House of Evidence(62)
Sigurdur Jónsson and Sigurdur Sigurdsson. They could be related—the younger Sigurdur’s patronymic showed he was the son of a Sigurdur, and according to the Records Office, his birth date was August 8, 1950, the same year that Sigurdur Jónsson died. Could it be that Sigurdur Sigurdsson the guitarist was the son of Sigurdur Jónsson the laborer? Born after his father’s death and named for him?
If so, it was certainly more than coincidence that Sigurdur Senior was arrested for the murder of Jacob Senior and then Sigurdur Junior’s fingerprints were found in the place where Jacob Junior was murdered twenty-seven years later.
Egill was convinced he was on to something. He decided to check the history of the disappearing house and its inhabitants. This was proper police work, he thought, and if all went according to plan, the next hippie he spoke to would be in handcuffs.
The abandoned lot where Brekkustígur 25 had once stood was as far west as you could get and still be in Reykjavik. Egill walked around the site, outlining the former rooms as he paced; it had been no mansion, that’s for sure. He heard scraping sounds, and saw an elderly man chipping ice off the front steps of an old house nearby. Egill went over and greeted him.
“Morning,” the man replied.
“Have you lived here long?” Egill asked.
“I moved here in ’49.”
“Do you remember a man who lived next door and who died in an accident at the harbor? In 1950? Name of Sigurdur.”
“Yes, I remember him. We called him Siggi Pistol.”
“Oh, why was that?”
“They said he killed a man.”
“Do you know what happened to his family, the wife and the kids?”
“Why are you asking?” he asked suspiciously.
“I’m from the detective division,” Egill explained, pulling his ID out of his leather wallet and showing it to the old man. “We’re investigating a case they are connected with.”
“I see. Are the boys in trouble again?”
“Could be.”
“Well. They were good lads, but it must have been hard being brought up so poor.”
“Do you know where they are living now?”
“No. Kristín, the widow, she became an invalid, and I think she’s in one of those institutions now. As far as I remember, the kids moved out of Reykjavik and the boys went to sea. Except perhaps the youngest one.”
“What is his name?”
“Sigurdur, what else? He wasn’t born until after the accident, and was named for his father. Nicknamed Diddi.”
“Do you know anything about him?’
“He’s some sort of musician. I think he may have been in a band.”
“What happened to this house?”
“The authorities had it demolished. It had become so run-down and rat infested; it leaked and stank of mildew. It just wasn’t fit to live in.”
Diary VI
July 22, 1920. I bought a bicycle for 140 krónur. Read Black Feathers by Davíd Stefánsson. One of the poems is called “By Train.” It’s a long narrative poem in eleven verses. The poet describes a journey by railroad that is, at the same time, life itself. The train speeds along non-stop, and the engineer is “that kingly soul, than whom none higher, who stokes the all-empow’ring fire.”
August 3, 1920. Plotted the Threngsli gradient survey onto graph paper. Weighed myself, I am 73 kilos…
September 20, 1920. Sheep-farmers here have now brought their flocks down from the summer pastures. They do not, however, bother to keep them penned, and the animals target the townsfolk’s gardens with great enthusiasm. I got up twice last night and chased them out of our garden…
November 1, 1920. Met with the minister this morning. He is very pleased with the work I did in the summer, and feels certain I shall be appointed Chief of Railroads as soon as the office is established…
November 17, 1920. Attended a meeting at the Association of Chartered Engineers on the subject of waterfalls. There were some excellent, forward-looking speeches on harnessing their power. I stood up during the debate to say that I personally was of the opinion that the first public power company and the railroad business should progress simultaneously. There is no need to elaborate on the necessity of building railroads in this country; everybody realizes this and it has practically become a vital necessity for Reykjavik and the lowlands in the south…
November 18, 1920. Elizabeth and I went to a show given by the Students’ union . There were readings with dancing afterwards. At the end, we all sang the national anthem and “Mothers of our Homeland.” It was a most successful entertainment. Elizabeth can now understand a good deal of Icelandic, but she does not care to speak the language. I find this difficult to understand, as she was very enthusiastic in the beginning.