“What was it that bothered Fridrik?”
“Rose, my girlfriend, stayed with me for two weeks this summer. I said goodbye to her on the sidewalk when she took a taxi to the airport. We kissed goodbye. Just at that moment, Fridrik came out with the children; he muttered something unpleasant, but I didn’t give it any thought until that weird preacher of theirs suddenly appeared on my doorstep. It wasn’t hard to get rid of him, but then I began to hear murmuring out in the hallway. At first it made me lose concentration when I was trying to work—that was bad, as I’m already a bit behind on all the projects I’ve committed to. But I got used to it.”
Birkir took from his notebook a photograph of Ólafur Jónsson and handed it to Hjördís.
“Do you know this man?”
She examined the picture. “I feel as if I’ve seen this face. I might have met him at one of the Icelandic parties in New York last winter. Is that possible?”
“Maybe. What about this one?” he asked, showing her a photo of Vilhjálmur Arason.
“No. My grandmother might know him.”
Birkir pretended not to notice the irony in her tone.
“Who are these guys?” she asked.
“Victims of the recent murders. Then there is Fridrik, your neighbor.”
Hjördís seemed surprised. “You think that this is linked to me in some way?”
“If there’s a connection between these killings and the attacks on Leifur and Jóhann, then yes, that is a possibility. You would be the only person who has had dealings with two parties in the case, so far as we know.”
“The attack on Leifur? Are you saying he was murdered?”
“He was shot. Yes.”
“Oh my God, I didn’t know that.” Her right hand flew to her cheek. “I was told he’d committed suicide.”
“Can you tell me what you were doing in the early mornings of last Thursday, Friday, and Sunday?”
“Why not Saturday?”
“Nobody was murdered then.”
“Do you really think that I know something about these deaths?”
“We need to exclude everyone with the slightest connection to these events.”
“Well, all right. Early morning, you said? Tuesday I went up north to visit Mom and Dad, returning around midday Thursday. Friday I was definitely asleep here at home. I usually work into the wee hours and wake up late. Saturday night I went out on the town, and I slept somewhere else that night. I stayed there until noon Sunday.”
“At what address?”
“I’m not telling you that. I met a woman and we were together. I’m not particularly proud of this fling, but Rose and I have an open relationship, and sometimes we don’t see each other for ages.”
Birkir had been keeping one eye on the slide show, and now a picture appeared that caught his full attention: a young woman, not yet twenty, carrying Hjördís on her back. She had long, dark, flowing hair, a cheerful face, and crooked front teeth.
“Who is that?” Birkir asked quickly, pointing at the screen.
By the time Hjördís had turned her head to look, a new photo was showing on the screen.
“This one?” she asked.
“No, the one before.”
She turned to the computer, hit a key to interrupt the slide show, and flipped back to the previous picture.
“That one,” said Birkir.
“Her name is Kolbrún. She was our au pair when I was ten or eleven.”
“Is she from Dalasýsla?”
“Yeah.” Hjördís smiled. “She was very provincial when she came to Boston.”
“Have you met her since then?”
“Yeah, just recently. She works in a seafood store I sometimes go to. They’ve got really good, cheap fish dishes that you can just heat up in the oven or stick in the microwave. I went there the first time this summer and recognized her immediately. And she recognized me.”
“Have you kept in touch since?”
“No. We sometimes gossip in the store if it’s not busy. She’s told me how life’s treated her since she was with us. Why are you asking about her?”
“We encountered her during our investigations.”
“In what way?”
“One of the victims was shot near the farm where her father lives.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that. Poor thing.”
“So you’ve had no more than this casual contact?”
“Nope.”
Birkir was not convinced she was telling the truth.
15:45
Gunnar, Magnús, and Dóra were gathered around the computer when Birkir got back to the office. Gunnar held a phone to his ear. “We’re not getting anywhere with this,” he said.
“With what?” Birkir asked.
“We need the answer to the latest riddle,” Gunnar replied. “We’re running out of time, and Emil’s helpers still haven’t found the answer.”
“What’s the question?”
Dóra pointed at the computer screen: Who died? SSIEHITDSOABTEHHGTIPSUAEHKCAUTS
Gunnar said, “The search engine can’t find it, nor can anyone else.”
“Let me see,” said Birkir, and he leaned over the screen.
“It’s some kind of anagram,” he said. “Have you tried putting it into a different order?”
“Yes, both backward and forward,” Gunnar replied.
There was a brief silence as Birkir studied the text. Then he said, “Try every other letter, backward.”
Dóra did as he said.
S U C H A S I G H T A S T H I S appeared on the screen.
Dóra read, “Such a sight as this?”
“And now the rest of the line, also backward,” Birkir said.
T A K E U P T H E B O D I E S.
“Now google it,” Birkir said, straightening up.
Dóra did so, and after a few clicks of the mouse they found themselves looking at:
Take up the bodies: such a sight as this
Becomes the field, but here shows much amiss.
Go bid the soldiers shoot.
It was the end of Fortinbras’s monologue, the final words in Hamlet.
