Egill picked up his little exercise tool from the desk and squeezed it vigorously several times. He had no idea how to deal with this hippie generation, and now he was supposed to extract information from them in a nonconfrontational way. He only knew how to talk to these people when he had them on his own turf; that is to say, in custody.
“Can’t the girl do this?” he suggested.
“It wasn’t me that lost him yesterday,” Hrefna replied, overhearing their conversation. “And besides, I have quite enough on my plate.”
Egill knew that Halldór’s silence meant he agreed.
What had he been doing knocking around Birkihlíd? Egill wondered, looking at Sigurdur’s picture again and trying to imagine him with long hair. He could hardly be involved in the current murder, given that the ballistics investigation had linked it to the death of Kieler’s father. This guy hadn’t even been born when that happened. So why was he running away? He must be involved in some dope case; it would definitely be possible to squeeze something out of him.
He got up and poured himself some more coffee, and then gave a well-rehearsed lecture to those present on his opinion of hippies, gays, and other “perverts.” When he had finished, Hrefna said, “Incomplete list. Try a mirror.”
Egill didn’t understand what she meant, and it bothered him for the rest of the day.
Diary IV
July 2, 1917. It is hot and humid. I find it very difficult to get accustomed to this weather and am not sleeping very well…Had a letter from my father. He writes that ships sailing between Britain and Iceland have been sunk and many sailors perished. Here in Chicago accounts have been coming in of casualties among the American forces in Europe. Warmongering is no longer so glamorous when the names of these young men are published in the newspapers…
August 17, 1917. Bought two powerful hunting weapons, a large rifle and a shotgun. I have been invited to go stag hunting this fall. I also bought a cheap little Colt 22 pistol that fits in a pocket. It is old but not much used. I must practice shooting with the rifle…
December 13, 1917. Am traveling in Canada with some colleagues from C&NW. We are checking out the new railroad bridge across the St. Lawrence River (Quebec Bridge) that was inaugurated ten days ago. We met up with Canadian railroad engineers from the Grand Trunk Railway and among their group was a young West-Icelander named Peter Asmundson. He speaks very good Icelandic even though he has never set foot in Iceland. His parents come from Skagafjördur…
Kirsten Kieler and her daughter, Elísabet, came to see Hrefna promptly at ten o’clock, having been asked the previous evening to a meeting. Hrefna thanked them for coming and extended her condolences before inviting them into the interview room; she fetched them coffee and tried to make the atmosphere as comfortable as possible.
Once she was seated, Hrefna took in the mother and daughter opposite her at the table; they were both petite with delicate features. The mother wore a dark woolen overcoat and a black hat, and the daughter had long hair and was wearing a dark green sheepskin coat. They had very similar features, but as far as dress and manners, it was clear that they belonged to different generations.
“You know the circumstances of Jacob’s death?” Hrefna began.
“Yes,” replied Kirsten. “The detective who spoke to me yesterday was very kind.”
“You were in the north?”
“Yes, I was at home, but I caught a flight yesterday evening.”
“Can you think of anything that might help us to solve this case?” Hrefna asked.
“No. This is just as dreadful as when Dad died.”
“Do you remember that well?”
“Yes, very well.”
“Would you mind describing that day to me?” Hrefna asked.
Kirsten thought for a long moment before she began her account. “We got up early that day and Dad drove us—me, my brother Jacob, and Mom—to our summerhouse at Lake Hafravatn. I was fifteen years old and my brother twenty. Dad then returned to town to complete some business, but he was planning on coming back the following day to spend two or three days with us. We never saw him alive again.”
“Had this trip been long in preparation?” Hrefna asked.
“I can’t remember. We went to the summerhouse often during those years. The staff were given leave while we were there.”
“Was your father usually with you?”
“Sometimes, not always. The engineering firm was always so busy in the summer.”
“So it was common practice for your father to take you there and then go back to town?”
“Yes. Hjörleifur, the caretaker, usually drove us if Dad wasn’t coming, but I remember that this time Dad wanted to take us.”