House of Evidence (28 page)

H
alldór was not feeling himself.
Morgunbladid
was not published on Mondays, so he couldn’t even seek refuge in its pages that morning. Perhaps this would change one day, he reflected. Perhaps
Morgunbladid
would be published on Mondays and there would be television broadcast on Thursdays. To Halldór, these deviations from the rule interrupted the pleasant and predictable rhythm of life.

He sat and nibbled absentmindedly on a piece of toast, pondering whether he had become too old for this job, or had lost interest or competence in it. It wouldn’t be too long now before he could retire, or maybe he could apply to be an attendant at the parliament building, as one of his old colleagues had done; that would definitely suit him nicely.

He listened to the morning news on the radio, relieved to hear no mention of a prisoner having died in police custody. If luck would have it, something else, something bigger, would occupy the headlines, then perhaps the newsmen would miss the story altogether. Matthías had, after all, actually died in the hospital, he reminded himself.

This situation was going to cause them a deal of trouble, though, that much was obvious. Solving the murder case was
the only thing that would appease his superiors at this point. He closed his eyes and prayed silently to God almighty that something would fall from the sky that would give him the answer; there was certainly not much hope that the investigating team would do it anytime soon. Halldór was a believer, and he and his wife attended church services regularly, but he hardly ever prayed; on this particular occasion, he figured it wouldn’t hurt, and he did feel better afterward.

His ruminations were interrupted once again by the telephone. Halldór glanced at Stefanía, but she did not look up from the travel brochures she was absorbed in. Perhaps that was a good idea—a trip, a nice, long trip.

Halldór answered the phone. It was Fridrik, the pathologist. “You’re up early.”

“Yeah, listen,” Fridrik said, “I have a
corpus
here that you wanted me to dissect.”

“Yes, the body of Matthías Kieler, who died yesterday.”

“I think you should come down here and have a look at it.”

Halldór was startled.

“I hope there are no injuries?” he asked anxiously. That mustn’t be the case; they were in enough trouble already, but he was beginning to think that Egill was capable of anything.

“No, that’s not the problem, but you should come right away,” Fridrik said firmly and hung up.

Halldór had lost his appetite. He abandoned his toast, unfinished, on the plate and left the house without saying good-bye.

Diary XVII

May 9, 1940. I was informed in confidence that a telegram had arrived at the foreign affairs committee
from our envoy in London, reporting that last Monday a question had been tabled in the British parliament as to whether the British government was planning to occupy Iceland. The question was withdrawn without the minister having replied to it. People are wondering what this means…

May 10, 1940. I woke at nearly three o’clock this morning when an airplane flew over the town. I was in no doubt that this was a military aircraft, as there are no planes in airworthy condition here at the moment. But what nationality was it? Sleep eluded me after that, and I got up, dressed warmly, and went out. The sky was cloudy and it was sleeting. I walked through town and down to the harbor. By then it was after four o’clock. Dawn was breaking, and between gusts of hail, you could see three warships lying just beyond the islands. Just then the British Consul arrived in his motor car along with a number of his compatriots. I asked him if these were his people, which he acknowledged. I hurried home to tell Elizabeth the news…

E
gill went to the office early, as usual. He was restless. They had not yet dealt with what he felt was a crucial part of the investigation. They needed to search Matthías’s home; he felt certain the weapon would be found there. Halldór was really unnecessarily sensitive toward these people, he decided.

Marteinn arrived, greeted him, and sat down at his desk.

Egill made up his mind. He slipped into Halldór’s office, scanned his desktop, then rummaged in the drawers until he found what he was looking for.

Donning his jacket, he called to Marteinn, who was absorbed in writing something, “Come with me.”

“Where to?” Marteinn asked suspiciously.

“To that old geezer’s home, the one who died yesterday, Matthías Kieler. The search hasn’t been done yet.”

“What? Who authorized that?” Marteinn asked.

“The judge, of course. I’ve got the warrant.”

“I’m not coming.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m writing a formal complaint about your methods and requesting not to have to work under you.”

“What are you driveling about?”

