Sun on Fire (16 page)

“I’ve thought about it a lot,” Jón said, “and I’m positive that guy was alone upstairs during the latter part of the evening. Wasn’t it just suicide?”

“You’re sure there was nobody with him?”

“I remember Lúdvík falling asleep in the john. Some folks who needed the bathroom tried knocking on the door, but gave up and just went upstairs. I was reciting poetry for the company, and everyone was having a damned good time. I always paused when anybody left the room. Except, of course, for Anton, since he was upstairs most of the time. I waited ages when Lúdvík went out, until Helgi went to check up on him and said he was sick and had probably fallen asleep in there. Konrad offered to go look for a key, but Helgi said it was probably best to leave him in peace for a while.”

“Jón, Jón!” The small woman who’d had the parrot on her head came scurrying into the room. “There’s a cat in the garden!”

Jón reacted immediately and rushed out, returning with a handsome bow and arrow. He hurried over to look out the large window the woman had opened.

“Over there,” the woman said, pointing.

Jón drew the bow and tried to take aim. “Where, where?” he asked frantically.

“Don’t worry,” said a voice at Birkir’s shoulder, “he always misses.” It was Rakel. “And anyway, the arrow has a harmless rubber tip,” she added.

Jón fired the arrow and said, “Did I get him?”

“No,” said the small woman. “But the cat ran away.”

“Cats always do,” Rakel said. “The birds know they’re safe in this yard.”

16:30

Gunnar, Birkir, and Magnús held a progress meeting back at the station.

Gunnar was eating a Danish and drinking coffee from a large mug. “Amazing how hungry you get when you’re not feeling well,” he said with his mouth full.

“You’re
always
hungry,” Birkir said.

“Not this hungry,” Gunnar said. “D’you want a bite?”

“No, thank you.”

Gunnar wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Strange how these guys are all standing together, refusing to let us take their prints,” he said, reaching for the last piece of the pastry.

Magnús replied, “I’ve asked for a warrant. We’ll get the papers tomorrow, and then we can go take them one by one. It won’t be a problem. Dóra and Anna will deal with it.”

Birkir nodded. This was an excellent plan. Dóra would handle it with diplomacy and sensitivity. Birkir held her in high esteem. She had joined the violent crime unit when she was recovering from some sort of car accident while serving in the uniformed police. She turned out to have good people skills, and she was methodical and scrupulous. These were great assets in a detective, and she got the next vacancy that opened up.

Birkir had already spoken with Anna about how to take Fabían’s prints. She proposed using a colored glass plate, which would avoid needing ink or other chemical substances.

“Mm, there’s something very odd about this,” Gunnar said, chewing energetically. “I don’t like the way they’re all in
agreement. It’s like they’ve decided among themselves to object. It’s a very unusual reaction. Witnesses who have nothing to hide are usually keen to help us.”

“They’ve got their rights,” Birkir said.

Gunnar made a face. “This wouldn’t have happened if the
Kripo
had been asked to handle the case right away in Berlin. They would have interviewed everyone individually Monday morning, so the guys wouldn’t have had the chance to synchronize their stories. The perp would have stood alone with no alibi. Then we wouldn’t have had to travel to Germany, and my health would be a lot better.”

“We’ll solve this,” said Magnús. “We’ll work through them one by one, comparing their palm prints with the one we got from the embassy. When we find a match, that’ll be it. In what order should we collect them?”

“Should we start with Helgi?” Birkir suggested.

“No need,” Gunnar said. “I actually got his palm prints today—without his knowledge or consent. I got Anna to check the table he sat at when I was interviewing him. The prints we got wouldn’t be usable in court, but that doesn’t matter because they didn’t match. He’s not our man. Neither is the ambassador, nor is his wife. We’ve already checked them.”

“David, then,” Birkir said. “And Starkadur at the same time.”

Magnús looked at Gunnar, who shrugged.

Birkir said, “OK, then after that we’ll visit Jón and Fabían. If it’s not either of them, it has to be Lúdvík.”

The meeting was over. Gunnar finished his pastry and helped himself to more coffee. Then he called Lúdvík’s cell for the twentieth time. Finally he got an answer.

“Gunnar Maríuson, Reykjavík detective division. Could you spare a few minutes to answer some questions?”

