Sun on Fire (14 page)

“Yes. We sat together the whole evening.”

“No trips to the restroom, separately?”

“No, always together.”

Starkadur nodded in agreement.

“I’ll need to take your finger and palm prints for the investigation. Are you OK with my doing that?”

Starkadur and David looked at one another and then shook their heads.

David said, “We won’t agree to anything of the sort without consulting our lawyer. We haven’t had good experiences with police.”

13:00

It had taken Birkir considerable effort to track down Helgi Kárason. In the National Register his address was given as being in the eastern town of Seydisfjördur, and it wasn’t clear where he lived in Reykjavík. Birkir had eventually managed to get him on the phone and ask him to come to police headquarters to be interviewed, to which he readily agreed.

Gunnar met him at the front desk of the police station and escorted him over to the violent crime division. He was now able to move reasonably fast on his crutches. He was getting used to them.

“You got a bad back?” Helgi asked sympathetically.

“Yeah,” Gunnar replied, “and I also have a stinking cold. But a murder investigation is a murder investigation, and we need to solve this case however bad I’m feeling.”

“I guess so,” Helgi said. His darkly tanned face was gaunt, his forehead lined with deep wrinkles and cheeks peppered with old pockmarks. Though reasonably fit, he looked like someone who at some stage in his life had abused his body. He was dressed in a brown suit cut in a quaint, old-fashioned style, and wore a thick tweed cap. He seemed polite, low-key.

Gunnar led the way to an interview room and gestured for him to sit down. On the table between them were Gunnar’s open laptop and the two candlesticks the detectives had brought back from the embassy.

“Those were supposed to be in Berlin,” Helgi said as he sat down and removed his cap. “I called them Sunna’s candlesticks back in the day.”

Gunnar nodded. “You’re right. They were in the ambassador’s office when the murder was committed. We needed to examine them more closely here.”

Helgi frowned. “Really? I can’t see what for. I hope you’ll be able to send them back before the exhibition. They represent a particular era of mine in ceramic, and there are only a few such examples in circulation.”

“Hopefully this will all be over quickly. You were a guest at the ambassador’s party—can you describe the evening’s events for me?”

“There’s not much to tell. Lúdvík and I were in Berlin to prepare for my exhibition that’s scheduled for the beginning of next year. We looked at the space and were planning the setup. We’d also booked a meeting with the embassy counselor that Sunday, but he was called away unexpectedly, and the ambassador decided to talk with us himself. He invited us to the Felleshus to attend Jón Sun Poet’s reading before our meeting. That proved helpful, because the exhibition space is directly above the auditorium, and during the interval the visitors went up there to look at the Finnish glass art exhibition that’s currently showing there. It’s always good to look at spaces when there’s a crowd milling around. It makes it easier to work out the best way of arranging the exhibits so they come alive. We took photos and noted down how people moved about.”

“But you stuck around afterward, didn’t you?”

“Yes, it was always the plan to go across to the embassy after the reading. Lúdvík wanted to take a photo of me and the ambassador with the candlesticks. Then we were going to meet with
the counselor to talk money and things like that, but he couldn’t come, like I said.”

“Why the photograph?”

“It was for the promotional campaign. I guess that’s on the back burner now.”

“Are all these photos available?”

“Yes—I even took the trouble of bringing them with me. Lúdvík was busy with his camera that evening, and I suspected you’d want to see them.”

He fished a thumb drive from his pocket. “I’d appreciate having it back when you’ve downloaded the pictures.”

“I’ll do it as we speak,” Gunnar said. He plugged the drive into the laptop in front of him and clicked on “Copy.” He went on, “And you stayed behind at the embassy after the meeting?”

“Yes, Konrad invited us to dinner. He ordered food from a nearby restaurant.”

“Did you know the other guests?”

“Everybody of my generation knows the Sun Poet,” Helgi grinned. “Jón and I were good friends in our youth, but I don’t see him much these days. I’ve met David and Starkadur a few times.”

“Did you know Anton Eiríksson?”

“No. I had never seen him before.”

“Did you speak to him that evening?”

“Yes, a bit. He didn’t seem to have too many friends there, so I chatted with him a little, just to be polite.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Mainly it was me listening to him droning on about business opportunities in Asia. He offered to help me get cheap reproductions of my artwork. No way I want to do that, of course, but I let him talk. It was actually interesting to hear how people like that operate.”

