House of Evidence (5 page)

H
refna had just started dressing when Erlendur rang the outside bell. She answered the intercom and told him she’d be down in a moment, knowing that he would get back into the car and wait patiently. Erlendur did not get unnecessarily stressed.

She slipped on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and a light-colored pullover. It looked cold outside, so she decided on her thick parka, too. She stuffed a hat and some gloves into her pockets and pulled on a pair of thick woolen socks and her sturdy winter boots.

As she ran down the stairs, Hrefna noticed the worn linoleum floor, which, though clean, had seen better days; the potted plants on the landing were slowly being killed off by the cold that penetrated easily through the single-pane windows, and now the wind had kicked up, making the front door difficult to close.

Hrefna’s apartment building was conveniently located in the Hlídar district, but the building was showing its age both inside and out. Hrefna noticed the building’s yellow exterior paint was patchy and dirty as she climbed into Erlendur’s car.

“What’s happening?” she asked, as she closed the passenger door.

Erlendur told her he wasn’t exactly sure, but it seemed to be serious, perhaps even a murder. They drove in silence the rest of
the way, in the direction of the city center, listening to the chatter on the police radio.

The road the house stood on had been closed off, with a police car parked right across the carriageway and a wide yellow ribbon strung between the lampposts bearing the words “Police—No Admittance—Police.”

Erlendur parked the car as close as possible, and they walked the last stretch. The weather was not too bad—though getting colder. For now it was bright and quite still, and they were temporarily sheltered from the strong north wind.

A wide zone of the garden leading up to Birkihlíd had been cordoned off with yellow tape, and Jóhann was sticking labels in the footprints.

“Have we got four suspects?” Erlendur asked, noting the four differently colored labels he was planting.

“Probably two cops, the housekeeper, and one other,” answered Jóhann, greeting Hrefna with a nod and a smile. He was wearing a blue snowsuit and a burgundy-and-gold knitted hat.

A tall, blond young man named Marteinn followed them into the garden, carrying a small yellow gas cylinder. He was a new recruit to the department, an enthusiastic athlete who was always asking for time off to train, here to assist Jóhann.

Hrefna and Erlendur met Egill in the outer lobby. “You’re not exactly supportive of your colleagues,” Egill said sharply, fixing Hrefna with a cold stare. “I’ve had the Super bending my ear all morning over one of your complaints.”

Hrefna remained silent. The previous Tuesday she had been sent with Egill to pick up a man for questioning, a seaman they were acquainted with. He was usually a gentle soul, though apt to get in fights when he’d been drinking. He had knocked someone’s tooth out, and they needed to take a statement. The man had
been sober when they arrived at his home and seemed willing to go with them to the department, but Egill had in no time at all managed to aggravate him to such an extent that the man jabbed at Egill, who immediately responded in kind. Then all hell had broken loose, and in the end, Hrefna had to help Egill cuff the outraged man’s hands and feet and then get assistance in transporting him to the cells. Hrefna had, naturally, filed a report on Egill’s conduct, which she had found intolerable: an otherwise under-control situation had escalated to an all-out brawl because of the idiocy of people, at least one person, who should know better.

Her spat with Egill was forgotten as soon as she saw the man lying on the floor in a pool of blood. Halldór approached, explained briefly what had happened, and then asked Hrefna to speak to the housekeeper, showing her the way to the kitchen.

The old woman sat at the kitchen table with one hand covering her eyes; on the table in front of her was a glass of water, half full. A uniformed officer stood in the middle of the room, turning his cap back and forth in his hands.

“You can take a seat,” Hrefna said to the policeman, as she sat down in front of the old woman.

“My name is Hrefna. I’m from the police. Do you feel ready to answer a few questions?”

The woman looked up and nodded. Her eyes were red.

“I was told it was you who called the police,” Hrefna began gently.

“Yes,” replied the woman softly.

“What is your name?”

“Sveinborg Pétursdóttir.”

Hrefna wrote the name on a piece of paper in front of her. “I understand you are the housekeeper here.”

The woman nodded.

“And the man lying out there, who is he?” asked Hrefna.

