the other. The only thing he found was an almost empty bottle of rum. The drenched coat and bottle were placed in a large paper bag. Next, Thorolfur loosened the jacket and searched through its pockets in the same way. There was a plastic wallet in one of the inner pockets. Seizing it, Lukas shone his flashlight on its soaked contents. A bus ticket from Reykjavik to Stykkisholmur, a press card with a photo of Bryngeir, and a checkbook with two checks left. From the other pocket he took out a wad that was held together by a thick rubber band. Lukas carefully loosened it. A Danish passport, wallet, and Danish notebook appeared. He opened the wet passport with great caution. The photograph was indistinguishable, but the name of its owner was still legible: Gaston Lund.
Grimur was dumbfounded. “That’s the man who died in Ketilsey. What on earth was this man doing with his belongings?” he finally asked.
“He seems to have made more progress in his investigation into Lund’s fate than you did, District Officer,” said Thorolfur.
“Do you really believe there could be a connection between this deed and the death of the Dane?” Grimur asked.
Thorolfur silently pondered the question before answering: “If there is a connection, it’s strange that these papers should still be in the reporter’s pocket. If he’d been killed because he knew too much about the Dane’s death, the papers would probably have been removed from his pocket. At the same time, it’s unlikely that two events of this kind could have occurred in a small community like this without them being connected to each other in some way or the perpetrator being the same person.”
Grimur shook his head dejectedly. “I thought I knew all my people.”
Lukas finished his job and then fetched the casket from the church. The policemen then lifted the body between them and carefully placed it in the casket. The paper bags with the clothes were also placed in the box. The body no longer looked like a red angel, and Grimur felt it now looked like a giant squashed bluebottle fly at the bottom of the box. He was relieved when the lid had been placed over the casket and screwed down. He felt he ought to say something appropriate, but the best he could come up with was the fragment of an old psalm:
“I lit my candles by the cross of the holy tree,” he muttered softly, but then he couldn’t remember the rest and just muttered a silent, “Amen.”
The policemen carried the box out of the churchyard and placed it on the handcart. They then set off across the island toward the coast guard ship.
It was almost three in the morning by now, and there were no lights on inside the houses, except for the doctor’s residence. Another corpse lay within those walls, and the daughter was alone in the house, so it wasn’t surprising that the light was on. Reverend Hannes had told Grimur that she wanted her father to be buried in Flatey. Gudjon in Radagerdi was bound to have started making the casket. The body would be transported to the church after the closing of the casket.
The only lights that glowed on the coast guard ship were those on the bridge where four men were on watch. Two of them stepped on shore, lifted the casket between them, and carried it on board the ship. The inspectors followed them to collect small suitcases containing their personal belongings. Then they stepped back on shore again. The disembarkation bridge was pulled back on board and the moorings untied. The ship slipped away from the pier and smoothly backed out of the strait. It was only when it was far out in the open sea that it finally veered south and advanced at full speed.
The ship had been ordered to go straight to Stykkisholmur to deliver the casket and then return to Flatey. The crew would then remain on standby to assist the inspectors whenever needed in the days ahead. The ship would also to be used as a communications center. Everyone on the island could eavesdrop on conversations that went through the regular radio channels, but the coast guard could send messages that the general public were unable to decipher, and the policemen therefore needed it to be able to communicate with their colleagues in Reykjavik where the investigation was also still being pursued.
Grimur and the policemen watched the coast guard ship sail off and then walked toward the village. Accommodation had been set up for the guests in the school.
Question twenty-five: What did Ivar lack? Second letter. Ivar the Boneless was king in England for a long time. He had no children because it was said that he lacked carnal desires, but he wasn’t short of cunning and cruelty. He died of old age in England and was buried there. The answer is “desires,” and the second letter is e.
CHAPTER 42
Tuesday, June 7, 1960
District Officer Grimur woke up early, despite the night watch, and was dressed by eight. Kjartan also descended from the loft and said good morning.
“Feeling better now, my friend?” Grimur asked.
“Yeah. I’m over it now, thanks. I’m sorry for dropping out like that.”
“It was a perfectly natural reaction. You’re a young man and you’re not used to that kind of horror.”
“Yeah, it’s also being in this position of authority. It doesn’t suit me. I should have turned down this job straightaway when the district magistrate sent me here. This isn’t the kind of job I moved west to do. It’ll turn me into a depressive because my nerves can’t take it.”
“What doesn’t kill a man makes him stronger.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Kjartan answered.
It was still raining, and the eastern winds had started to pick up again.
Grimur checked the weather. “The forecast is for more of the same,” he said dejectedly as Ingibjorg put on her rain clothes to go out to the shed. The district officer had to assist the policemen, so someone else had to take care of the cows.
At around eight, Grimur and Kjartan set off for the school with morning coffee in a flask and freshly baked bread for the overnight guests. On their way they picked up Benny in Radagerdi, gave him time to quickly dress, and took him along to the school. It was best to get started straightaway if they wanted to question all the adults on the island. Benny was undoubtedly the person who would have the most to say. He had followed the reporter around for almost two days.
The policemen were up. Hogni had heated up some shaving water in a washbasin on a primus stove, and they were finishing washing. Kjartan greeted them, introduced himself, and asked if they needed his help.
Thorolfur eyed the magistrate’s envoy with an inquisitive, slightly intrigued air. “No,” he said finally, “we’ll finish the questioning ourselves today, and the district officer can bring the people in for us. You can just take it easy until we call you in.”
“Call me in?” Kjartan asked, surprised.
“Yes. We’ll be taking statements from everyone who was on the island last night. Even the district administrative officer will have to account for his movements.”
“Yes, of course. I’m ready whenever,” said Kjartan, nodding good-bye before he disappeared outside.
The policemen sat down for a coffee and offered Benny a seat. Grimur and Hogni waited for further developments by the door, feeling uncertain about their exact role in these proceedings.
Four school desks had been pushed together, and the policemen sat on two sides, Thorolfur facing Benny. There was a long silence while the guests devoured several slices of bread. Benny lit himself a cigarette, and Hogni handed him an old saucer as an ashtray.
Thorolfur finally signaled Hogni to leave the room but invited Grimur to sit beside them. When the door closed, he turned to Benny and asked him for his name and age. The young man answered in a slightly tremulous voice.
The policeman peered into his eyes at length. “When did you see Bryngeir for the last time?” he abruptly asked.
Benny was quick to answer: “Sunday evening, at around eight.”
“Where?”
“In the shed at Thormodur Krakur’s place.”
