“It was just an idea,” Jóhann replied, not offering any further information.
Just after seven o’clock Egill and Marteinn were sent to fetch the man whose name appeared on the card, one Sigurdur Sigurdsson, born 1950, and bring him in for questioning. The address given was a house in the middle of the Old Town. It was quite straightforward, really, Egill reflected. The guy only needed to explain why he had been in the house, that was all, but it was better to bring him in to the station to do that. After all, neither Matthías Kieler nor Sveinborg the housekeeper had recognized the man’s name, nor were they able to imagine what business he would have had at Birkihlíd.
“We are going to practice like crazy this winter,” Marteinn confided in Egill on the way downtown. “It’s been five years since we became Icelandic Champions and we’re determined to get the title back.” Marteinn was missing a soccer practice and he was upset about it.
When they arrived at their destination, they found an old, corrugated iron-clad building with two stories and an attic.
“I’ve been here before,” Egill said, as they stood outside the house. “There’s loads of weed here. We did a house search once and there were mysterious potted plants on all the floors.”
Sigurdur’s name was one of those listed on the directory by the front door, so Egill rang the bell. A few short minutes later, the door was opened by a barefoot young man with dark shoulder-length hair, wearing a brown cotton tunic and threadbare jeans.
“Good evening, we are from the detective division,” Egill said, flashing his ID card. “Sigurdur Sigurdsson, does he live here?”
“Yes,” the young man said suspiciously, “he lives here.”
“Is he in? We need to ask him to come with us.”
The young man shot them a wary look and then turned and yelled, “Siggi.” There was no reply so he tried again, a little louder this time. “Siggi! There’s somebody here wants to talk to you.” Still no answer.
“He’s probably asleep,” he concluded, shrugging his shoulders. “Come in, I’ll get him.”
Egill and Marteinn stepped into the lobby and the young man disappeared into the apartment.
“We’re getting a new trainer this spring, an English guy, he’s bloody good,” Marteinn said, continuing their previous conversation. “We’re not allowed to talk about it yet; the contract isn’t set.”
Egill sniffed the air. “There’s always this cloud of incense in these communes. You might just think they were trying to hide something.”
“My mum’s got incense like this; she’s not trying to hide anything,” Marteinn replied. “It just hides the smell of food, she says.”
“I think I’d prefer the smell of proper Icelandic food,” Egill said, wrinkling his nose.
“The guy can certainly sleep,” said Marteinn, after a few more minutes slowly passed.
“This lot never have a clue whether they’re awake or asleep,” Egill said. “Hello?” he called into the apartment, but there was no reply.
“Hello?” Egill called again, this time stepping cautiously into the apartment, but still there was silence. Marteinn followed him into a large, dark room whose only furnishings were a few beanbag chairs and some mattresses on the floor. There was a tabletop, painted glossy black, resting on four brown beer crates. A number of half-burned candles stood on the table in a solidified pool of wax. The wine-colored walls were covered in revolutionary political posters and hand-painted peace signs.
They looked into the other rooms but there was nobody to be seen anywhere. A large window in the bathroom stood open, and when the two men peered out, they spotted a set of footprints in the snow outside.
“He’s gone,” Marteinn said, surprised. “I wonder if that guy was our Sigurdur?”
They knocked on the doors of the other apartments but nobody could give them any further information about Siggi. They all said the same thing: If he wasn’t in his apartment, then he wasn’t at home.
They returned to the apartment and looked around for any photographs of the occupant without success. Before returning to the car, Egill took a measurement of the footprint outside the window; it was made by a clog, twenty-nine centimeters in length.
Diary III
July 11, 1915. I took a room at the Richmond Hotel late yesterday and slept like a log all night. It is an expensive hotel so I only spent the one night there…I presented myself at the office of C&NW early this morning and was well received. Mr. William O’Hara was given the task of looking after me to begin with. First he showed me the railroad station and a 4-4-2 Atlantic no. 125 locomotive that stood there. He then assisted me in settling in at a guesthouse in Bridgeport; this gives me a fixed residence that is reasonably priced, though in practice I shall be traveling a lot of the time…