“Yes,” Lúdvík said. “I’m free for the next half hour.”

“You’ve been difficult to get hold of. Where are you now?”

“Keflavík Airport. I just got back to Iceland.”

“You know why I’m calling, don’t you?”

“Yes, the murder at the embassy. I just talked with Helgi, and he told me about it. How awful. To think something like this could occur right under your nose without anybody noticing anything.”

“Can you describe the last part of your evening at the embassy?”

“No, I’m sorry, I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Lúdvík said, “I was sick by then. I usually drink in moderation, but that evening I had a little too much brandy. I vomited in the restroom and fell asleep there. Helgi woke me up by banging on the door when everybody was leaving.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, it’s unpleasant to have to admit it, but I’m ashamed to say that’s what I was like that evening.”

“How long do you think you were sleeping?”

“At least an hour.”

“And nobody else used the restroom in the meantime?”

“No, I’d locked myself in. There were other restrooms on the upper floors.”

“Did you know the other guests?”

“No. I knew Helgi, of course, and I knew of Jón from the past. I didn’t know any of the others personally.”

“What do you mean by ‘personally’?”

“Well, they’re well-known guys, of course, but I’d never rubbed shoulders with them.”

“Did you have any dealings with Anton that evening?”

“We spoke briefly during the party. I didn’t find him very interesting.”

“How so?”

“I thought he was arrogant and aggressive. He seemed to think he was the guest of honor, but Jón the Sun Poet made it clear to him that this wasn’t the case, and after that he mostly stayed upstairs.”

“Where upstairs?”

“In the ambassador’s office, making calls—courtesy of the Icelandic state.”

“Did you go up there at all?”

“Helgi and I briefly met with the ambassador in his office. We took photographs and shook hands on a deal about a promotional campaign. I also went upstairs at one point later in the evening.”

“Was Anton there then?”

“I don’t think so. I went up to use the bathroom because the downstairs one was occupied.”

“What was your business in Berlin?”

“I set up exhibitions for artists. Helgi and I have worked together in the past, and he asked me again this time. I installed an exhibition of paintings at the embassy three years ago, so I was familiar with the space, but we needed to go to Berlin to take a look at it together. Ceramics need a different approach than paintings.”

“Do you arrange shipping for the exhibits?”

“Yes, usually. I get a specialist carpenter to make the crates—under my supervision.”

“Did you send the two candlesticks that were in the ambassador’s office?”

“Yes, I arranged that.”

“Did you see them there?”

“Yes, I took a photograph of Helgi and the ambassador with the candlesticks between them.”

“Were they all right?”

“Yes, of course. Did something happen to them?”

“No.”

“Phew, that’s a relief. Those are priceless objects. Helgi doesn’t do that particular style anymore.”

“Tell me in detail how you arranged their shipping.”

“How are the candlesticks relevant to your investigation?”

“Maybe they’re not, but it may turn up something useful.”

“OK. In consultation with me, Helgi has been collating a list of artifacts that are to be displayed in his exhibition. He decided to send the candlesticks ahead for use in the promotional materials, and asked me to arrange the shipping, as usual. I went to his studio and measured them. The crate was made in my workshop with waterproofed plywood and lined with foam rubber cut to fit the candlesticks precisely. I transported the crate to Helgi’s studio, packed the candlesticks, and personally screwed the crate closed. It’s my usual procedure, and ensures that the contents are one-hundred percent secure. A shipping company then picked up the case for delivery to Berlin.”

“Did you have a good look at the candlesticks before you packed them?”

“Yes, of course.”

“What sort of bases did they have?”

“The usual kind—the same Helgi always uses for such things. He closes them off with plaster of paris and inscribes his initials, HK.”

“So there was nothing unusual about them?”

“No, nothing unusual.”

Gunnar mulled things over. “OK,” he said, finally. “That’s all for now. I’ll need you to come to police headquarters so we can take your fingerprints and palm prints for comparison.”

“Fingerprints? Is that necessary?”

“Yes, please, as soon as possible.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll bear that in mind as soon as I get a chance.”

20:30

As promised, Birkir went to visit Fabían. He had no other plans, and anyway, his mind was completely occupied by this murder case. Maybe Fabían had something to say that would throw light on the embassy guests’ circumstances during that fateful night.