“It’s Jacob—Jacob Kieler Junior. I suppose he is dead, isn’t he?”

“Yes, that’s right, he is dead.”

Sveinborg bowed her head and wiped a tear from her eye.

“Did he live alone here?” Hrefna asked.

“Yes.”

There was a short silence.

“Have you any idea what happened?” Hrefna asked.

“No, not at all,” the woman answered.

“Please tell me about this morning, when you arrived,” Hrefna continued.

Taking a sip from her glass, Sveinborg began her slow and tentative account. She described how she had entered the house and then gone into the kitchen, where she had noticed right away that things were not as usual. Jacob was in the habit of having his breakfast, and then leaving the crockery in the kitchen sink. She would assemble some cold meats and other things each evening, and leave them for him in the refrigerator. They hadn’t been touched. She described how she had searched the house and then where she had found him.

Her account was disturbed by Jóhann, who wanted to check the soles of Sveinborg’s shoes in order to compare them with the footsteps in the snow. She pointed him toward the shoes in the rear vestibule. He also asked to check the shoes of the police officer still sitting with them in the kitchen.

“What was Jacob’s occupation?” Hrefna asked after Jóhann had left.

“He had an office job in a bank. He had been with them for over twenty years,” Sveinborg answered, adding apprehensively, “They must be wondering where he is. Can you let them know what’s happened?”

“Yes, we’ll do that,” Hrefna replied, catching the policeman’s eye and nodding.

“And Matthías. He must also be told straightaway,” Sveinborg added.

“Who is he?” Hrefna asked.

“Matthías Kieler. He is Jacob Junior’s uncle. He is staying in an apartment not far from here.”

“We will see to that,” reassured Hrefna, writing down the address Sveinborg gave her. “I shall need a good deal more information from you, but I don’t want you to have to stay any longer in this house. Wouldn’t you feel a bit better in your own home?” Hrefna asked kindly.

The old woman nodded with relief.

Diary I

March 4, 1911. My birthday. I am 21 years old and life is very good. I celebrated the day by taking a train to Roskilde and back again. This is the route of the first railroad here in Denmark, opened in 1847. I have never before traveled by train, and I was shaking with enthusiasm as the train set off. It felt as if the platform was beginning to move while the train remained stationary, just as when a ship moves off from the jetty…

March 5, 1911. I am still reflecting on my railway journey yesterday. It is utterly astonishing that no railway has yet been built in Iceland. I know that the
Government Chief Engineer has been campaigning for us to build a railroad, but the voices of dissent are always strong. There is an ample sufficiency of arable land in Iceland, but lack of transport has been a hindrance to agriculture. Product sales are held up in winter, efficient feed transport is impracticable, and there are shortages of fertilizer and fuel. If we are to harness the power of waterfalls, there is no question that we must also build a railroad. I have been contemplating whether to focus my studies on building power plants or railroads. I shall probably choose the latter, since they must take precedence over power plants, besides which they interest me far more…

June 5, 1911. Was awarded “udmærked godt” (excellent) in philosophy. Went to the Tivoli amusement park and stayed well into the evening. The fireworks are my favorite feature…

July 10, 1911. Entrance exams finished today. Professor Christiansen bade me welcome to the engineering course this fall…

J
óhann was nearly done examining the footprints, and Marteinn followed him around, carrying a small pocket book into which he jotted down the observations that Jóhann dictated, stamping his feet in between notations to keep warm.

All the footprints had been identified, apart from one trail that led to the front door of the house and back again. The person who made these prints must have been there either early in the morning or during the night, as a considerable amount of snow had subsequently fallen on them. It was possible, by carefully heating the snow with a gas burner, to melt away what had fallen into the footprints, since the snow underneath was packed more densely and could take more heat without melting. Jóhann had thus managed to retrieve good samples of the prints of both the left and right feet. He arranged his camera on a tripod and pointed it down directly above the right footprint, then set a fifty-centimeter ruler, marked alternately black and white at each centimeter, next to the print before taking a picture. He photographed the left shoe print in the same way.

