House of Evidence (20 page)

H
alldór had to knock for some time before a janitor finally opened the door to the bank. He was shown into Jón Björnsson’s office, where he had been once before to arrange a car loan; he remembered the paintings on the walls.

Although it was Saturday and the bank was closed, four men had already assembled in the manager’s office. Halldór knew Reverend Ingimar and Jón Björnsson by sight; the third man, wearing thick-lensed glasses, introduced himself as Vilhjálmur Jakobsson, the vice president of the Gethsemane brotherhood; and the fourth man was the bank’s auditor.

Jón paced the floor, repeating, “This simply must not get out. This simply must not get out.”

Halldór could not promise anything on that score. The auditor handed him the final figures relating to the embezzlement.

“Well, that’s certainly a lot of money,” Halldór said, glancing at the paper.

Reverend Ingimar groaned and asked, “What in heaven’s name did Jacob do with it all?”

Halldór told them about Jacob’s purchase of the Birkihlíd property. “He kept thorough accounts, so I assume all this can be traced there,” he added.

“So it will be possible, then, to retrieve some of these funds, will it?” Vilhjálmur asked.

“The deceased’s estate will be handled by the executor, and you will have to make your claims to the estate,” Halldór replied. “There should be some money when the property is sold.”

Vilhjálmur was not happy with this reply, and turned to Jón. “Surely the bank is responsible for embezzlement by one of its employees?”

Before the manager could answer, the bank auditor replied, “You gave Jacob a mandate to operate your account; his withdrawals are nothing to do with the bank.”

“This simply must not get out,” Björnsson repeated.

“The bank has also suffered a considerable loss,” the auditor remarked a little defensively.

“Who on earth can you trust when upstanding citizens like Jacob let you down so dreadfully,” Reverend Ingimar said forlornly.

Halldór could see that the reverend had not recovered from the shock of this deception by his old friend. “We think he may have been ill,” he offered.

“He surely must have been,” Ingimar replied.

“Yes, of course, the man must have been insane,” Jon exclaimed with some relief, and before repeating, “It simply must not get out.”

Diary VII

January 1, 1921. New Year’s Day. The weather is mild. There was a brass band playing outside the government office.

June 25, 1921. I booked a passage for Elizabeth and myself on the
Sterling
north to Skagafjördur next week. We plan to walk south along the Kjalvegur route. The three royal ships arrived tonight and sailed into the sound…

June 26, 1921. King Christian X and his queen disembarked at 10 o’clock this morning. The Prime Minister welcomed the king, and an anthem was sung. Then the royal couple headed up the town quay and through the ceremonial arch between the Eimskip Company building and Thorsteinsson’s house, where the mayor and city council welcomed the royal couple. They then proceeded to the high school, with white-clad children lining their route scattering flowers in their path…

July 3, 1921. The Western Fjords. The
Sterling
is slow-moving because of the poor quality of its coal, and stops at every port. There is a gale blowing from the south, but there is no snow and the sun is shining…

July 4, 1921. We went ashore in Saudárkrókur and stayed at Hótel Tindastóll. Kristján has arrived as planned. He will be our guide on the trip…

July 5, 1921. The townsfolk watched with interest as we set off on foot from Saudárkrókur. Our backpacks
that we brought from England attracted a good deal of attention; people here are in the habit of carrying luggage in sacks or heavy trunks. I also think people are amazed that we choose to go on a trip like this without horses. In these parts it is mainly vagrants and paupers that travel in this manner. The new walking boots are proving excellent…

July 6, 1921. Set off at the crack of dawn from Mælifell. We traveled up Mælifellsdalur valley and across Haukagilsheidi. It is foggy and drizzling, and not at all easy to find one’s way until the track marked with cairns is reached. Kristján does not hesitate at all and takes big strides. Elizabeth and I try to keep up. We found the refuge hut at Adalmannsvatn and are planning to stay the night here. We caught a few trout and ate them for supper…

