‘Say, where did you find the cyanide capsule?’ he asked.
9
Flóvent sat in his car outside the house, mentally rehearsing the visit, wondering how best to convey the necessary facts and elicit the information he was after. He hadn’t been taught any special interviewing techniques when he became a detective, as there wasn’t much call for them in the simple inquiries that tended to come his way. He usually relied on common sense, and it hadn’t let him down so far.
Thorson had taken the cyanide pill for analysis by experts in military intelligence. One element of his training had been to recognise capsules of this type for the purpose of locating and removing them from German prisoners. He thought it was almost certainly German and could well be linked to espionage. The agents of the Third Reich were advised to carry such capsules at all times and use them rather than surrender and risk interrogation. It was all new to Flóvent. He had never come across anything like a cyanide pill before, to say nothing of Nazi spies.
‘Of course, there’d be plenty to occupy them in Iceland,’ he commented when Thorson had explained what he thought the capsule was. ‘It’s the largest Allied base in the North Atlantic.’
‘Sure,’ said Thorson. ‘Military intelligence has a detachment here to keep an eye on any unusual activity. And also on individuals with longstanding connections to Germany, German nationals, any Icelanders who have ever studied in the country, that kind of thing.’
‘So Felix Lunden’s name is bound to have cropped up?’
‘I’ll make enquiries,’ said Thorson. ‘Do you mind if I take the pill and hand it over to our people for analysis?’
‘No, you do that. Good idea. We’ll see what they make of it. It looks to me as if this case concerns your people as much as ours.’ He sensed a hesitation on Thorson’s part. ‘You don’t agree?’
‘Yes, it’s just...’
‘What?’
‘Maybe you should get someone else to work with you,’ said Thorson. ‘I... I don’t have a clue what I’m doing when it comes to this kind of investigation. I’ll be straight with you. Before we go any further, I want you to know that I’ve never been involved in anything like this before.’
‘To be honest, I’m in the same position,’ said Flóvent. ‘But maybe you’re not so keen on this kind of work? I can understand that.’
‘I’m worried about getting in your way,’ said Thorson.
Flóvent wasn’t used to such candour. ‘You recognised the cyanide pill straight away,’ he pointed out.
‘Yes.’
‘Let’s see how it goes,’ said Flóvent. ‘It may actually be an advantage — to approach a case like this without any experience.’
Twilight hung over the town; the weather was bleak, with low cloud threatening rain. Flóvent peered at the house in the grey light. It hadn’t taken him long to discover where the doctor lived. The picture he was forming of him, based on what little information Baldur could offer, was still very sketchy. Rudolf had been born in Schleswig-Holstein, moved to Iceland in around 1910 and married an Icelandic woman with whom he had one child. Baldur thought the wife had died during the Spanish flu epidemic.
Flóvent and Thorson had agreed that Felix Lunden was the most obvious suspect, given that the body wasn’t his. They were working on the assumption that he had fled and was now in hiding, perhaps even trying to leave the country. The police were going to issue an appeal on the radio and in the newspapers, and launch a nationwide search for him.
The dead man’s identity remained a mystery. No one seemed to be missing a man in his twenties, who had ended his life in Felix Lunden’s flat, shot in the head with a service pistol.
One thing puzzled Flóvent. The man had seemingly opened the door to Felix’s flat using the key that he had been clutching in his hand when he was shot. Felix had mentioned to Ólafía that he had mislaid his own key, and she had lent him her only spare. So somehow the dead man must have acquired a key to Felix’s flat. The logical conclusion was that their paths must have crossed recently and that the unidentified man had entered the basement flat without permission.
Unable to put off the evil hour any longer, Flóvent got out of the car and walked up to the house. It was an austere, single-storey building, clad in sombre pebble-dash and surrounded by a small garden. Carved in relief above the front door was the name of the house: Skuggabjörg, Shadow Crags. The door was opened by a maid, who wore a white apron over a black dress. Flóvent introduced himself and asked to speak to the owner of the house. She showed him in and requested that he wait in the hall. As the minutes ticked by without any sign of her returning, Flóvent began to edge his way further inside, examining the paintings on the walls and trying to read the spines on the crowded bookshelves. Then he just stood there listening to the silence. Order appeared to be highly prized in this house: the floors gleamed and there wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen on the furniture, books or paintings. At long last the maid returned.
‘He says he wasn’t expecting you, sir,’ she said apologetically. ‘He’ll be ready to see you in a few minutes. In the meantime, he asked me to show you into his study, if you would be so kind as to wait for him there.’
‘Thank you,’ said Flóvent and followed the girl into the study, where she left him. There he found still more bookcases, containing, as far as he could tell, German literature, academic works and medical texts. He noticed an edition of On the Origin of Species, in the original English, but he didn’t recognise many of the other titles as he didn’t know German. At the far end of the room was a large desk with papers, writing materials and piles of books neatly arranged on top. There was a pair of crutches propped against one of the bookcases.
‘Do you see anything on the shelves that interests you?’ a deep, German-accented voice asked behind him. Startled, he spun round to see a man in his sixties sitting in a wheelchair, observing him from the doorway with colourless eyes. Flóvent didn’t know how long the man had been there but felt instinctively that he had been watching him for a while.
‘It’s a handsome library,’ he replied, for the sake of saying something.
‘Thank you,’ said the man in the wheelchair as he propelled himself into the room. He had white hair, a thin face, and his eyes behind the round spectacles with their heavy black frames were severe, angry almost, as if he were a teacher faced with a class of recalcitrant pupils. He was wearing a dark jacket over a knitted jumper, and had a woollen blanket spread over his knees. ‘I try to surround myself with a decent library,’ he said in his carefully enunciated Icelandic. ‘I understand you are from the police?’
‘Yes, please excuse the intrusion,’ said Flóvent, swiftly recovering his composure. ‘Are you Rudolf Lunden, sir?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘My name’s Flóvent, and I’m a detective with Reykjavík’s Criminal Investigation Department. I’ve come to see you about rather an unusual matter. Am I right in thinking that you have a son called Felix?’
‘Yes.’
‘You wouldn’t happen to know where I might find him?’
‘Find him? What for?’
‘I—’
‘What do the police want with him?’ the man interrupted sharply.
‘I wondered if I’d find him here with you.’
‘Apparently you did not hear what I said: what do the police want with him? Would you be so good as to answer my question?’
‘Of course. I—’
‘Would you get on with it then,’ the man interrupted again in a louder voice, his German accent becoming more pronounced. ‘Please do not waste my time.’