“You are a disgrace to the force, and I don’t want to have to be part of it anymore.”

“What the fuck’s gotten into you? You’re getting just like the girl.”

Marteinn was furious. “First it was the visit to the old lady in the nursing home, then keeping that guy handcuffed all the way from Ólafsvík.”

“Hey, he was a murder suspect,” Egill interjected.

Ignoring him, Marteinn continued. “And finally that scene at Sídumúli yesterday. It was blindingly obvious the old man was in no state to be locked up.”

“But you took part in all of this.”

“Yeah, but only under orders from you. I couldn’t sleep a wink last night because of it.”

“You poor thing. Maybe your mommy can help,” Egill taunted.

“Oh yes, and put that piece of paper back in Halldór’s drawer. I saw you take it out.” Marteinn turned away and returned to his report.

Egill was staggered. You couldn’t trust anyone anymore. Until now, Marteinn had always stood by him, or at least pretended to. Egill slumped down at his desk, where he remained motionless, his arms crossed, scowling at Marteinn’s back.

This workplace is turning into a parish meetinghouse, he thought to himself. How would they be able to solve any cases if everyone was so concerned with playing it safe and by the book? Whatever happened to taking a little risk? Oh well, it was all the same to him; he wasn’t in charge.

Diary XVII

June 3, 1940. Elizabeth and I went for a meeting with the British military command to offer the
services of my engineering firm. We were very well received. The general thought initially that I was an American who had settled in Iceland, as my English is so good. They will be contacting us on Wednesday…

June 5, 1940. I was called to a meeting with Mr. Sullivan, who is head of the British forces engineering unit. He wants me to take charge of surveying for an airfield at Vatnsmýri.

June 23, 1940. Mr. Sullivan and Mr. Freeman accepted our offer to come and dine with us at Birkihlíd. They are both well-qualified engineers of good families, and are notably polite. They were very grateful for such a feast after the constraints of military camp life. I showed them the railway designs, and they thought it quite possible that the military command would want to have the railroad built in order to facilitate military transport round Iceland…

November 3, 1940. Woke up to sustained gunfire directed at a German reconnaissance aircraft that flew over the town. It escaped to the west…

J
óhann had woken unusually early that morning, but instead of heading directly to work he went for a swim in the Vesturbær pool. He had been in the office the previous day when the news came of Matthías’s death, and had witnessed the ensuing chaos. Everyone had concentrated on covering the matter up and very little had been done to work out what had actually happened. This distressed Jóhann, and he was not keen to go in to work at all. He swam slowly back and forth for thirty minutes, and then sat in the hot tub for another half hour.

The weather was lovely—no wind, a cloudless sky, and frost. The sun hung low in the sky, and its rays shone through the steam rising from the pool.

Two old guys sat in the hot tub with him, talking about the weather.

Days such as this reminded Jóhann of his childhood home in the north, and usually made him feel happy, but today he was not thinking about home. Something was bothering him. He knew things were not as they should be. It wasn’t just Matthías’s death; there was something else. He didn’t know what it was, but feared it would soon become clear.

He had a shower and shaved carefully. He took his time getting dressed, but as he was putting on his shoes, it occurred to him that Hrefna had probably not heard about Matthías’s death yet. She would turn up at the office at eleven o’clock, and he did not trust anyone but himself to tell her the news.

Diary XVII

March 25, 1941. I have asked the authorities to try and find out about the fate of my brother Matthías. Not a day, an hour, a minute passes without my thinking about him. I blame myself completely for what has happened to him. He had planned to move to America but I asked him to stay on in Germany because of the railroad company. Perhaps I should use my connections in the British military command. They might have the means to get some information about people imprisoned by the Germans…