July 7, 1921. The weather has improved. It is light, and visibility is good, but there is a gale blowing from the north. It helps that the wind is behind us. The track is now well defined and marked with cairns. We have to wade across a number of rivers; Strangakvísl and Blanda Rivers are the trickiest ones. It is evening by the time we reach the refuge hut at Hveravellir…

July 8, 1921. We inspected the geothermal area. It has about 20 mud pots with boiling blue-green mud, giving off thudding and rasping noises. We have opted for the route to the west of Kjalhraun lava field, making for Hrútfell. Langjökull Glacier is to the west of us, and to the east stand the Kerlingafjöll Mountains, silhouetted against the sky. Kristján says that from there you enjoy the most panoramic and majestic views in Iceland. Glacier tongues stretch into Lake Hvítárvatn and icebergs float on the lake. We are making for the ferry where the Hvítá River flows from the lake…

July 10, 1921. Our journey is nearly over. Elizabeth is weary but does not complain. I am relieved that our loads are getting lighter as we use up our food. Kristján is indefatigable, and yet he has the most to carry…We wade across Grjótá and Sandá Rivers and reach the Gullfoss waterfall around the middle of the day. We are staying at Brautarholt tonight, and will be viewing Geysir tomorrow…

W
hen Halldór returned from the bank at eleven o’clock, the investigative team convened—apart from Egill, who had showed up earlier at the office that morning and then disappeared again.

Halldór, Jóhann, Hrefna, and Marteinn took turns describing what they had found out. Halldór began by explaining the ins and outs of Jacob Junior’s embezzlement scheme. The import of this revelation was immediately clear to the team: Jacob had no doubt used the money to finance the running of the house for some time, and then to pay the deposit when contracts for its sale were exchanged, hence the so-called loans that he had recorded in his books. Initially, he had probably intended this to be a one-off loan, but, as so often happens with people who misappropriate funds they are entrusted with, things got out of hand. Remarkably, unlike most crooks in this sort of situation, Jacob had kept detailed accounts of his financial misdealings.

The victim’s obsession with preserving his home was becoming more and more clear to Hrefna as well; it must have governed all his actions, and was probably either the consequence of some kind of mental derangement or what caused it. It did
not, however, explain why he was murdered. They still had no motive; they needed to identify not only motive, but intention and opportunity, none of which had come to light yet.

Jóhann then presented a timeline he had prepared, showing all they knew of Jacob Junior’s movements on Wednesday, January 17:

08:56 Clocks in for work at the bank. A few fellow employees remember seeing him at his desk that morning.

12:05 Clocks out for lunch.

12:15 Arrived at Birkihlíd, according to Sveinborg. Ate the rest of the previous day’s meatballs and a prune compote. Took a ten-minute nap and went back to the bank at 12:50.

12:59 Clocks in for work after lunch. As far as is known, spends the rest of the day at his desk. Had afternoon coffee in the bank canteen at 15:30. Sat at the same table as one of the bank’s cashiers, as was his habit. They discussed the fishing limits dispute. Jacob was reportedly somewhat distressed by this conflict, being English on his mother’s side.

18:03 Clocks out from the bank.

18:10 to 18:20 Arrives at Birkihlíd, according to Sveinborg. She is not completely certain of the time.

19:00 Has supper, poached haddock fillet. Sveinborg recalls that the radio news program started just as they sat down at the supper table.

After 21:00 Sveinborg leaves Birkihlíd, at which time Jacob is in his home office. What he was doing is not known. After that there is no information about what happened in the house.

In Egill’s absence, it fell to Marteinn to describe their fruitless search all over town the previous day for Sigurdur the guitarist. And finally, the meeting was adjourned after Halldór delegated the tasks for the rest of the day.

Diary VII

May 13, 1922. It seems that driving conditions are now safe for cars going east across Hellisheidi. The snowdrift in Smidjulautin was cleared yesterday. Now I can start to prepare for the survey…

June 26, 1922. Had a meeting with the supporters of the railroad in the Ölfus district. Many people spoke, and I answered questions. A farmer from the region performed a long poem about the undertaking. I only remember this bit:

…swift runs the train over southerly lands, eager its song is, and clear. In the first carriage he eminent stands, Jacob the engineer…

As I listened I jotted these lines on a piece of paper:

Here my heart is warmed by you, my hopes, dear friends, you nurture. Tracks I lay this terrain through, and trains will be the future.

