was embarrassed. This was probably a hunter who was licensed to be there, and I’d gotten him in trouble by sneaking around the place like that. I didn’t know at the time how badly my face had been hurt; it was painful at first but it quickly went numb.”

  “Were you badly injured?”

  “No, not very, although it hurt like hell getting shot in the face. I think I had a lucky escape, given the circumstances. The shooter must have been in a range of about forty to fifty meters, given the spread of the pellets. Most of the shot that hit me in the face penetrated the skin and stuck, but my clothing protected me from the rest. The doctor removed seven pellets from my face. The one that hit my eye was, of course, the one that caused the most damage. It hurt a lot the following day, and the wound wouldn’t heal. I got an infection and my eye had to be removed a few weeks later. I got an artificial eye to replace it.” Jóhann pointed to his left eye.

  “So you never saw anybody?”

  “No.”

  “Is it possible someone followed you and wanted to hurt you?”

  Jóhann seemed so surprised at this question that he forgot to answer, and Birkir asked again, “Have you got any enemies?”

  “No,” Jóhann replied finally. “Definitely not.”

  “Did anybody know you intended to go hunting?”

  “Yeah, I talked to a few people about it the previous evening—they knew I wanted to go hunting. I hadn’t decided exactly when, though. I do remember asking if anybody knew of a good place. But I can’t see what that has to do with my accident.”

  “Did someone suggest a place?”

  “No. Nobody in the group knew anything about hunting.”

  “Have you been goose hunting this fall?”

  “No.” Jóhann shook his head firmly. “I don’t hunt geese anymore.”

  17:45

  The last task on Birkir’s list for the day was to pay another visit to Helga, Ólafur Jónsson’s widow.

  This time he was able to park right outside the house, and the widow herself answered when he rang the doorbell. She wore jeans and a pink shirt, and her hair was tied back in a ponytail. She was a petite woman with a big bust.

  Birkir introduced himself. “Can I ask you some questions?”

  “About Óli?” she asked, as if he might have come on a completely different errand.

  “Yes.”

  “Come in. Excuse the mess. I’m packing.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. The executor of the estate contacted me on behalf of the other beneficiaries. Meaning Óli’s kids. They wanna sell the house.”

  “Immediately?”

  “Yep. It seems there’s a lot of demand for homes like this just now.”

  The young widow seemed to be pretty well composed, considering everything that had happened and the disruption it had caused, so Birkir decided to get straight to the point, “We’ve established that Ólafur was planning to divorce you.”

  “Yeah, that news seems to be all over town. That’s why they don’t feel the need to postpone the sale.”

  “They? You mean the children?”

  “Yeah, or their mothers. They’re all ganging up.”

  “What about you? Don’t you also inherit?”

  “We signed a prenup and made wills. I get about half a million krónur for each month of marriage. Whether ended by divorce or death. Not a fortune, but the good thing is it’s in US dollars—four thousand a month.”

  “Why did he want a divorce?”

  “Everyone seems to know the answer to that, too. I cheated on him a few times when he was abroad.”

  “How did he find out?”

  “He got someone to spy on me. Some goddamn private eye who does work for the law firm. The fucking asshole put a camera in my bedroom.”

  “A video camera?”

  “Yeah, digital. Internet ready, he said.”

  “Who said?”

  “Óli.”

  “Are you saying that there are video recordings of you committing adultery?”

  “‘Committing adultery’? What planet do you come from? Yes, there are videos of me fucking in my own bed.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “All the original discs were in Óli’s safe-deposit box. The executor is probably jerking off to them right now.”

  “Who is with you in the videos?”

  “My boyfriend, of course.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I don’t suppose there’s any point in keeping that a secret now. It’s a guy who works at the law firm. Tómas Benediktsson.”

  “Did Ólafur know who he was?”

  “Sure. The camera had autofocus and excellent resolution and everything. These are classy movies.”

  “Was Ólafur going to discuss this with Tómas?”

  “He said he was going to deal with the matter in his own way.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’ve no idea. Wanna see the pictures?”

  “Yes, if you don’t mind.”

  She beckoned him to follow her into a study, where she turned on a computer. They waited while it booted up.

  “He hid the camera on a shelf next to my bed,” she said. “It was in a box that looked like a book. I didn’t catch on until Óli brought the video home. A compilation of the best shots, he told me.”

  A moving image appeared on the screen. A man and a woman having sex. You could also hear the accompanying noises. Birkir had not seen the man before, but there was no mistaking the woman.

  Silicone, he thought.

  “Great soundtrack and all,” Helga said. “Does it turn you on?”

  Birkir looked at Helga and said, “Once I had to watch seven hundred porn tapes that the police confiscated from a video rental. Since then I’ve been immune, but thanks for asking.”

  “No problem.”

  “Do you know the name of the guy who spied on you? The private eye who does work for the law firm?”

  “No. Óli never told me.”

  21:20

  Birkir met up with Gunnar at the police station.

  Gunnar had arrived in town about eight o’clock and was writing up his visit to Dalasýsla. He was lazy about taking notes, but he knew he had to get the details down on paper before he forgot them. It was not a long report, but it took him a good while to tap it into the computer using his two pudgy forefingers. It didn’t help that, on his way in, he’d bought two hamburgers, a large portion of fries, and a two-liter bottle of Coke from the nearby kiosk. After consuming all of this at his desk, his keyboard was a
s greasy as it was sticky.

  Birkir told Gunnar about his visit to the widow who was so well endowed with silicone.

  “We need to have a chat with this Tómas guy—tonight if possible,” he said.

  Gunnar had finished the second hamburger as he listened, and now he nodded, his mouth full.

  “The two of us need to go together,” Birkir added.

  Gunnar nodded again. He pulled up the national register on the computer and found the address they needed.

  “He lives on Skúlagata, just like me,” he grinned. “Not in the same house, of course.”

  It turned out that despite the shared neighborhood, the two addresses had little in common. While Gunnar’s apartment was in an old house on the east side of Snorrabraut, Tómas lived in a brand-new high-rise on the corner of Vatnsstígur.

  Birkir and Gunnar chose to go on foot, which meant they wouldn’t have to return a police vehicle to the station afterward. It wasn’t a long walk, and the weather was okay. Birkir planned to go straight home when they finished, but Gunnar fancied going for a beer; he knew he’d be able to call for a squad car if the need arose.

  When they got to the building where Tómas lived, they decided to hang around in the hallway awhile to see if they could get inside without alerting him they were on their way. It was a twelve-story building with more than one apartment on each floor. Somebody was bound to show up.

  A list of the building’s residents was posted in a large frame on the wall. Next to the number of an apartment on the eighth floor they saw the names of Tómas Benediktsson and his wife; there were no children listed.

  A security camera in the corner focused on them, and Birkir pressed his cell phone to his ear in the hope that their presence would seem less odd if he were seen to be calling someone.

  “I would have liked to see the video of the widow,” Gunnar said, scratching his balls.

  “You watch more than enough porn already.”

  “It’s more fun when there’s a hidden camera. You know, like more real.”