‘Isn’t that... is there any truth in this?’
‘Well, it’s what our friends at the Leper Hospital claim is going on,’ said Thorson, kicking a balled-up newspaper. It fell open to reveal some scraps of paper. Thorson bent down to take a closer look and discovered two charred pages, obviously ripped from a book. There was no sign of the book itself but clearly it must have come into contact with the flames in the consul’s bathtub. The pages, which had been singed top and bottom, appeared to come from a guestbook. Thorson picked them up gingerly and saw a date that looked like 1939. There was handwriting on both sides of the pages and although it was mostly illegible he could discern a few names and other words that the fire hadn’t managed to destroy.
While Flóvent trained his torch on the fragments, Thorson did his best to decipher them, as he had a smattering of German. He managed to pick out a few of the names. They were German and some were accompanied by greetings or comments like With grateful thanks for your hospitality or Thank you for an enjoyable evening in the company of friends.
‘Do they tell us anything useful?’ asked Flóvent, frowning down at them.
‘No, probably not,’ said Thorson.
‘What’s this?’ asked Flóvent, taking hold of one of the pages. ‘What does it say there?’ He drew Thorson’s attention to a signature that was very hard to read. There was no date by the name or any information on the purpose of the visit.
‘What’s the surname?’ he asked, staring hard at the writing. ‘Isn’t it Lunden? Doesn’t it say Lunden?’
Thorson peered at the almost illegible name. The first letter was an H. It was followed by something unreadable, then an n and finally a letter that looked like an s. The surname began with an L. Then there were a couple of unclear letters, then a d and an e, and finally another letter that was impossible to read. H_ns L_de_.
‘Could it be Hans or something like that? Hans Lunden?’ said Flóvent. ‘The surname’s definitely Lunden, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it looks like it.’
‘Yet another member of the Lunden family?’
‘That’s certainly a possibility. Though it could say something different. I’m not very good on German names.’
‘If it is Lunden,’ said Flóvent, ‘wouldn’t he be... what? Felix’s brother? I thought he was an only child.’
‘Or Rudolf’s brother. Or a cousin, perhaps. Whoever he was, he must have known Werner Gerlach well enough to have been invited here.’
‘Felix and Rudolf and now Hans?’
‘Who are these people?’
‘What’s that in front of his name? More letters?’
Thorson struggled to decipher the scrawl. ‘Impossible to read. Unless... could that be a capital D?’
‘D, and what’s this?’
‘Could it be D... r?’
‘Doktor Hans Lunden? Yet another doctor,’ said Flóvent thoughtfully, shining his torch into the corner where the fragments had been lying tangled up in the newspaper. Then he directed the beam back at the pages and raised his eyes to Thorson, repeating the words under his breath. ‘Yet another doctor.’
15
They watched a man of about sixty collect a bundle of fishing rods from his car, with a calm, unhurried air, then put them away in a shed. Flóvent had decided they should pay a visit to Rudolf’s brother-in-law, the headmaster, just on the off-chance that he had returned from his trip. Spotting the figure with the fishing rods, Flóvent parked in front of the drive, and he and Thorson got out and walked over.
‘Ebeneser?’ said Flóvent.
The man had noticed them parking outside his house but behaved as if it was of no consequence. He was dressed for salmon fishing, and wore a green waterproof over a traditional knitted lopapeysa, and a pair of waders. He looked as if he had come straight from the riverbank.
‘Do I know you gentlemen?’ he asked.
‘Are you Ebeneser Egilsson, sir?’ asked Flóvent.
‘Who’s asking? Who are you?’
‘My name’s Flóvent and I’m from the Criminal Investigation Department. My partner here is Thorson, from the military police. I don’t know if you’ve heard, sir, but we’re investigating a case involving your nephew, Felix Lunden.’
‘Felix? Really?’ The man sounded puzzled. ‘I... I haven’t heard anything about that. Is Felix all right? Is he in some kind of trouble?’
‘We’re not sure,’ said Flóvent. ‘But we’re keen to talk to him. Do you have any idea where he might be?’
‘Where he might be? Whatever’s going on? I’ve been out of... I’ve been fishing and... I don’t know what this is about. Why are you looking for him?’
‘So you haven’t heard from your brother-in-law, Rudolf?’ asked Flóvent.
‘Rudolf? No. Is anything the matter with him? Is he all right?’
‘Yes, we spoke to him earlier today. I take it you are Ebeneser Egilsson, sir? Headmaster of...?’
‘Yes, I am. I’m Ebeneser. Look, what’s this about Felix?’
‘We need to speak to him urgently.’
Flóvent asked if they might step inside as they had a few questions they would like to put to him. Ebeneser objected at first, pleading exhaustion after spending all day driving on bone-shaking roads. But when he saw the determination on Flóvent’s face, he clearly thought it would be better to get it over with, and besides he seemed curious to know what sort of hot water his nephew was in. The house bore all the signs of a cultured home. Tightly packed bookshelves had been fitted in wherever there was space, paintings by some of Iceland’s leading landscape artists graced the walls, and there were magazines and academic journals scattered across the tables. Many of the books were on genealogy. When Flóvent enquired about these, Ebeneser explained that he was an enthusiast and enjoyed tracing people’s family trees.
Flóvent gave him an account of the case, starting with the moment the police were notified about the body in the basement flat, but was careful not to give too much away. He described the scene but omitted the details about the American firearm and the symbol on the victim’s forehead. He said only that the police had yet to identify the body but that they had spoken to Rudolf.
Ebeneser reacted with incredulity and seemed to have difficulty taking in what they were telling him. Little by little, though, the shocking news sank in. He kept asking about Felix. Did they think he was dead as well, or in some sort of danger? Who was the man in his flat? Was Felix suspected of murder? But there were no answers to be had from Flóvent and Thorson.
‘I presume you were away at the time, sir?’ said Flóvent, who had done most of the talking.
‘I’ve been away for a week,’ said Ebeneser. ‘Fishing. My two companions came back to town the day before yesterday. Do you mean... Are you asking me for some sort of... alibi?’
‘Just a formality,’ said Flóvent. ‘I’ll need the names of anyone who can back up your statement.’
Ebeneser provided these, though he added huffily that he wasn’t happy about being required to do so. His word ought to be more than sufficient.
Flóvent assured him there was no need to worry and repeated that it was a formality. The man was not as aggressive as the brother-in-law, but beneath his aggrieved air Flóvent sensed some of the same reactions Rudolf had shown: defensiveness, unwillingness to cooperate, dissimulation, impatience. From Ebeneser’s unkempt appearance and hoarse voice, he got the impression that the man had been holed up in a hut with a bottle.