The brothers’ friendship cooled, so much so that they weren’t on speaking terms any longer by the time disaster struck.”
“Disaster?” echoed Thóra.
“Yes, Adalheidur died of blood poisoning and they say Grímur’s wife went crazy. Nobody saw her for years, so the two brothers were left behind: one a young widower with a baby daughter, and the other with a mentally ill wife but no children. Their pride prevented them from rebuilding their friendship, so each of them battled his private demons alone. Then Grímur and Kristrún had another daughter much later. Her name was Málfrídur; she was born just before the war. The wife supposedly died in childbirth, although there was a rumor that she committed suicide and Grímur fiddled the death certificate. He wrote it himself. But I don’t think there are any grounds for believing that: by that time Kristrún was getting on a bit, and childbirth is more difficult for a woman as she gets older, as you know.”
“Oh, yes,” agreed Thóra. “And were the brothers never reconciled?”
“No, but there was a little contact between the two households when Bjarni fell ill.”
“Wasn’t it tuberculosis?” Thóra asked, remembering what young Sóldís had told her.
“Yes,” replied Magnús. “He shut himself away and refused to go to a sanatarium in Reykjavík. He died a few years later.” He took a deep breath. “But not before he’d infected Gudný, his daughter, who was taking care of him. It wasn’t long before she went too. His brother kept the farm going while they were ill, but it would have turned out differently if Bjarni had just gone to Reykjavík to be looked after.” Magnús shook his gray head sorrowfully. “Shortly after that, Grímur moved to Reykjavík with his daughter, Málfrídur. He inherited his brother’s whole estate, so he didn’t need to sell the farms or other property here on the peninsula. He didn’t live long either, though—in fact, he died about ten years after they moved away. He had serious mental problems, a bit like his wife.”
“And what about Kristín?” asked Thóra. “Who was she?” Magnús stiffened. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then shut it again. “Was there anyone by the name of Kristín at either of the farms?”
Magnús’s face was stony. “No. There was no Kristín here.” He coughed. “I think that will do.”
“One last thing—do you know anyone who could have been connected with a Nazi organization in this area?” she asked quickly, before he could show them the door.
“I have nothing more to say,” said Magnús, standing up. He swayed a little and Thóra feared for a moment that he might faint, but he regained his balance and gestured at the door. “Goodbye.”
Thóra saw that it was futile to grill the man any further. But what did Nazis have to do with the fate of the farm? Or Kristín? And who was she, anyway?
CHAPTER 14
I advise you to clear your schedule for the next few days,” said Thórólfur, the detective, solemnly. He was phoning from Reykjavík. “That is, if you intend to act as your client’s counsel.”
Thóra sighed. “I don’t know if I can. I need to get back to Reykjavík today.”
“Well, you do what you must,” he replied. “I just wanted to let you know that we’ll be there over the next few days taking statements, mainly from tourists whom we can’t be sure of getting hold of later. We fully expect to spend some time talking to Jónas. You’ve declared yourself as his lawyer, so we just wanted to keep you informed. Of course, you are free to do as you see fit.”
“Oh, am I?” she said bitterly. Thóra hated to be patronized, but she had to stay on good terms with the police for Jónas’s sake, so she softened her voice. “Thank you for notifying me. I’ll see if I can sort something out.”
They rang off and Thóra dialed Jónas, who was borrowing Vigdís’s phone while the police still had his. He had found Thóra an antiquated mobile the size of a brick, into which she’d put her own SIM card. After what had happened before, Thóra doubted the police were in any hurry to return her phone.
Jónas picked up after a few rings. From the sound of it, he was in a car. She told him the police would want to talk to him the following week while taking statements from the hotel guests.
“They want to talk to me?” Jónas sounded genuinely surprised.
“Yes, of course,” replied Thóra. “Have you forgotten that text message? Naturally you’re a suspect.”
“But I didn’t send it. I told you that.” Jónas sounded almost hurt.
“I know what you told me. That doesn’t alter the fact that it makes you look suspicious, to put it mildly.” Thóra heard a car beep in the background at his end. “Do you want me to be present when you give your statement, or can you manage it by yourself?”
