The news of the discovery of the remains of the body in Breidafjordur got more attention from the authorities in Reykjavik once it was announced that the deceased was more likely than not a Danish university professor who was highly regarded in his homeland. The case had, in fact, been immediately referred to the detective force when news of the discovery of the body first broke, but they were waiting for the outcome of the postmortem on the remains and for the locals to collect as much information as they could. Once the deceased had been identified, it was felt that someone needed to be assigned to the investigation. They were obliged to get to the bottom of this and write a report.
Dagbjartur Arnason wasn’t exactly the smartest investigator in Reykjavik’s detective force, and he knew it. He therefore didn’t take it too badly when he got saddled with assignments that others found tedious and even insignificant. In fact, there was no shortage of menial cases of this kind. Small-time counterfeit checks, shop-lifting, and other trivial transgressions of that ilk were considered to be his specialty and principal calling. Dagbjartur was regarded as being a bit lazy and slow, although he could also be patient and affable, which occasionally came in handy when there was a need to dig up information that wasn’t always directly accessible. These qualities could also be useful when investigating bigger cases, even though he could sometimes be so inept at seeing the big picture. For this reason he was often assigned the role of assistant on cases of this kind. He was also incompetent when it came to questioning hardened criminals.
The duty officer called Dagbjartur in the afternoon and told him to investigate Gaston Lund’s movements in the capital at the end of August of last year-to find out, for example, if he stayed in one of the city’s hotels. Did anyone in town know him?
Dagbjartur was in a slight daze and tired. Not because he had been overdoing it at work over the past few days or anything like that, but simply because he’d eaten too much lamb meat soup for lunch. He’d also assumed it would be an easy day at work with a restful weekend ahead of him. He was going to give his wife a hand with the gardening, unless of course some work that couldn’t wait cropped up. That meant overtime and a higher wage slip at the end of the month, which was welcomed.
Dagbjartur possessed an awkward build, with narrow shoulders but a body that widened the further down the eye traveled. His bloated belly, broad hips, and chubby ass gave him a slightly conical shape that he clearly had problems finding suits to match. This gave him a slightly odd appearance. His trousers had obviously been widened with little skill and poor material and were held up by a narrow pair of suspenders. His face sported a double chin, but he had a friendly and understanding air.
In addition to Dagbjartur, the district administrative officer in Flatey was working on the case, as well as the magistrate’s representative in the Bardastrond district. This obviously was not the best the police force could offer, but they were to be given a chance before more people were called into the investigation. Whitsunday was looming, and most people were on vacation. More likely than not there was a logical explanation to this whole case, which would soon come to light. Besides, the islanders on Flatey had already surpassed expectations by putting a name of the deceased, even though it wasn’t obvious from the beginning.
Dagbjartur was also unusually fast in getting results from his preliminary enquiries. He had taken a cab straight to Hotel Borg and asked reception to show him the hotel’s reservations book from August to September of last year. The staid, middle-aged male manager at reception took out a book that was marked 1959, placed it in front of the police officer, and opened it to the right place. Dagbjartur started his search from the beginning of August. Conscientiously reading every single name, he didn’t stop until he reached the last guest on September 10. His search had yielded no results. Gaston Lund had not checked into this hotel. Not that Dagbjartur was too bothered. He still had to visit the other hotels in town and then also the guesthouses. If he was in any way lucky, this assignment could drag on for quite some time.
“Ahem, excuse me, but what name are you looking for?” the manager asked, as Dagbjartur was about to close the book.
“Professor Gaston Lund, a Danish national.”
The reception manager nodded. “Yes. Mr. Lund stayed with us last year,” he said.
“Really? Is his name in the book?”
“No, the man chose to register under a pseudonym.”
“And you remember that after all these months?” Dagbjartur asked, surprised.
The manager gave him a faint smile. “Yes, it was certainly an unusual check-in. I remember things like that.”
He turned the guestbook around and skimmed through it with his skilled fingers.
“There, that’s how the professor checked in,” he said, pointing at a line on August 24.
It started off with what looked like a G and an a, but had then been crossed out with two strokes and followed by “Egill Sturluson” in block letters.
“My name also happens to be Egill, so it drew my attention, especially to see it written that way,” said the manager.
“Yes, I can see how this name would have attracted your attention,” said Dagbjartur, nodding. He took out his notebook and scribbled down this information. “Didn’t you have any remarks to make to him about this?” he then asked.
“No, he was a very respectable-looking man and immediately agreed to settle his bill in advance, as well as the deposit. I saw no reason to raise any objections about it. It was obvious that the man was Danish and also a bit of an eccentric. If he didn’t want to use his real name, he must have had his reasons for it.”
“How do you know his right name was Gaston Lund?”
“That’s the name he used when he signed his bill in the restaurant. He obviously forgot himself. I was the one who processed the hotel bill, so I remember it. There was also a man who came here to ask if Professor Lund could possibly be staying here.”
“What did you answer?”
“I told him there was no guest here under that name.”
“Why?”
“Because our guest obviously wanted to keep a low profile and the hotel didn’t want to complicate things for him; it was the least we could do. Besides, he’d already checked out of the hotel by the time the question was asked, so I wasn’t lying.”
“When did he move out?”
Egill examined the guestbook. “He stayed here for two nights and left here on August twenty-sixth. He left a case behind, which I kept in storage for him.”
“Did he then claim the case?”
“I expect so, but not on my watch.”
“Where was the case kept?”
“We have a storage room in the basement.”
“Can I see it?”
“Yes. I’ll take you down in a moment.”
Egill vanished behind a door but swiftly returned, followed by a young man who took his place at the reception desk.
“Follow me please,” he said to Dagbjartur.
They walked down some stairs into a dark corridor. There Egill opened the door to a small cell and turned on the light. A number of cases were stored there on racks.
“You keep a lot of cases in here,” said Dagbjartur.
“This is mostly the lost property that has accumulated. Sometimes guests forget a whole case. Some of these belong to guests who’ve run away without settling their bills. I don’t expect they’ll ever be recovered.”
“Can you see the Danish guest’s case here anywhere?”
“I can’t remember what it looks like. It was probably a quality case, though. He was a pretty refined kind of guest.” Egill perused the cases, took several out, and opened them. One of them was considerably heavier than the others and turned out to contain folders of files when it was opened. Also some clothes.
Dagbjartur took one of the folders and browsed through the contents. It was full of pages crammed with text written in Danish, and there were a few Norwegian postcards at the back. Finally he found a tab that was stapled to the very last page: G. Lund was written on it.
“That’s probably it,” said Dagbjartur.
The manager seemed very taken aback. “That surprises me,” he said. “I’d always assumed the guest had picked up his case as he said he would.”
“I’ll take it with me now,” said Dagbjartur. “Who was it who asked you if he was staying here?”
“I don’t know the man’s name, but I’m sure I’ve seen pictures of him in the papers. He’s obviously well known in his field.”
Dagbjartur smiled amiably. “I hope you’re not too busy these days because we obviously need to go through some old newspapers.”
“…The Flatey Book was based on many sources or older manuscripts, no less than forty. The Thingeyar monastery library was probably the main source since there was an ample selection of books there.
“Scholars have noted that the priests who wrote out the Flatey Book were not great poetry lovers. They copied verse word for word from older manuscripts mainly out of a sense of duty but with many mistakes and showing a poor understanding of poetry…”