I got up and recited this at the end of the meeting and was well received. Perhaps they were being polite…

August 13, 1922. Went with Matthías to Skerjafjördur to practice target shooting with my rifle…

September 4, 1922. The minister has entrusted me with calculating the cost of the railroad. Its total length will be 65.52 km, the gauge 1.067 m, the rails 18 kg/m…

September 12, 1922. I am assuming that the track bed will need 316 thousand cubic meters of material at a cost of 2,085,000 kr. With good management, this should be ample…

September 15, 1922. For the rails, I am going to use the unit price as delivered to a railroad station in Norway, i.e. inclusive of inland freight charges. I am assuming that a special ship will be chartered
to transport the material to Reykjavik. It would amount to 3,300 tons of rails and 2,400 cubic meters of cross ties…

September 17, 1922. The cross ties (1.60 x 0.22 x 0.11 m) will be made of impregnated pinewood mounted with 12-cm-wide baseplates. The price, 6.00 kr. per item, is a little high, but is based on the present high price of timber and the cost of creosote being 150 kr./ton.

A
round noon Hrefna went to see the historian who had written about the royalist affair. He lived in an old timber house on Vesturgata. She recognized the house by the sign in a ground-floor window that read “Yngvi Jónsson, historian,” and beneath the sign, a square piece of paper had been taped up with the words “Genealogical Services” written in thick lettering.

A fat boy wearing a black-and-white KR football shirt adorned with red ketchup stains opened the door when she knocked.

“Is Yngvi Jónsson in?” she asked politely.

“Yeah, hang on,” the boy replied. He disappeared into the house and Hrefna heard him yell, “Dad! There’s some woman wants to talk to you.”

She couldn’t hear a reply, but there must have been one, as the boy returned to the door and asked her in.

Hrefna followed him along a narrow corridor and past a kitchen, where a woman of an uncertain age sat at a table smoking. Her graying black hair was gathered into two plaits, and she wore a colorful batik tunic. She gave a friendly smile when Hrefna greeted her.

“He’s downstairs,” the boy said, pointing down a steep timber staircase.

Hrefna carefully descended the battered stairs to a large, low-ceilinged basement room; every piece of furniture was covered with stacks of papers and books, and atop one of the stacks lay a fat tabby cat. Yngvi Jónsson, historian, was also fat, very fat. Sitting on an old castored desk chair, he swiveled round toward Hrefna and gave her a cheery greeting. He wore a shabby pair of jeans and a red-checked flannel shirt; his friendly face was completely round and pink, with several double chins, and his colorless hair and beard were unruly. He seemed to be in his fifties, but was clearly younger than that in spirit. He got up with some difficulty, removed a stack of dusty papers from an easy chair, and offered Hrefna a seat.

“And what can I do for you, my dear?” he asked with a smile, taking the cat into his arms before sitting down again.

“I am from the detective division,” Hrefna said. “We are investigating the death of Jacob Kieler.”

Yngvi heaved with laughter. “I didn’t shoot him,” he gasped.

“Was I supposed to think that?”

Yngvi laughed again, and his stomach and double chins shook.

“No, not seriously,” he said.

“Have you any idea who might have done it?”

Yngvi became serious for a moment. “No. I hadn’t thought about it. To be honest, I haven’t considered those Kieler chaps at all of late. You probably saw the article I wrote about the German king?”

“Yes.”

“When I come across material like that, I sometimes write newspaper articles about it and sell them for a bit of money, but I didn’t take it too far. It would be an interesting project for a keen writer to look into that family’s history. There’s plenty of material there.”

“Really?”