An overview picture was taken of the area and the footprints were measured carefully. The feet were twenty-three centimeters long, with an average stride length of forty-five centimeters. This
could not be a tall man, and the shoe size was too small for an adult man at all, so Jóhann guessed that the prints belonged to either a woman with small feet or an adolescent.

Lastly, he set about taking an impression of the shoe print. He mixed hardener with some liquid plastic and poured it into the print, placing a fine wire net on top to reinforce it. The plastic hardened in no time, and the result was a reasonable, if not perfect, reproduction of the print. They would probably be able to discover the size and make of the footwear using the photograph and the plastic cast, but it was not likely that it would suffice to distinguish one particular pair of shoes from another of the same type and size—the prints were not so well defined that any distinctive feature could be made out.

The final task was to carefully melt all the snow from a selected area in front of the house and around the back door, in case this should reveal prints formed just after it started snowing; that night’s snow had fallen on bare ground, so if there were any prints, they would be fresh ones.

Jóhann found no further prints, however, so they could assume that nobody else had come to the house during this time.

Egill emerged from the house with his coat on; he was to organize a search of the garden and its surroundings. A team of officers were to comb the snow with garden rakes to see if anything lay hidden there. It was possible the gun might have been thrown into the garden, in which case it would be preferable to discover it now rather than waiting for the spring thaw.

Some of the snow that had piled up on the roof of the house broke away and slid down the slope, falling from the eaves with a substantial thud. Jóhann glanced up. The roof looked wet where the snow had been. That meant the insulation was poor and the
snow had no doubt been melted by the heat coming from the house. It must be an expensive house to run, he thought to himself.

Jóhann saw Hrefna coming down the path beside the house with an older woman on her arm. Hrefna smiled to him as they walked carefully past. Watching the women go out into the street, Marteinn asked Jóhann, “Is she married?”

“No.”

“Seeing someone?”

“No.”

Marteinn sniffed. “So one could ask her out.”

“No,” answered Jóhann, “I’ve tried. She says she doesn’t want to date colleagues.”

“Oh, well. Of course, she’s much older than me,” Marteinn said.

She would only laugh at you, thought Jóhann, but sympathizing, said instead, “Yes, she is too old for you.”

Diary I

September 17, 1911. We are now well into the university term. During the first semester we study principally mathematics, physics, thermodynamics, and structural engineering. The practical projects will be in the second semester. I have, out of interest, taken note of the senior students’ projects…

November 21, 1911. It is my mother’s birthday today. She is 41. It is now well over a year since I have seen my parents, and it will probably be a long
time before I return to Iceland. But I write home frequently, so they know that I am prospering in all respects…

November 30, 1911. The new train station, Københavns Hovedbanegård, was inaugurated today. This is an impressive construction. The main entrance faces Vesterbrogade near Rådhuspladsen. Over the entrance is a square tower with pinnacles on the top and all four corners. Inside is an enormous ticket hall, with steps leading down from it to the platforms. They are 6 in all, which means that 12! trains can be dispatched simultaneously. The tracks run under the station…

February 10, 1912. I have visited the train station frequently this winter. I have been examining both the buildings and the railway itself. I intend to study railway engineering for my master’s degree. I think it must be a most rewarding occupation to build a new railroad. I have been thinking about all the potential back in Iceland. The trip I took to Akureyri the year before last would have been so much quicker by railroad. I can visualize a train speeding through the Öxnadalur valley with people looking up from haymaking to wave to the engineer…

February 17, 1912. Had an interview with Professor Christiansen this morning. He thought well of my idea of studying railway engineering. He recommends that I should complete my Bachelor of Science degree here at the engineering college in the spring of 1913, and go from there to the Technische Hochschule in Berlin. I can use the time to study German. The professor knows a German lady who might be able to give me lessons…

February 23, 1912. Went for my first German lesson to Mrs. Sabine Heger. She is in her thirties, a widow of a Danish professor of law. We agreed that I should begin by reading the works of Goethe, starting with
Die Leiden des jungen Werthers.
She had a used copy, which she sold to me…I have now come to the end of the last page in this, my first diary, which I started writing on June 30, 1910. I have already purchased another book, similar to this one, which I shall commence to write tomorrow.