Gunnar picked up one of the candlesticks and showed it to Helgi. “The bottom of this one has been broken open. The bits were lying on the table in the ambassador’s office.”

Helgi frowned. “That’s strange. But no harm done—it’s easy to fix. The bottom is made of unfired plaster of paris. You just need to mix up a dollop and stick it into the hole. Then you smooth it with a spatula. Might need two rounds.”

“Why do you do it like that?”

“No reason, really. Sometimes I fill such things with clean, dry sand to make them heavier and more stable. You don’t need to do that with these big candlesticks, because they’re already so heavy—but if the bottom is sealed, no dirt gets in. I can also sign them by scratching ‘HK’ into the plaster before it hardens completely.”

“When was this candlestick made?”

“Probably about twelve years ago.”

“Could someone have opened up the bottom, put a knife inside, and then closed it again with plaster of paris?”

Helgi looked at Gunnar in surprise. “What in the world for?” he asked.

“In order to smuggle a knife into the embassy.”

Helgi shook his head. “No, that’s impossible. How would that have happened?”

“Maybe you’d like to think about that for us. Tell me who owns these objects.”

“I do. I’ve kept them as examples of that period of my career. But I know nothing about a knife.”

“Who packed the candlesticks for shipping to Berlin?”

“Lúdvík looks after all that kind of stuff for me.”

“Lúdvík Bjarnason hasn’t answered my calls. He came back to Iceland with you, didn’t he?”

“Lúdvík? No, what gave you that idea?”

“Information we had from the embassy.”

“That’s a misunderstanding. Lúdvík was planning to stay in Europe awhile to see an exhibition. I don’t know when he was planning to come home.”

“Can you try calling him for us?”

“The best thing to do is text him. His number’s in the phone book. But he usually has his cell switched off when he’s traveling.”

“OK. I’ll try texting. Do you have a clear memory of the party at the embassy?”

“Yes, of course. It was only a few days ago.”

“It seems that some of the guests were quite drunk. Were you sober?”

“I stopped using alcohol and other substances fifteen years ago. So yes, I was sober that evening, as usual.”

“So can you tell me about it?”

“Yes, but I can’t help you with the murder. The last time I saw Anton was when everyone was about to leave. The ambassador was going to call for taxis, but then his wife started freaking out—she’d lost one of her shoes and seemed pretty unhappy about it. I tried to calm her down while the others scoured the place for her shoe. It was kind of an embarrassing scene, and it held us up for quite a while.”

“Can you remember who was involved in the search, and whether anybody else disappeared at the same time as Anton?”

“No. I escorted madam down to the first floor and tried to pacify her. She was a bit noisy and used offensive language. Not very ladylike, if I may say so.”

“What happened next?”

“David and Starkadur came down and said the cabs had arrived. At that point Hulda ran back upstairs. I followed her into
the room we’d had dinner in, where she sat down and said she wouldn’t be moved until the shoe had been found.”

“But she didn’t stick to that?”

“No. I gave up, and said good night to her. Jón also wanted to leave, and the four of us decided to share a cab—me, Jón, Fabían, and Lúdvík. But then madam came out and wanted to go home, too, without her shoe if that was the only option.”

“By that time Anton must have disappeared. Did you notice that?”

“Yes, I did. The six of us, that is the four of us and Konrad and Hulda, were the last to leave. Anton wasn’t with us, so I assumed that he’d gone in the first cab with Starkadur and David. The ambassador seemed to think so, too.”

“So the six of you left together. All in one group?”

“Yes. And then another thing happened with the night guard because the Sun Poet had lost his guest pass. The ambassador had to fill out some kind of form so that Jón could get his passport back.”

“Then you parted company, right?”

“Yeah, the ambassador and his wife were going in a different direction from us four, so they took one of the cabs, and we took the other.”

“What happened then?”

“Jón got into the front seat and wanted to shake hands with the driver. The driver didn’t understand what he was trying to do, so Jón got physical with him. The guy was startled, of course, and got out of the car. He wanted us all out and threatened to call the cops. The night guard came out, and between us we managed to get the driver to agree to take us to the hotel. I gave him one hundred euros extra and switched seats with the Sun Poet. Jón had
gotten tired and realized it was in his own best interest to behave himself. We got to the hotel without any further trouble.”