“Hamlet. How the hell did you do that?” Gunnar asked.
“When I was in grade school there was a craze for writing messages in various kinds of code. I got good at cracking them.”
Gunnar looked at the clock. “We’ve got ten minutes until the deadline.”
Birkir said, “The goddamn Gander is playing with us. This stupid distraction is making us focus all our attention on solving bizarre riddles instead of continuing to search for him.”
“What can we do?” Magnús asked. “Stop responding?”
Birkir shrugged. “He’ll surely get bored with this in the end, and then it’s anybody’s guess what he’ll do next.”
Dóra typed the answer in an e-mail—Hamlet died—and clicked Send.
Two minutes later the reply came: Heavens above! You are geniuses. I applaud you.
They all waited, staring at the screen, for the follow-up.
“We’re playing it totally his way. Just standing here like zombies,” Birkir said. “What’s the next thing on the agenda, Magnús?”
“Next?” Magnús glanced at the clipboard in his hand. “We don’t yet have the list of Leifur and Jóhann’s friends. You were going to get it.”
“Here’s something,” Dóra said. She opened the mail and they all peered at the screen.
Question five: In one of his books the crime writer Ed McBain used a famous play in the plot. Which book? Three hours.
Dóra typed “Ed McBain” into the search engine and selected one of the pages that came up.
“Pseudonym of Evan Hunter,” Gunnar read. “Any of you read anything by him?”
“Yes,” said Birkir. “They’re great crime novels.”
Magnús also nodded. “I know them, too.”
Dóra continued searching. She got a listing of all of McBain’s books and counted them. “There are at least fifty books i
n his 87th Precinct series. How are we supposed to solve this one?”
She tried “Ed McBain famous play” but waded through a mass of hits without finding anything helpful.
Gunnar grabbed the phone and dialed. “Emil,” he said. “Listen, I’ve got another riddle for you.”
17:00
Birkir called Jóhann Markússon’s cell. Jóhann answered immediately.
“I need that list of your and Leifur’s friends,” Birkir said.
“I’m just leaving the gym and I’ll be home in ten minutes. Meet me there. I jotted them down this morning. The note’s ready on the kitchen table.”
He gave his address, and Birkir noted it down before hanging up.
Jóhann lived in an apartment building in Lower Breidholt. The parking lot was empty when Birkir arrived. He waited a minute or two, and then a sporty black BMW glided into the spot next to him.
“That’s a cool car,” Birkir said as Jóhann got out.
“It’s a lot older than it looks. I bought it this spring,” Jóhann said as he locked it with the remote. “It’s been very well looked after, but I think I’ll be selling it. I’d rather be driving an SUV in the winter.”
They walked together into the building. Jóhann said, “We’ll have to be quick. I need to get to work. I’m still on night shift.”
He opened the door to an apartment on the second floor. The interior was hot and airless, and Birkir immediately noticed an unpleasant odor.
“The renter before me had badly trained cats. I haven’t been able to get rid of the smell,” Jóhann said as he opened the door to the balcony.
Birkir looked around. The furniture was mismatched and in poor condition. The sofa’s covering was torn, and there was a large scorch mark on the table in front of it. Two shotguns hung from nails on the wall; on the floor were three open boxes of books. Some large, framed photographs of Leifur and Jóhann were leaning against one wall and showed the friends rock climbing, posing on the beach, skiing, and shooting.
“This is not a home for the future,” Jóhann said. “I rented it furnished and don’t plan to stay here long.”
He pointed at the pictures. “Hjördís took those. She’s a great photographer. I really like them. I’m thinking about whether it’s worth putting them up on the wall.”
Birkir looked into one of the boxes and examined the uppermost book.
“Ed McBain. Are you interested in crime novels?” he asked.
“Yeah, some of them. I’ve got almost all the McBain books, I think. The ones about Precinct 87. I think there must be more than forty in that box.”
“Why do you like this author so much?”
“I love good crime stories. And you learn a lot of English reading them. I’m also thinking maybe I’ll apply to get into the police.”
“Do you really think you learn something from these books?”
“Yeah, I think so. McBain knew completely what he was writing about. But I don’t know if you’d have me in the police, because of my eye.”
“You probably wouldn’t be the worst on a team,” Birkir said. “But I’ve just had a thought. Can you answer a question for me? In one of his books, McBain used a famous play in the plot. Do you know which book that was?”
Jóhann seemed surprised. “Why do you ask?”
“I heard someone mention it recently.”
“It’s a very easy question,” Jóhann said. “It’s called Ten Plus One. In the book, he uses a play by Eugene O’Neill, The Long Voyage Home. The book came out in 1963.”
“Why is it an easy question?”
“It’s the only one of McBain’s books that’s been published in Icelandic. It’s called The Sniper in the translation. One of my favorite books.”
“Why?”
“I found an error in it. That’s what I like best when I’m reading. Finding errors.”
“What error?”
“In one place the murderer is asked to come outside for a cigarette, but says that he doesn’t smoke. But a few pages later he lights up. I know I’m not the only one who enjoys looking for mistakes like that in fiction. There are even websites that catalog lots of these sorts of things. Stephen King makes a lot of errors.”