He’d started his evening with a ten-kilometer run around the west part of town, and then, after eating leftover vegetable soup and a slice of homemade bread, he’d sat down with a mug of lemon tea for a half hour to listen to some music. Now, donning suitable clothing to protect against the rapidly cooling evening air, he headed out. He didn’t have far to go, so he decided to take a detour up a street lined with little artisan shops, in whose windows he enjoyed studying the displays of handicrafts and all kinds of artwork. There was a sort of contentment in these little shops. Birkir was friendly with an old man who was a goldsmith and ran a small workshop in a back lot behind one of the main houses. He’d been robbed some time back, and Birkir had been instrumental in solving the case. Since then he would occasionally stop by the shop for a chat and to check that the security system was working. There was a real community feel to the neighborhood.

When he got to Jónshús, once again Rakel opened the door; she seemed to be expecting him. “Fabían is in the kitchen,” she said, showing him the way.

“Welcome,” Fabían said. He was alone, standing at the kitchen table and slicing an apple. He was dressed in a thick cotton sweater with a hood that he’d pulled over his head. His pants
were made of the same material, thick and somewhat too large for him, and he wore fur-lined leather boots.

“Please sit down,” he said, nodding toward a chair next to the table. “I’m just preparing breakfast for our birds. Úlfheidur usually does it, but she’s otherwise occupied tonight. She’s a fortune-teller and she knits sweaters. A good combination.”

“Is she a good fortune-teller?” Birkir asked.

“It varies, but when she hits the mark, it really works. Two years before the banking crash she told Jón to get rid of all the shares he’d inherited from his parents, and buy euros and dollars instead. That was after she dreamed that they’d moved the Art Academy into the Central Bank building—not a bad idea, actually.”

He laughed quietly, which turned into a coughing fit.

“Did Jón follow her advice?” Birkir asked.

“Yes,” Fabían answered once he’d recovered. “And our household greatly benefited from it. Our annual accounts here usually show a deficit, so it’s great to have access to a reliable reserve fund. Jón is very generous to us.”

He lined up the apple slices on a wooden board and cut out the centers with a corer. “The holes are so I can hang the rings from the trees,” he said.

Then he fetched a glass bowl from the refrigerator. “Jörundur cooked meat broth yesterday, and I skimmed off the fat from the leftovers at lunch today. I’ll dip some bread in it, it’s good for the thrushes.” He put the bowl into the microwave, and set it for one minute.

“Tell me about yourself,” Birkir said.

“Myself?”

“Yes, where were you born? Where have you lived?”

“Why do you want to know about that?”

“Just curiosity, I guess. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, I’m just surprised—folks aren’t usually interested in my life story. But, since you ask, I’m from the Northwest, born in Ísafjördur in the spring of 1961.”

“Did you grow up in Ísafjördur?”

“To start with, but after a few years I became homeless.”

“Tell me about it.”

Fabían paused to think before he started his account. “I lost my father before I was even born. When my mother was six months pregnant, he decided the relationship wasn’t working for him. I’ve never met him.”

“Why are you called Fabían? It’s not a common name.”

“I’m fond of my name. It’s the only thing I’ve got left from my mother. My mom loved music. She named me after Fabian, an American singer she idolized—he was very popular, and his songs were always being played on the radio in the fifties and sixties.”

“Did something happen to your mother?”

“Yes. She got sick and died.”

“Tell me about it.”

The microwave beeped, and Fabían took out the bowl. “Mom coped really well during her first years as a single mother. She had a job in fish processing, and she always provided for me. She was lucky with day care, because she found me a woman who had three kids of her own and took in five others during the day. I was an easy kid, so it was never a problem for me to stay there into the evening if they had to do overtime at the freezing plant. Sometimes I’d fall asleep in bed with one of the other kids, and then they just left me until morning. Mom would swing by and give me a kiss before going back to our little apartment on her own. So my early childhood was good, but when I was seven,
my mom fell ill with a neurological disorder and could no longer work. Of course I was in school by then, but outside of that I just fended for myself. Mom stayed at home for a few months, but after that she couldn’t even look after herself and was sent to a sanatorium here in Reykjavík. A year later she was dead.”