Murmurer

“Björn Rolfsson. 34 years old. Male. Dark-brown hair. Grown-out facial hair. Missing since October 12th. The last thing of notice was an e-mail found on his laptop. Mostly gibberish. Sent by a Gunder. Fella is easier to track down than Björn, although he already has been missing since August. Maybe he can lead me to the boy’s whereabouts.
Normally when somebody goes missing, police are notified. But when that someone is the brother of some high-ranking presidential candidate, people skip the bullshit and come right to good old Martin. Best fucking Private Investigator around. Nobody needs to know that some free-living brother of some high animal got lost. Bad PR and such. And I would agree. Judging from where I am right now, it seems shitty. Some bum-fuck Island off the coast of Norway. Just reached Veilholmen, waiting for my very private cruise. And by private cruise, I mean some shitty motorboat. But the hermit house should be on one of the smaller islands off to the sea. Shouldn’t be far now. Can’t wait to get home again”
Martin pressed the button on the recorder. His sister always made fun of him, for using some old voice-recorder as a journal. Truth was, Martin just didn’t want to remember everything himself. He liked having someone, or something, remember his thoughts for him.  So, he recorded them. Later he would write them down when he got the time and some hot coffee. But now just wasn’t the time.
The old man took him to the pier, where a rusty motorboat awaited Martin. For a moment, he regretted not paying more, but this rusty shell should do for the moment. The sun was still up, and he wanted to get to the hotel before nightfall, so he jumped in the vessel and drove off to the north.
Fortunately, it was Sommer, so it was not ridiculously cold. But still, cold enough for Martin. Especially with the sea-wind cutting through his jacket.
I would kill for a hot coffee now, Martin thought to himself, just as he saw a structure ahead. A little island with some sort of shack on it. On the pier, a boat was already docked.
Probably Björn’s, Martin concluded. Nearing the dock, he tried to take a better look at the house, while wrapping the rope out for putting in.
There were no lights inside and the entire island seemed to be abandoned for quite some time. As Martin turned to reel the ship to the dock, he saw a body, laying halfway on the other ship and the dock, face to the ground. Swiftly, he jumped out the boat towards the body, his gun drawn. Just in case.
The body laid cold on the ground, only wearing pants. Who would go outside here without clothes? Martin hesitated for a second. What if this is Björn? I hate giving bad news… Carefully he turned the man around. The face did not match with what Martin was given. Out of his jacket, he pulled the picture of Björn.
“Phew”, Martin uttered. But who is he? Maybe Gunder… Martin started to search the body more. Inside his pockets was a wedding ring and a carefully folded letter. The letter appeared to be from Björn:

Gunder,

It feels like your words are not your own. I worry about you.
I beg you: Leave that blasted isle and return to me in Oslo. My nights have been almost impossible to bear without you. To lose you would be the death of me.
If you do not return to me, I will come looking for you.

-Björn

Martin held in for a moment, trying to understand. So, they were more than just friends. Explains why Björn went off to find him. Still doesn’t explain what happened though. Maybe a fight? How long has he been here?
As Martin’s thoughts went off to the wildest possibilities, his eyes went back to the body. No wounds. No cuts. No blood. Not even some bruises. Why did he die?