Viktor Ingolfsson - The Flatey Enigma

Rosa saw it, too, and stopped. She tugged at Grimur’s jacket and whispered, “I think I’ll just take a look at the angel later. I’ve just remembered I was suppose to go straight home.”

“Right then, you just go on home,” said Grimur, but she hadn’t waited for an answer and was already running back the same way they came and swiftly vanished down the slope without looking back.

There was no opening in the fencing on this side of the churchyard, but Grimur had no problems climbing over the low wire netting, even though he was a bit stiff in his hips. Once he had entered, he felt it appropriate to bless himself but then continued walking. The quarrelsome arctic terns then turned on Grimur and dived toward his head, one after another, as he trod the narrow trail between the graves. He waved his arms at them and pushed his cap to the back of his head. His visor was pointing in the air now, so that the most daring terns would knock their beaks against it, while his bald head remained mostly protected. He had dealt with terns like this countless times before and wasn’t too bothered by their uproar. His eyes were firmly focused on what lay ahead.

Inching forward, step by step, Grimur approached a mass that initially looked like a red angel, as Svenni had said. But as he drew even closer, he saw that it was a half-naked human body covered in blood and kneeling on the grave. Its arms and head dangled over the white tombstone. On its bare back there was something that in the distance had looked like fiery red wings. Blood had trickled down the body in the rain and dyed it red. The body’s coat, jacket, and white shirt had been yanked down over the man’s waist.

Grimur froze and swallowed in an attempt to moisten his parched throat. Then he drew closer to see who had met this terrible fate in the night.

Question twenty: Who ate his father’s killer? First letter. Sarcastic Halli said, “I don’t know of anyone who avenged his father as gruesomely as Thjodolf because he ate his father’s killer.”

The king said, “Tell us how this is true.”

Halli said, “Thorljot, Thjodolf’s father, led the calf home on a lead, and when he got to his hayfield wall, he hoisted the calf up the wall. Then he went over the wall, and the calf tumbled off the wall on the other side. But the noose at the end of the lead tightened around Thorljot’s neck, and he was unable to touch the ground with his feet. So each hung on his own side of the wall, and they were both dead by the time people arrived. The children dragged the calf home and prepared it for food, and I think that Thjodolf ate his full share of it.” The answer is “Thjodolf,” and the first letter is t.

Dr. Johanna was wearing a green raincoat and held a black umbrella, but Kjartan was in his trench coat and bareheaded. They stood a few feet away from the grave and stared at the man on the tombstone that Grimur had alerted them to. The rain had intensified during the course of the morning.

“That’s got to be the reporter from Reykjavik who arrived on the mail boat on Saturday,” Grimur uttered in a low voice. “I’m told his name is Bryngeir.”

Johanna walked up close and then circled the grave. She stooped over the man’s back and examined him. “The ribs were chopped on both sides of the spine from the back with two or three big blows and then stretched out,” she said. “Both lungs were then pulled out from the chest.” She walked another circle around the man and then added, “Those are the only injuries I can see.”

Grimur looked at them and asked, “Should we pick him up and carry him into the church?”

“No, no,” Kjartan said in a tremulous voice, “absolutely not. We won’t move anything here. We’ll do nothing. We’ll close the churchyard and immediately call the Criminal Investigation Department in Reykjavik.”

He clasped his coat around his throat, but the rain streamed down his hair over his ashen face.

“Whoever carved this man up like this had to be strong and knows how to handle a knife,” Johanna said. “It takes a lot of strength and skill to be able to cut through the bone like that. And the knife was big and sharp.”

“Will you call the police in Reykjavik?” Grimur asked Kjartan.

“I would prefer you to do it,” Kjartan answered. “This is all so way over my head. I think I’ll just take the first trip back to Patreksfjordur. I hope you can deal with communicating with the police.”

Grimur scratched the beard under his chin. “But I’ve got to hang around here and make sure no kids come near this,” he said awkwardly.

“I’ll phone Reykjavik,” Johanna said, “and ask them to send an investigator straightaway. I can describe the incident.”

Grimur was relieved. “Yeah and find Hogni for me and tell him to come up in his sailing overalls. He can take it in shifts with me.”

“I’ll do that,” Kjartan answered, swiftly turning and rushing out of the cemetery.

Question twenty-one: The ugliest foot. First letter. Thorarinn Nefjulfsson was in Tunsberg staying with King Olaf. Early one morning the king lay awake while the others were asleep, and the sun was shining so there was a lot of light inside. One of Thorarinn’s feet stuck out of his bedclothes. The king stared at the foot for a while and then said, “I’ve witnessed an invaluable sight; this man’s foot has got to be the ugliest in the whole town.”

Thorarinn answered, “I’m willing to bet you that I can find an uglier foot.”

The king answered, “Whoever wins the bet shall demand a favor of the other.”

“So be it,” said Thorarinn. He then produced his other foot from under the bedclothes, which was no more beautiful and had a toe missing, too. “And now I have won the bet,” said Thorarinn.

The king answered, “The other foot is uglier because it has five ugly toes on it, but this one has only four, so I can ask a favor of you.”

The answer is “Thorarinn,” and the first letter is t.

The announcement of another death in Flatey did not go down well with Dagbjartur. Now he knew that the peace was over. He’d be required to give an account of his investigation over the past few days and submit a report. The worst part was that he hadn’t written anything down yet. This would become a priority case now, some higher-ranking officer would be put in charge, and the department’s best men would be dispatched to Flatey. The only positive thing to come out of that morning was the fact he would no longer be required to travel to the island.

Using three fingers, Dagbjartur hammered out the conclusions of his interviews with Fridrik Einarsson and Arni Sakarias on his typewriter. He didn’t need to write much to cover the essentials, but it still took him a long time. His chubby fingers were stiff on the keyboard and didn’t always hit the right letters.

It didn’t take the head of the division long to race over his subordinate’s text.

“The Flatey enigma?” he erupted in a rage. “What childish nonsense is that?”

“The magistrate’s assistant in the west seemed to feel it was important,” Dagbjartur answered defensively.

“Oh yeah? And what’s this? A child out of wedlock. That might be worth looking into. Who’s this woman?”

“We don’t know.”

“Don’t know! What have you been up to over these past few days?”

“This.” Dagbjartur pointed stubbornly at his papers. “But no one knows who this woman is.”

“Aren’t there any birth records from those years that we can go through?”

“Everywhere’s closed on the Whitsunday weekend.”

“Right, well, keep going and keep me posted.”

For the remainder of the day Dagbjartur tracked down the friends, relatives, and colleagues of the reporter, Bryngeir, to dig up some information about his life and habits. His colleagues at the paper seemed to be mostly relieved to be free of him, although no one had the effrontery to say so straight out.