July 13, 1936. We set off early, heading east. We are somewhat cramped in the motor as we are carrying a considerable amount of baggage. At Kolvidarhóll, Kristján and the Germans got out to journey on foot, while I continue by motor and will meet up with them further east. Kristján will show them the route for the railroad…We took accommodation at Lake Laugarvatn…
July 14, 1936. After a hard day, we have arrived at Lake Hvítárvatn. Here our ways part. Kristján will guide the visitors on foot through Kjölur. I will motor back to meet them in the north. I dread traveling this route on my own. It is a poor road…
When the team met after lunch, everyone was exhausted apart from Jóhann. He had finished early the previous evening, gone to the cinema, and turned in at a reasonable hour.
Hrefna had read the diaries well into the night, and then gone to see Elísabet that morning already. Halldór did not offer any explanation for his exhaustion, but a poor night of sleep was evident by the dark circles that seemed to stretch from under his eyes down to his cheeks. And Egill and Marteinn had left Ólafsvík at seven that morning, having spent an uncomfortable night in a police cell. They had then driven to Reykjavik without stopping and taken Sigurdur Sigurdsson, who refused to utter a word, straight to the jail at Sídumúli.
After they all reported their findings, Jóhann confirmed that the parcel of documents in the safe at Birkihlíd was the one Thórdur had recently delivered to Jacob Junior.
“There is one very interesting thing about these documents,” Jóhann added. “Alfred Kieler’s will names his son Jacob as the sole heir. In other words, Jacob Senior inherited the house and contents, and all other property. Matthías is not even mentioned in the document.”
“And yet Matthías claims to own half of Birkihlíd,” Halldór remarked. “I’ll have to talk some more with him today.”
“Could it be they were going by a later will?” Hrefna suggested.
“Hardly,” Jóhann replied. “This one was dated 1929, just a year before Alfred died.”
“What about the ammunition in the safe? Have you examined that?” Halldór asked.
“Yes,” Jóhann replied. “There were, in all, twenty-odd different types of ammunition for various firearms, amongst them one packet of rounds for a 38/200 Smith and Wesson.”
“That’s interesting,” Halldór said.
Jóhann continued, “It doesn’t really tell us much, because there were many types of cartridge that don’t fit the firearms found in the house.”
After Egill finished describing their arduous trip to Ólafsvík, Hrefna snapped, “This journey of yours was totally unnecessary. You could have sorted this matter with one phone call.”
Egill bridled. “The only fingerprints from the scene of the murder belong to this guy and you would have phoned him up!” he replied angrily.
“I have been given a completely satisfactory explanation for those fingerprints,” Hrefna said smugly.
Halldór turned to her. “You go and talk to the guy,” he said. “Maybe you’ll get something out of him. Jóhann will go with you and take a new set of prints.”
Hrefna drove in silence to Sídumúli, and when the jailer admitted them, she asked if the prisoner was asleep. He told her he doubted that, as Egill had ordered he be kept handcuffed.
“Bring him out here at once,” she said, clearly angered at Egill’s overzealousness.
The young man whom the jailer led out into the corridor looked tired. His hands were cuffed behind his back, and he shook as Hrefna removed the manacles. Jóhann examined the prisoner’s wrists, which were badly bruised, asking, “Did they keep you cuffed in the car all the way from Ólafsvík?”
The prisoner looked at them with disdain, and then nodded.
“We’ll start by taking him to the ER to have this looked at,” Jóhann told Hrefna. “He can get an injury release there. We don’t need to bring him back here.”
Out in the parking lot, the prisoner looked around, sizing up the surroundings.
“You can run if you like,” Jóhann said. “But you’ll do better coming with us.”
Sigurdur looked Jóhann in the eye for a moment, then relaxed and climbed into the backseat of their car.
“Are you going to take a new set of prints?” Hrefna asked Jóhann on the way to the hospital.
“No. I didn’t even bring the kit.”
Diary XV