Yngvi stroked the cat thoughtfully and then continued. “Yes, there’s some stuff there. First of all, there’s the myth about old Jacob the store manager, the Danish shop assistant who moved here to Iceland and became a wealthy merchant. Then there was that engineer’s railroad nonsense and the royalist business, Matthías’s misfortunes in Germany during the war years, the engineer’s murder, and now, the boy’s murder.”

“He was hardly a boy.”

“Oh, well. He was my contemporary and you tend to talk about your contemporaries as boys.”

“All right. Let’s take things in order,” Hrefna suggested. “What myth are you talking about?”

“I once reported a story about events that were supposed to have happened in the last century, involving a Danish store manager who was particularly loyal to his boss and made everyone suffer for it, both staff and customers. Later it was said that this Dane had been Jacob Kieler the first—the shop assistant that became a real big shot. Do you want to hear the story?”

“Yes, if it’s relevant.”

Yngvi put the cat down, got up, and began pacing the floor. “Well, the Danish store had a cutter that used to sail from Hafnarfjördur under a skipper named Jón,” he began. “He and Jacob did not always see eye to eye about when to go to sea, though Jón usually prevailed. One morning Jón and his coxswain were on the beach looking at the weather, when Jacob the Dane appeared; Jón advised against putting out to sea but, deviating from his custom, let himself be pressured by the store manager. Jacob watched the men row out to the cutter, as did a group of other people, among whom was an old man named Ari, who had lost two sons and a grandson to the sea and was now alone in the world. He was flensing a seal
that had been knocked out and washed ashore by the heavy surf two days previously. ‘May god be with them tonight,’ the old man supposedly said, at which Jacob is reported to have asked, ‘
Tror du også det bliver blæsevejr
?’ (Do you also believe it will blow a gale?)”

Yngvi’s pronunciation of the Danish was very convincing, and he was putting on quite a show, acting out the story as he told it. “Then the old man said, ‘I do not predict the weather, but I can see a thing or two.’ To which the Dane asked, ‘
Og hvad ser du nu?’
(What do you see now?) Old Ari replied, ‘No one on board that ship is fated to die, so she will return safe to harbor, but I do see that neither you nor your male descendants will die of old age in your beds.’ Jacob’s response was to shove the old man to the ground and stride away. That night a storm blew from the east, and the cutter was buffeted this way and that across the sea for days on end, but thanks to his stalwart crew and fine seamanship, Jón managed to hold his course and steer the ship back into harbor when the wind abated.”

“Did the prophecy come true?” Hrefna asked.

“Jacob Kieler the merchant, whom we might call Jacob number one, fell off a horse and broke his neck. He had a son, Jacob Kieler number two, who drowned in a pond on his third birthday. His other son, Alfred, the father of engineer Jacob Kieler, number three, and Matthías the musician, was killed when his car overturned and rolled down the Kambar Mountain road. You know what happened to father and son Jacob Kieler, numbers three and four.”

“So Matthías is the only one left,” Hrefna said.

“Yes. Perhaps he will be the one to debunk the prophecy and live to be a hundred, dying peacefully in his sleep.”

“I do hope so,” Hrefna remarked.

“Yes, he has had his share of suffering, poor old fellow.”

“Really?”

“Well, we know he was in a German prison camp during the war. Apparently, he has never wanted to talk about that experience, but it was definitely no more of a joyride for him than it was for others who went through the same.”

“Do you know anything more about this royalist business?” Hrefna asked, changing the subject.

“I always say that in Iceland we have one president and two hundred thousand kings, so we don’t need another one,” Yngvi laughed. “No, I haven’t gone into it any further since the article. There is probably enough material there for a whole book. I am too lazy for historical research, though. I can’t be bothered to hang out in archives digging through dirty old papers; I much prefer sitting in cafés chatting with people. When I’m lucky, I get some gossip I can use for newspaper articles. I’m also good at genealogy. What was your paternal grandfather’s name?”

“Never mind that,” Hrefna said, a note of annoyance in her tone.

“Oh, well. And yet that’s one part of this Kieler case that amuses me particularly, as I am somewhat involved.”

“Yes?”