“Were you all staying in the same hotel?

“Yeah. The embassy booked our rooms for us, all in the same place.”

“You said you didn’t notice if anyone had disappeared from the party with Anton. But when you were all leaving, did you notice anything unusual about any of the other guests?”

“Most of them were pretty drunk, but other than that I can’t remember anything in particular.”

“You say most of them. Was someone else sober?”

“Fabían is an invalid and on medication. He didn’t drink any alcohol that evening, he just smoked a few joints. It helps him when he feels nauseous.”

“Had you met him before?”

“Yes, I know him well. Fabían is an artist, and we’ve exhibited together. He doesn’t take to everybody, but we have a good relationship.”

“Did you notice any interaction between him and Anton?”

“Fabían kept to himself that evening. He wasn’t feeling well.”

“What’s the matter with him?”

“Cancer. He’s on medication that slows its progress, but apparently they’ve run out of other options.”

“You mean he’s dying?”

“Yeah, he doesn’t have long. All his friends can do is hope he gets a few more months in reasonable health.”

Gunnar turned to his laptop, which had finished copying Helgi’s photos. He unplugged the thumb drive and handed it back to Helgi, and then opened the first image file. “What’s this?”

“This is the exhibition space in the Felleshus. Most of the photos are from there.”

Gunnar scanned the pictures one by one. The first photos showed people in the public space looking at various exhibits, but then the scene changed to show Helgi and the ambassador sitting together in Konrad’s office. The two candlesticks on a table between them held large unused candles. “These pictures were going to be included in our promotional materials,” Helgi said.

“You didn’t light the candles?”

“No. We didn’t have anything to light them with. And anyway, Lúdvík didn’t want them lit—the photo showed off the candlesticks better that way.”

“They were lit later in the evening. Who might have carried matches or a lighter? Any smokers?”

“Anton smoked cigars. I remember he had a lighter. David and Starkadur smoked cigarettes. I can’t remember if anybody else was smoking. Fabían had his grass, of course.”

“Did the ambassador allow smoking in the embassy?”

“I don’t recall anybody asking.”

Gunnar continued clicking through the photos, slowing down for a sequence taken during dinner. Might do well to remember that people eating don’t look good in photographs, he reflected. The last picture showed the Sun Poet standing on a chair, presumably reciting a poem.

“That’s the last one Lúdvík took that evening,” Helgi said. “After the ambassador brought out the brandy, things got kind of rowdy. There was no point in taking pictures anymore.”

“Toward the end of the party, would you have heard anybody shouting from the upper floors?”

“No, the ambassador loaded a disc of German
schlager
music into the sound system and turned up the volume. By the third time through, it had gotten really irritating.”

Gunnar smiled. “One final thing. I need to ask you to let me take your finger and palm prints for the investigation.”

“Have the other guests agreed to this?”

“We haven’t spoken with everybody yet.”

“I want to consult a lawyer about my status before I agree to that.”

“You have the legal status of a witness,” Gunnar said, “so you can refuse. We’ll let you know if the situation changes.”

“In that case, let’s wait.”

“OK, but we’ll probably need to talk with you again.”

“I’ll be at your disposal.”

Helgi stood up, said good-bye, and left. Gunnar stayed in his chair, contemplating the candlesticks. Then he picked up a receiver and dialed Anna’s extension. Soon, she joined him in the interview room. Gunnar pointed at the table and said, “I carefully wiped the tabletop before inviting Helgi in here. His prints are all over. Can you see if you can get something useful? But don’t record it formally. This is just between us.”

14:45

Birkir parked his unmarked squad car in an open spot and walked the last few meters toward the house where Jón the Sun Poet and Fabían Sigrídarson lived. It was on a quiet road in a long-established neighborhood just west of the Landspítali University Hospital. The road was narrow, one-way, with parking spaces on both sides. The houses on its south side were close together, with only the sidewalk separating them from the road. On the north side, though, they were widely spaced, with generous front yards. These were spacious villas—two floors with basements and attics—and one of them, sticking out like a sore thumb among its nicely maintained neighbors, was the poet’s house.