His ruminations were interrupted once again by the telephone. Halldór glanced at Stefanía, but she did not look up from the travel brochures she was absorbed in. Perhaps that was a good idea—a trip, a nice, long trip.
Halldór answered the phone. It was Fridrik, the pathologist. “You’re up early.”
“Yeah, listen,” Fridrik said, “I have a corpus here that you wanted me to dissect.”
“Yes, the body of Matthías Kieler, who died yesterday.”
“I think you should come down here and have a look at it.”
Halldór was startled.
“I hope there are no injuries?” he asked anxiously. That mustn’t be the case; they were in enough trouble already, but he was beginning to think that Egill was capable of anything.
“No, that’s not the problem, but you should come right away,” Fridrik said firmly and hung up.
Halldór had lost his appetite. He abandoned his toast, unfinished, on the plate and left the house without saying good-bye.
Diary XVII
May 9, 1940. I was informed in confidence that a telegram had arrived at the foreign affairs committee from our envoy in London, reporting that last Monday a question had been tabled in the British parliament as to whether the British government was planning to occupy Iceland. The question was withdrawn without the minister having replied to it. People are wondering what this means…
May 10, 1940. I woke at nearly three o’clock this morning when an airplane flew over the town. I was in no doubt that this was a military aircraft, as there are no planes in airworthy condition here at the moment. But what nationality was it? Sleep eluded me after that, and I got up, dressed warmly, and went out. The sky was cloudy and it was sleeting. I walked through town and down to the harbor. By then it was after four o’clock. Dawn was breaking, and between gusts of hail, you could see three warships lying just beyond the islands. Just then the British Consul arrived in his motor car along with a number of his compatriots. I asked him if these were his people, which he acknowledged. I hurried home to tell Elizabeth the news…
Egill went to the office early, as usual. He was restless. They had not yet dealt with what he felt was a crucial part of the investigation. They needed to search Matthías’s home; he felt certain the weapon would be found there. Halldór was really unnecessarily sensitive toward these people, he decided.
Marteinn arrived, greeted him, and sat down at his desk.
Egill made up his mind. He slipped into Halldór’s office, scanned his desktop, then rummaged in the drawers until he found what he was looking for.
Donning his jacket, he called to Marteinn, who was absorbed in writing something, “Come with me.”
“Where to?” Marteinn asked suspiciously.
“To that old geezer’s home, the one who died yesterday, Matthías Kieler. The search hasn’t been done yet.”
“What? Who authorized that?” Marteinn asked.
“The judge, of course. I’ve got the warrant.”
“I’m not coming.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m writing a formal complaint about your methods and requesting not to have to work under you.”
“What are you driveling about?”
“You are a disgrace to the force, and I don’t want to have to be part of it anymore.”
“What the fuck’s gotten into you? You’re getting just like the girl.”
Marteinn was furious. “First it was the visit to the old lady in the nursing home, then keeping that guy handcuffed all the way from Ólafsvík.”
“Hey, he was a murder suspect,” Egill interjected.
Ignoring him, Marteinn continued. “And finally that scene at Sídumúli yesterday. It was blindingly obvious the old man was in no state to be locked up.”
“But you took part in all of this.”
“Yeah, but only under orders from you. I couldn’t sleep a wink last night because of it.”
“You poor thing. Maybe your mommy can help,” Egill taunted.
“Oh yes, and put that piece of paper back in Halldór’s drawer. I saw you take it out.” Marteinn turned away and returned to his report.
Egill was staggered. You couldn’t trust anyone anymore. Until now, Marteinn had always stood by him, or at least pretended to. Egill slumped down at his desk, where he remained motionless, his arms crossed, scowling at Marteinn’s back.
This workplace is turning into a parish meetinghouse, he thought to himself. How would they be able to solve any cases if everyone was so concerned with playing it safe and by the book? Whatever happened to taking a little risk? Oh well, it was all the same to him; he wasn’t in charge.