“What’s the McBain book about?”
“Ten Plus One is about a serial killer who kills most of the people who took part in a particular performance of the play. That’s all—the actual plot of the play doesn’t feature in the book.”
Birkir took out his cell and called Gunnar.
“I’ve got the answer to question five,” he said.
After a brief conversation, he turned back to Jóhann.
“Do you have that list of names for me?”
“Yeah.” Jóhann fetched a piece of paper from the kitchen and handed it to Birkir.
“Sorry it’s handwritten. My printer’s broken.”
Birkir glanced at the paper. The handwriting was not stylish, but it was quite legible.
“Can you read it okay?” Jóhann asked.
“Yes, I think so,” Birkir replied.
“I hardly ever write anything by hand. When the three of us were in Spain, it was Hjördís who wrote the postcards for Leifur and me. She could imitate our handwriting better than we could write ourselves. She’s so good at drawing.”
“Right.”
Jóhann pointed to the list of names. “It’s all there,” he said. “Skiing companions, hunting companions, traveling companions, old girlfriends, and family. I wrote it up for both Leifur and me, as well as I could.”
“Do you and Hjördís sometimes meet?”
“No, not anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Something happened between us. Something I don’t want to talk about.”
“Did you fall out?”
“Yeah, you could say that.”
“Did that happen after Leifur disappeared?”
“No, before.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to explain it?”
“Off the record?”
“The police don’t operate like that. I’m not a psychologist, not a doctor, not a priest, and not a journalist.”
“Then I can’t say anything.”
“So be it,” Birkir said. “I’m not going to force you to say something you don’t want to say. But sometimes it can be good to talk about what’s on your mind.”
Birkir wasn’t expecting these words to bring any result, but they nevertheless stirred something within Jóhann. He was silent, thinking things over, patently uncomfortable. Finally he said, “I’ll tell you something that I’ll never say again, and I’ll never admit to having said it. You haven’t got a tape recorder on you, have you?”
He came over and patted Birkir’s jacket pocket.
“No. I’m not carrying a recorder,” Birkir said.
“Switch your cell off,” Jóhann said.
Birkir took his cell phone out, turned it off, and showed it to Jóhann.
“You wanted to know why Leifur and I fell out with Hjördís,” Jóhann said.
“Yes,” Birkir said quietly.
“Okay. We went to Spain in August last year. It was our third trip in as many years, and everything was just as usual. It was the three of us together in an apartment for two weeks of nonstop fun. One night during the second week, we drank more than usual and somehow all ended up in the double bed at our apartment. We were just playing and fooling around, but then Leifur and I got just a bit too excited. We began to peel the clothes off Hjördís, and we didn’t hear—or we didn’t listen—when she told us to stop. One thing led to another, and it ended by us…basically…simply raping her. It just started somehow, and before we knew it we were both done. It had just seemed like banter and silliness to start with—we were too drunk to realize what we were doing. It had happened a few times before that we both screwed the same girl, and they weren’t always pleased about it, either. It didn’t dawn on us until the following morning what we’d done to Hjördís. During the night she’d pa
cked her things and split. She flew home on the first available flight. We didn’t see her again until we were back in Akureyri, and she ignored us completely. It has been hanging over me like a nightmare I can’t forget for the past year. I can’t forgive myself for having been a part of it. It was bad enough losing a best friend, without the feeling of guilt over what we did.”
Jóhann looked as if he had a toothache; but then he tried to smile.
“I’m now using you as a psychologist. You probably don’t think much of me.”
Birkir had no answer to this. He saw no cause to grant absolution for the despicable crime Jóhann had just confessed to. More than anything, he wanted to do his duty as a cop and charge the guy. But Jóhann would deny having said anything, and Birkir’s evidence would be of limited value unless he could persuade Hjördís to bring charges—surely there was no doctor’s certificate or any physical proof, and the crime had been committed abroad.
This was not, however, at the top of his mind at this moment.
“Does Hjördís also read Ed McBain?”
The question seemed to take Jóhann by surprise. “She does, actually. She was the one who brought most of these books from America. She gave them to me later, after she’d read them all.”
Birkir thought very carefully, and framed his next question as clearly as he could. “Do you think it’s at all possible that Hjördís tried to take revenge on you and Leifur for what you did to her?”
“How…”
“By shooting at you.”
“Do you really think that she—”
“Is it possible?”
“I don’t know. My God, I don’t know.”
He had started to cry.
18:30
The whole investigative team reconvened at the station.
Gunnar sat at the computer and waited until the last minute before sending the latest answer: Ten Plus One. Or The Sniper if you’re using the Icelandic translation. He had popped over to the City Library to double-check the answer; it was just as Jóhann had explained it to Birkir. Gunnar was grateful. Emil and his team had looked through the McBain books they had on hand, but hadn’t been able to solve the riddle. Instead, the answers seemed to be falling into their laps from the most unlikely sources. Perhaps their luck was turning.
Soon, another question arrived by e-mail.
Daybreak Page 18
