CHAPTER 37
Dr. Johanna was wearing a green raincoat and held a black umbrella, but Kjartan was in his trench coat and bareheaded. They stood a few feet away from the grave and stared at the man on the tombstone that Grimur had alerted them to. The rain had intensified during the course of the morning.
“That’s got to be the reporter from Reykjavik who arrived on the mail boat on Saturday,” Grimur uttered in a low voice. “I’m told his name is Bryngeir.”
Johanna walked up close and then circled the grave. She stooped over the man’s back and examined him. “The ribs were chopped on both sides of the spine from the back with two or three big blows and then stretched out,” she said. “Both lungs were then pulled out from the chest.” She walked another circle around the man and then added, “Those are the only injuries I can see.”
Grimur looked at them and asked, “Should we pick him up and carry him into the church?”
“No, no,” Kjartan said in a tremulous voice, “absolutely not. We won’t move anything here. We’ll do nothing. We’ll close the churchyard and immediately call the Criminal Investigation Department in Reykjavik.”
He clasped his coat around his throat, but the rain streamed down his hair over his ashen face.
“Whoever carved this man up like this had to be strong and knows how to handle a knife,” Johanna said. “It takes a lot of strength and skill to be able to cut through the bone like that. And the knife was big and sharp.”
“Will you call the police in Reykjavik?” Grimur asked Kjartan.
“I would prefer you to do it,” Kjartan answered. “This is all so way over my head. I think I’ll just take the first trip back to Patreksfjordur. I hope you can deal with communicating with the police.”
Grimur scratched the beard under his chin. “But I’ve got to hang around here and make sure no kids come near this,” he said awkwardly.
“I’ll phone Reykjavik,” Johanna said, “and ask them to send an investigator straightaway. I can describe the incident.”
Grimur was relieved. “Yeah and find Hogni for me and tell him to come up in his sailing overalls. He can take it in shifts with me.”
“I’ll do that,” Kjartan answered, swiftly turning and rushing out of the cemetery.
Question twenty-one: The ugliest foot. First letter. Thorarinn Nefjulfsson was in Tunsberg staying with King Olaf. Early one morning the king lay awake while the others were asleep, and the sun was shining so there was a lot of light inside. One of Thorarinn’s feet stuck out of his bedclothes. The king stared at the foot for a while and then said, “I’ve witnessed an invaluable sight; this man’s foot has got to be the ugliest in the whole town.”
Thorarinn answered, “I’m willing to bet you that I can find an uglier foot.”
The king answered, “Whoever wins the bet shall demand a favor of the other.”
“So be it,” said Thorarinn. He then produced his other foot from under the bedclothes, which was no more beautiful and had a toe missing, too. “And now I have won the bet,” said Thorarinn.
The king answered, “The other foot is uglier because it has five ugly toes on it, but this one has only four, so I can ask a favor of you.”
The answer is “Thorarinn,” and the first letter is t.
CHAPTER 38
The announcement of another death in Flatey did not go down well with Dagbjartur. Now he knew that the peace was over. He’d be required to give an account of his investigation over the past few days and submit a report. The worst part was that he hadn’t written anything down yet. This would become a priority case now, some higher-ranking officer would be put in charge, and the department’s best men would be dispatched to Flatey. The only positive thing to come out of that morning was the fact he would no longer be required to travel to the island.
Using three fingers, Dagbjartur hammered out the conclusions of his interviews with Fridrik Einarsson and Arni Sakarias on his typewriter. He didn’t need to write much to cover the essentials, but it still took him a long time. His chubby fingers were stiff on the keyboard and didn’t always hit the right letters.
It didn’t take the head of the division long to race over his subordinate’s text.
“The Flatey enigma?” he erupted in a rage. “What childish nonsense is that?”
“The magistrate’s assistant in the west seemed to feel it was important,” Dagbjartur answered defensively.
“Oh yeah? And what’s this? A child out of wedlock. That might be worth looking into. Who’s this woman?”
“We don’t know.”
“Don’t know! What have you been up to over these past few days?”
“This.” Dagbjartur pointed stubbornly at his papers. “But no one knows who this woman is.”
“Aren’t there any birth records from those years that we can go through?”
“Everywhere’s closed on the Whitsunday weekend.”
“Right, well, keep going and keep me posted.”
For the remainder of the day Dagbjartur tracked down the friends, relatives, and colleagues of the reporter, Bryngeir, to dig up some information about his life and habits. His colleagues at the paper seemed to be mostly relieved to be free of him, although no one had the effrontery to say so straight out.
The list of relatives was a short one. His maternal grandfather was in an old folk’s home in Stokkseyri, and he had an uncle on his mother’s side who was a farmer in the east in Or?fi. Dagbjartur tried phoning the grandfather but was informed that the old man was deaf and unable to talk on the phone. When he finally reached the uncle in Or?fi, it took the man some time to remember he had a nephew by the name of Bryngeir. He hadn’t heard of his death, but betrayed little emotion. He did, however, ask if the man had left any assets behind.
Most of Bryngeir’s friends considered themselves to be more acquaintances than close friends and showed no sign of grief. He wouldn’t be dearly missed, it seemed.
Collecting a few snippets of information from here and there, Dagbjartur managed to build a reasonable personal profile of Bryngeir and submitted it to his boss that same evening.
Question twenty-two: Who were the soldiers of King John of England? Seventh letter. Earlier that summer, the English king had sent King Sverrir two hundred warriors when he was in Bergen; they were called the Ribbalds. They were as swift on their feet as beasts and were great archers, audacious, and had no qualms about committing bad deeds. The answer is “Ribbalds,” and the seventh letter is d.
CHAPTER 39
The women in Innstibaer had not ventured outside because of the weather that morning and hadn’t seen anyone. They attended to their chores, but they were surprised that no one had come to pay them a visit. The goodwife from Svalbardi usually popped over to them after the lunchtime radio news and gave them a rundown of the main events in the outside world. They couldn’t afford the luxury of a wireless in Innstibaer, so the two ladies relied on other channels for news. Newspapers didn’t reach them until they had been through several other readers. District Officer Grimur bought the Icelandic Times, and Asmundur in the island store bought Morgunbladid. The Times was passed on from Grimur to Gudjon in Radagerdi, whereas the Svalbardi family bought Morgunbladid from Asmundur the storekeeper at half price when he’d finished reading it. Hogni, the teacher, on the other hand, bought the social democratic paper, which he preserved meticulously in folders. The farmers then donated their papers to the library after they had read them, which was when the women could take a look at them with the other islanders. By that time the papers were normally several weeks old and the news had grown stale, but the serialized novels they contained were classics and very popular in Innstibaer. When the papers had been on the paper racks of the library for several months, they were placed in a bin by the gable of the building, after which they were destined to end their days shredded in the privies of some of the poorer families on the island. The little that was not recycled in this manner was given to the Ystakot clan to be used in the fire.