‘What about the suspects?’
‘No immediately obvious signs of gunshot residue on them or their clothes. Nor blood. Once again, we’ll send the clothing back to the lab in Reykjavík for closer analysis, but I doubt we will find anything.’
‘How can you know until they have looked?’
Edda didn’t answer. Vigdís knew that Edda and her team were both sharp-eyed and accurate and that she didn’t take well to being bossed around by investigators.
‘Well, go back up there this morning and widen the search area.’
‘Thanks,’ said Edda. ‘Would never have thought of that myself.’
The remark flustered Ólafur. Edda flustered men anyway, even when not in sarcastic mode. She was tall, blonde, cool and beautiful, and she treated lustful police officers with a haughty disdain. Vigdís had tried that approach, but she couldn’t quite pull it off the way Edda could.
The inspector turned to his troops. ‘Anything interesting from the house-to-house? Anyone see the suspects approaching the henge?’
It turned out that there were two people on the northern edge of town who had heard what they thought was a gunshot that afternoon: one thought it was at five o’clock, another at five fifteen. That gave some indication of the time of death, and suggested, but didn’t prove, that if the two suspects had shot Halldór, it had been an hour to an hour and a half before they claimed they had found him. Then there were some desultory reports from the policemen who had been detailed to interview the inhabitants of Raufarhöfn. Nothing interesting.
Ólafur went through Alex Einarsson’s and Martin Fiedler’s statements, and detailed officers to corroborate their movements. Others were asked to search for a gun — none had been found at the farmhouse where they were staying — and to check up on every licensed firearms owner in the town to make sure that their weapons were secure and had not been taken, and to see if they had been fired two days ago.
‘Anything else?’
Vigdís spoke up. ‘We should also get a warrant to seize Martin Fielder’s computer.’ Her voice croaked. It was the first time she had spoken since she had woken up and the hangover was flexing its muscles. She cleared her throat. ‘He said he was online that afternoon. We can check.’ She was surprised the inspector hadn’t mentioned it.
As the group broke up, Ólafur turned to Vigdís. ‘Why were you late?’
‘I’m sorry, I overslept,’ she answered. ‘It was a long day yesterday.’
The inspector didn’t look impressed, which was fair enough. ‘I’m going to hold a press conference now, and then we’ll talk to the suspects again. Maybe a spell overnight will have focused their minds. Then I want you to take them to see the magistrate at Húsavík to issue a warrant to hold them for another week. We’ll get the warrant to seize both their laptops then as well. The prosecutor there is a woman called María. I’ll get her to meet you beforehand so she can prepare.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. Do you have a problem with that? Don’t worry, María will present the case to the magistrate.’
‘But do we have enough evidence?’
‘They are our only suspects.’
‘I’m sorry, but in my judgement we have no evidence,’ said Vigdís.
‘Are you suggesting that we release them?’
‘Yes. We can take Martin Fiedler’s passport and request that he stays in town. Seize his laptop and have it analysed.’
‘Inspector?’ Björn, the young detective, had appeared.
‘What is it?’ said Ólafur, turning towards him.
Björn was with two men. One Vigdís didn’t recognize, but the other she knew all too well. Kristján Gylfason — smooth, silver-haired, and the most expensive criminal lawyer in Iceland.
‘Hello, Vigdís,’ said the lawyer, smiling. ‘Inspector Ólafur. I have been requested by the German Embassy to represent Martin Fiedler. This is Wolfgang Eichert from the embassy.’
Ólafur frowned, but shook Kristján’s hand and that of the young German diplomat, who was wearing a suit underneath his coat.
‘Can I see my client?’ Kristján said.
Ólafur glared at the two men. ‘Wait a moment,’ he replied. ‘I need to talk to the press first.’
Ólafur’s annoyance grew as the morning progressed. Now Kristján was involved, there was no chance of a confession, Vigdís knew, or of Ólafur persuading a magistrate to allow the police to hold him.
During a break in the proceedings, Vigdís asked Ólafur if she could go to Halldór’s house and speak to his family. Ólafur let her go. He had Björn to help him, and she was just a further irritation.
The policeman’s house was only a hundred metres from the station. The door was answered by a girl of about eighteen, short with close-cropped blonde hair and glasses. She had a delicate pointed chin and clear pale skin. Her face seemed to register no emotion as she saw Vigdís.
Vigdís introduced herself. ‘Are you Halldór’s daughter?’ she asked.
The girl nodded. ‘Gudrún.’
‘Can I have a few words?’
The girl led Vigdís through to a tidy living room. Vigdís scanned the photographs. She recognized Halldór from the case photos: a large middle-aged man with the beginnings of a double chin. She had never met him herself. There were some pictures of a younger Halldór with a woman with long dark hair — Halldór’s late wife, no doubt — and plenty of portraits of the woman by herself.
‘Mum,’ said the girl. ‘She died seven years ago. In a car crash. Dad was driving.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Vigdís. ‘For her and for your father.’ Vigdís had broken bad news many times to distraught families, but her heart went out to this girl who was now an orphan. ‘Are you alone? Are any of your family here?’
‘My grandparents and my brother are coming from Reykjavík this afternoon. And the neighbours have been kind. It’s hard to keep them away. But I just want to be alone a bit, actually.’
‘You live here all the time?’ Vigdís asked.
Raufarhöfn was far too small for its own high school, which meant local students would go to boarding school far away. Unless they left school early to get a local job. Gudrún looked too studious for that.
‘I’m in my first year at the University of Iceland,’ Gudrún said. That made her a little older than Vigdís had guessed. Icelandic kids didn’t go to university until the age of twenty. ‘I just got home for the summer holidays three days ago.’
‘Can you tell me about your father? What he was like? What did people in town think of him?’
To Vigdís’s relief, Gudrún was happy to talk. Vigdís let her tell stories about her childhood with her dad that could be of no conceivable use to the investigation, but that relaxed her, gave her comfort.
Halldór had escaped Reykjavík soon after the car accident and had accepted a posting in Raufarhöfn, taking his two children — Gudrún and her older brother Sveinn — with him. There Halldór tried to make a new life and had succeeded. He made friends in the town. He found the policing dull, but he was an enthusiastic member of the search-and-rescue team. A year after he arrived, he had played a big part in the rescue of a farmer who had fallen off a cliff in a snowstorm. That had made him popular in town, and had clearly made Gudrún proud. He was a keen shot; he would go hunting foxes with a couple of the locals, as well as target shooting on a friend’s farm.
The affection of the daughter for her father was obvious, and painful to see.