“I often sit in cafés with young university students. These kids like to hear their family traced back a few generations, though they rarely know their own grandparents’ patronymics. If you write it up for them, they’re even prepared to pay, or at least treat you to a coffee. One day I met a young woman who turned out to be offspring of this noble Kieler family, name of Elísabet Árnadóttir, born and raised in the north, daughter of Kirsten, who is the daughter of Jacob the engineer. But you probably know that. Well, who should be sitting at the next table over but Diddi, youngest son of Siggi Pistol.”

“Who’s Siggi Pistol?”

“Siggi Pistol was the guy who was jailed for several months after Jacob Senior was shot.”

“Why was he called Siggi Pistol?”

“It’s just an awfully cruel habit people have of dishing out nicknames. They started calling him that when he was in prison. Have you ever heard the story of the guy who happened to see a rat on the shore when he was a young boy? He shouted, ‘Look, a rat!’ and his friends took to calling him Óli Rat, as a joke. He was a promising young man, but this unfortunate nickname became so associated with him that it completely ruined his life. What girl do you think wants to marry Óli Rat? He hanged himself before he was twenty.”

“What about this Sigurdur? Do you know his history?” Hrefna asked, trying to get the historian back on track.

“I remember Siggi well. I lived in the same part of town.”

“Are you sure he wasn’t involved in the murder?”

Yngvi laughed again. “Siggi from Brekkustígur was bloody good-looking and a great ladies’ man. He was always having affairs with other men’s wives. The night the murder was committed he was in bed with a respectable skipper’s wife in Bárugata. Everybody except the coppers knew this, and Siggi was too much of a gent to tell them.”

“So this Diddi is Sigurdur’s son?” Hrefna asked.

“Yes, he was born after Siggi died, and was named for his father. It was a dreadful accident.” Yngvi fell silent, and the smile left his face.

“Carry on with the story,” Hrefna begged.

Yngvi smiled again. “Yes, well, here was Ella with me, and Diddi was sitting at the next table. I couldn’t resist it, of course, and introduced them. It transpired that neither of them had heard the whole story of old Siggi’s incarceration, so I told them
some things about it. Since then, they have been inseparable,” Yngvi concluded, laughing heartily.

“What do you mean?”

“They are sweethearts. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“If they are in love, then it is indeed wonderful.”

“I just love being an agent of destiny in people’s lives. There was for instance—”

“Is it anything to do with this case?” Hrefna interrupted.

“No, not in fact, but—”

“Then I don’t want to hear it,” Hrefna scolded.

“Oh, well,” Yngvi replied, shrugging his shoulders.

“What can you tell me about this Diddi?”

“His name is Sigurdur and he’s, of course, Sigurdsson. He plays the guitar and writes songs; he’s a bit of a troubadour, you know, like Bob Dylan, ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’ and all that. Lives in a commune in the Old Town—I can’t remember the name of the street, but I can describe the house to you.”

“You don’t need to. I think I know who he is now.”

Diary VIII

January 5, 1923. A letter has arrived from the Norwegian expert. He thinks that the price for 4 locomotives and 30 carriages is now 746,000 kr. These are top quality locomotives with the latest modifications. Machines and tools for the workshop are included…

March 5, 1923. The national budget has been announced. There is no allocation for the railroad
apart from my remuneration. Roads, on the other hand, get 377 thousand krónur…

May 30, 1923. The papers publish many articles attacking the railroad. The anger is dreadful. I am of a mind to abandon the whole business and emigrate. Elizabeth tries to give me courage…

February 20, 1924. Yet another budget that ignores the railroad. Construction projects are at an absolute minimum; they allocate just enough for basic maintenance and hardly that. New road legislation is on its way…

August 26, 1924. It is Elizabeth’s thirtieth birthday today. We gave a big party…

March 13, 1925.
Ísafold
mentions that this year sees the centenary of the railways; on September 27, 1825, the first publicly subscribed railway train ran between Stockton and Darlington in England. Is it not time for Icelanders to make use of this invention, nearly a hundred years behind other nations…

March 15, 1925. Elizabeth told me she is going to have a baby…