House of Evidence(6)

“Here you are, ducky,” she said softly, “there’s a bit for you, and don’t let those bullies take it, now.”

When the bag was empty, she folded it up and tucked it into her pocket.

She crossed Fríkirkjuvegur, plowed through the snow diagonally across Hallargardur Park, and continued up Skothúsvegur. A few minutes later she paused for a moment on the sidewalk in front of her destination to catch her breath.

Birkihlíd was a handsome villa by Reykjavik standards, comprising a single main story with unusually tall windows, a large attic area under its steep roof, and a semi-sunken basement. The exterior walls were pale-gray roughcast and the roof was covered with red diamond-shaped tiles. A large bay window in the front, topped by a balcony leading to a large garret room, lent the house a distinguished appearance. The house name was displayed in relief lettering on the front of the bay, and below it the year it was built, 1910. Broad steps led to the front door on the home’s left-hand gable, behind which was a later addition that, although quite tasteful, somewhat disturbed the balance of the whole.

The garden was enclosed by a tall stone wall topped with close-set metal railings between sturdy concrete posts. Flanking the garden were the majestic birch trees that had inspired the name of the house, their massive branches crowned with a thick layer of snow.

Sveinborg pushed open the heavy gate. Bypassing the front door, she headed toward the back of the house, where there was another, less imposing entrance. She took a large key from her bag and unlocked the door. Brushing off the worst of the snow, she took her coat off and hung it on a hook.

Entering the kitchen from the rear vestibule was like stepping back in time fifty years. Though the kitchen was nicely decorated and everything in it was spotless and perfect, there seemed to be nothing less than half a century old. The room was nearly three times as long as it was wide, and at the far end, just past the breakfast area, was a door leading to the dining room. Large worktables lined the outside wall, and along the inside wall stood a coal-fired range with a steam extractor above it. Antiquated kitchen utensils, pots, and pans hung from hooks everywhere.

Sveinborg looked into the kitchen sink and saw that it was empty. Her plump features registered surprise.

Jacob hasn’t eaten anything, she thought, unless he’s also cleaned the dishes, and it wouldn’t be like him to do that.

On the inside wall, where the ceiling sloped down beneath the staircase to the second floor, there were some large cupboards, one of which she opened to reveal a newish refrigerator. There, on the shelf where she had left it, was a plate of carefully arranged cold cuts covered in plastic wrap.

“Oh, he hasn’t touched his breakfast,” she said out loud.

She looked up toward the ceiling and listened for a moment, but could hear no one moving about.

“Perhaps he’s not up yet,” she said, more quietly this time.

She went back toward the rear entry, turned, and ascended the narrow staircase to the attic rooms. There she came to a wide corridor that stretched the length of the upper floor. A little farther along the corridor was the head of another, much wider, staircase leading down to the main lobby. She continued along the corridor and looked into one of the rooms on the left. There was a made-up bed, a bedside table, a large clothes closet, and a chair. This was a relatively comfortable room, somewhat more modern than the other living quarters in the house.

He was not there. Sveinborg was becoming anxious now, and felt a strange premonition. She went downstairs using the main staircase, and it was when she reached the middle landing, where the stairs turned a full ninety degrees, that she saw him. Jacob Junior was sprawled, legs outstretched, against a pair of double doors that opened into the parlor. His legs pointed toward the parlor and his head hung limply on his chest. Beneath him lay a pool of congealed blood.

Sveinborg felt a chill seize her heart and creep up her neck to the roots of her hair. She made her way down the stairs step by step, leaning on the massive carved-oak handrail for support. When she reached the bottom she hesitated for a moment, as if she dared not let go of the rail, but then moved toward him and tentatively touched his forehead. It was ice-cold.

She pulled her hand back, turned, and ran to the front door.

“Help, help,” she called faintly from the front steps, but there was nobody to hear her cry.

She retreated to the lobby, stumbling toward the old telephone by the window. She retrieved the directory from a low shelf and quickly leafed through it with trembling hands.

“Police, police,” she repeated frantically, paging back and forth until she at last found the number she was looking for, and then shakily dialed 1 11 66.