Read Online The Flatey Enigma by Viktor Arnar Ingólfsson - Free Book Online
Authors: Viktor Arnar Ingólfsson
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Stykkishólmur answering.”
“Good morning, Stykkishólmur. We have a call for the district magistrate in Patreksfjördur.”
“One moment,” the voice answered, followed by a silence. Stína and Ingibjörg solemnly waited without saying a word.
Kjartan looked out the window facing the village and saw two men standing by the notice in the co-op store. They seemed to be reading it with great interest and then stuck their heads together and looked in the direction of the telephone exchange.
“Flatey radio, Stykkishólmur. We have the district magistrate of Patreksfjördur on the line.”
“Go ahead,” Stína said, pointing at a black receiver on the desk in front of Kjartan.
He picked up the phone. “Hello, hello. Kjartan in Flatey here.”
The voice at the other end of the line was faint. “Yes, hello, how’s the investigation going?”
“We’ve recovered the body,” Kjartan answered, “but we still haven’t identified it yet. It seems likely that he was alive when he reached the island but then died of fatigue. He seems to have been lying there for several months after he died.”
There was a brief silence, after which the magistrate said, “That’s odd. Doesn’t anyone know who he is?”
“No. The body is unrecognizable.”
There was another brief silence while the magistrate evaluated the situation.
“Right then, so you’ll have to send the body to Reykjavik,” he then said.
“Yes. The casket will be traveling on the mail boat tomorrow.”
“Good.”
“Should I come home today?”
“Today? No, hang on there for a bit and talk to some of the islanders. There must be some way of finding out who took that man to the island.”
Kjartan wasn’t happy. “I’m not used to this kind of investigative work,” he said.
“No, but you’ll have to do for now. I’m not going to call in the police from Reykjavik if we can solve this in the district ourselves. District Officer Grímur will help you with your inquiries.”
“Right then, but what about the notarizations I was supposed to work on?”
“They can wait another two or three days. Don’t you worry about them; just concentrate on this. Be in touch tomorrow. Good-bye and best of luck.”
The phone call ended, and Stína let Stykkishólmur know that was enough for now.
Kjartan handed her a copy of the notice and asked her to read it out over the radio to the other islands.
“Skáleyjar, Svefneyjar, Látur,” she called into the mouthpiece. “Flatey radio calling.”
She repeated this three times until the islands answered, each in turn. She had started to read out the notice as they were walking outside.
“Grímur will be back at lunchtime and you can talk to him about how to proceed,” Ingibjörg said when they were standing outside the telephone exchange. Then she added: “Maybe you should take a walk while you’re waiting for Grímur. Take a look around the island. Visitors normally like to go up to Lundaberg to look at the birds.” She gave him directions.
Kjartan nodded approvingly, and Ingibjörg said good-bye and walked toward her house at an even slower pace than before. Kjartan started his tour by taking a look around the village. The doors of the co-op were open, but there were no customers to be seen inside. A handcart loaded with several bags of cement was parked in front of the warehouse. The muffled murmur of the generator resounded from the basement, and the sound of a radio voice could be heard coming from the house next door. These sounds blended with the screeches of the birds on the rocks of Hafnarey.
An elderly woman in a canvas apron was spreading eiderdown on a concrete step above the pier, and an old man was painting a small boat that lay upturned on the edge of the cove. A face was watching him through the priest’s house’s window.
Kjartan sauntered off, following a narrow gravel path that meandered between the houses. There was a strong smell of chicken shit in the air that fused with
“Good morning, Stykkishólmur. We have a call for the district magistrate in Patreksfjördur.”
“One moment,” the voice answered, followed by a silence. Stína and Ingibjörg solemnly waited without saying a word.
Kjartan looked out the window facing the village and saw two men standing by the notice in the co-op store. They seemed to be reading it with great interest and then stuck their heads together and looked in the direction of the telephone exchange.
“Flatey radio, Stykkishólmur. We have the district magistrate of Patreksfjördur on the line.”
“Go ahead,” Stína said, pointing at a black receiver on the desk in front of Kjartan.
He picked up the phone. “Hello, hello. Kjartan in Flatey here.”
The voice at the other end of the line was faint. “Yes, hello, how’s the investigation going?”
“We’ve recovered the body,” Kjartan answered, “but we still haven’t identified it yet. It seems likely that he was alive when he reached the island but then died of fatigue. He seems to have been lying there for several months after he died.”
There was a brief silence, after which the magistrate said, “That’s odd. Doesn’t anyone know who he is?”
“No. The body is unrecognizable.”
There was another brief silence while the magistrate evaluated the situation.
“Right then, so you’ll have to send the body to Reykjavik,” he then said.
“Yes. The casket will be traveling on the mail boat tomorrow.”
“Good.”
“Should I come home today?”
“Today? No, hang on there for a bit and talk to some of the islanders. There must be some way of finding out who took that man to the island.”
Kjartan wasn’t happy. “I’m not used to this kind of investigative work,” he said.
“No, but you’ll have to do for now. I’m not going to call in the police from Reykjavik if we can solve this in the district ourselves. District Officer Grímur will help you with your inquiries.”
“Right then, but what about the notarizations I was supposed to work on?”
“They can wait another two or three days. Don’t you worry about them; just concentrate on this. Be in touch tomorrow. Good-bye and best of luck.”
The phone call ended, and Stína let Stykkishólmur know that was enough for now.
Kjartan handed her a copy of the notice and asked her to read it out over the radio to the other islands.
“Skáleyjar, Svefneyjar, Látur,” she called into the mouthpiece. “Flatey radio calling.”
She repeated this three times until the islands answered, each in turn. She had started to read out the notice as they were walking outside.
“Grímur will be back at lunchtime and you can talk to him about how to proceed,” Ingibjörg said when they were standing outside the telephone exchange. Then she added: “Maybe you should take a walk while you’re waiting for Grímur. Take a look around the island. Visitors normally like to go up to Lundaberg to look at the birds.” She gave him directions.
Kjartan nodded approvingly, and Ingibjörg said good-bye and walked toward her house at an even slower pace than before. Kjartan started his tour by taking a look around the village. The doors of the co-op were open, but there were no customers to be seen inside. A handcart loaded with several bags of cement was parked in front of the warehouse. The muffled murmur of the generator resounded from the basement, and the sound of a radio voice could be heard coming from the house next door. These sounds blended with the screeches of the birds on the rocks of Hafnarey.
An elderly woman in a canvas apron was spreading eiderdown on a concrete step above the pier, and an old man was painting a small boat that lay upturned on the edge of the cove. A face was watching him through the priest’s house’s window.
Kjartan sauntered off, following a narrow gravel path that meandered between the houses. There was a strong smell of chicken shit in the air that fused with
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