April 6, 1941. There is a rumor going round that the Germans are planning to blast the town to bits. I have found no grounds for this rumor, but am telling everyone in the household to be on the lookout…Mr. Freeman is worried about the drawings of the oil depot that I keep in my office. He says it would be terrible if the Germans were to get hold of this information. An aircraft carrying a single bomb that hits the exact spot could destroy the whole depot.
I tried to calm him down; I have great faith in my employees and I do not believe that there are spies in town working for the Germans. He asked me to accept a revolver for safety’s sake. I told him that I was well armed, with a rifle and a shotgun, and that I could defend the house with those weapons if necessary. He thought that the revolver was a more suitable weapon, and I consented to accept it. It is a Smith & Wesson 38/200 officer’s revolver, and comes with a plentiful supply of ammunition. I shall have to practice shooting with it when I get the opportunity…

H
alldór arrived at the hospital and headed straight for the laboratory. He was shown into a brightly lit room smelling strongly of antiseptics. In the center of the floor stood a long table on which a large corpse lay under a green sheet; over it shone an adjustable light, and next to the table was a cart with various pieces of equipment, assorted containers, and a selection of knives and forceps.

“Have you found the cause of death?” Halldór asked Fridrik, who was standing by the body.

“No, that was not why I called,” Fridrik said, adding, “I haven’t started the autopsy yet.”

Halldór sensed that the pathologist was disturbed about something, and waited silently for him to continue. Putting on rubber gloves, Fridrik said, “Before you begin to dissect you have to examine the surface of the body carefully, looking for injuries.”

“Did you find any?” Halldór asked apprehensively.

“No, not new ones—but take a look at this.”

The doctor pulled the sheet off the lower half of the corpse, revealing snow-white legs and a prominent, hairy belly. He adjusted the light so that it shone between the legs, then, using both hands, lifted up the lower half of the torso.

Halldór moved closer for a better look. Below the belly there was dense pubic hair, as one would expect, but apart from that there was nothing there, nothing at all. There were big, ugly scars on the skin, but no genitals.

Halldór recoiled, and Fridrik let the body fall back into place.

“My god,” Halldór gasped.

“Yeah, it’s pretty ugly,” Fridrik replied. “The genitalia have been cut off, and not very neatly either.” He pulled the sheet back over the bottom half of the body.

“How the hell did that happen?”

“Not easy to say, though it’s clear that it was many years ago. The wound was closed up immediately with coarse blanket stitching, but it looks as if much later a skillful surgeon restored the urethra as best he could.”

“He was, simply…castrated,” Halldór said.

“Yes, and more.”

“Wouldn’t that have affected his bodily functions?” Halldór asked.

“Yes, and I imagine it encouraged the deposit of body fat, but he must have been under medical supervision and received injections of male hormones.”

Halldór went round to the other end of the table and lifted the sheet. There was more peace in Matthías’s expression than one would expect, considering the manner of his death.

“It seems clear that there are one or two things we didn’t know about this man,” Halldór said wanly. He remembered how Matthías had knelt by his nephew Jacob’s body in Birkihlíd, and automatically made a sign of the cross over the face of the corpse before pulling the sheet over it again.

Diary XVIII

July 7, 1941. The Icelandic government called the press to a meeting today, where the following announcement was distributed: “The Icelandic government and the President of the United States have reached agreement that the United States shall undertake military protection of Iceland for the duration of the war between the major powers; an American force has already arrived in Iceland. An extraordinary session of the Althing has been called for this coming Wednesday, the 9th of this month, at one o’clock p.m., when the government will issue a full statement on the matter, together with an explanation why it was not possible to convene the Althing any earlier…

July 8, 1941. Kristján arrived back in town having completed his surveying work in Hvalfjördur. He says that about 30 American warships sailed into the fjord yesterday…

July 9, 1941. The Althing convened and approved American military protection with a 39 to 3 majority…

August 16, 1941. We learned yesterday of Mr. Churchill’s impending visit to Reykjavik today.
Elizabeth was very excited and we went down to the harbor at nine o’clock and waited there. At eleven his ship docked at the Gróf pier; on the quayside there was a unit of soldiers and a band of Scottish musicians. A large crowd had gathered, and as Mr. Churchill disembarked he received enthusiastic cheering by the Icelanders. He walked up the pier, gave a friendly greeting, and raised two fingers in the V for victory sign…