“I can’t do it alone,” said Jónas fearfully. “I don’t know how to handle it. You have to help me.” Then he seemed to perk up slightly, adding, “It would be best for me if you could find the murderer so they stop suspecting me. I’ll pay you.”
Thóra couldn’t help laughing. “The police will find the murderer, Jónas. Don’t worry. If you’re innocent, you’ll go free.”
“I’m not so sure,” Jónas said dubiously. “I want you there when I’m questioned.”
“Fine,” said Thóra. “So I’ll have to make arrangements for prolonging my stay. Is there a room free at the hotel?”
“There are bound to be. It’s not fully booked until July.”
“Then I’ll stay on here, as long as I can find someone to look after the kids,” said Thóra. “It was their father’s weekend to have them, but it’s Sunday now and they’re supposed to come home afterward.”
“No problem—just have them sent up here!” suggested Jónas cheerily. “Children love nature and they’ll find plenty to occupy themselves down on the beach.”
Thóra smiled to herself. Gylfi would be happy pottering around on the beach as long as it had a computer and an Internet connection.
“Hopefully that won’t be necessary,” she said. “I’ll let you know.” They exchanged farewells and Thóra groaned as she turned to Matthew.
“What?” he asked, curious. “That’s not a very happy noise.”
“No, it isn’t.” Thóra frowned, fidgeting with her heavy telephone. “Jónas has asked me to be present for his police interrogation.”
Matthew grinned broadly. “That’s great, isn’t it? I’m in no hurry to leave.”
Thóra smiled wanly in response. “Sure. It would be great if it weren’t for the children. They’re with their father now and I was meant to pick them up later.”
“Ah,” he said understandingly, although he clearly couldn’t identify with her situation. “Can’t you phone and ask for them to stay there a bit longer?”
“Yes, I have no choice,” Thóra said grumpily. She hated having to ask Hannes for favors because she knew how he enjoyed making her jump through hoops before agreeing—only because she behaved exactly the same toward him whenever possible.
After a lot of wrangling by telephone, Thóra and Hannes reached an agreement that the children would stay an extra night with him, but no longer. Hannes had to go to the gym and run various errands he had been forced to postpone because of the time he had spent with his children. Thóra sweetly told him that she understood, and that she’d been wondering if he’d put on weight recently. Then she hung up, praying he’d rupture something on the treadmill. She even gave in to the urge to poke out her tongue at the phone before putting it down.
“Nice to see how mature you are about your divorce,” Matthew said. “Not all men have such understanding ex-wives.”
Thóra pulled a face at him too. “Are you speaking from experience?” she said, then added, “The children can only stay there one extra night, so I’ll have to make other arrangements or go home.”
“I’m not divorced. I’ve just had trouble finding the right woman,” Matthew said. “Although things have been looking up a little lately.” Seeing Thóra’s disapproving look, he clapped his hands and changed the subjec
t. “Well, since there isn’t much time, we ought to use it wisely. I think we’ve done enough walking. What do you fancy doing?”
“One thing I’m sure about is the more I know, the better equipped I’ll be to help Jónas at the interrogation,” Thóra said, then thought for a moment. “We ought to try to meet more guests or locate Eiríkur, the aura reader, who’s the originator of the ghost stories. Jónas said he was expected back yesterday.”
Matthew looked crestfallen. “That wasn’t exactly what I meant, and I wasn’t planning on involving the other guests, or an aura reader.”
Thóra blushed, but pretended not to understand. “Come on, let’s get a move on. As you said, I have to make the most of the time I’ve got.” Eiríkur stared at the tarot cards he’d laid out. King of Pentacles—good. Death—bad. He ran his index finger along the edge of the card showing Death and let his mind wander. Exactly the same cards had turned up twice, and although he was no expert in the tarot, he knew that the probability of this was extremely slight. What were the cards telling him? He wondered whether to find someone who knew more about the tarot, but decided that was too much trouble. He would have to go into the hotel and leave the cozy staff cottage, and he simply couldn’t be bothered. There was no landline, and he knew what the mobile reception here was like. Besides, Eiríkur never used a mobile. As an aura reader, he knew that the waves they emitted could have a bad effect, to put it mildly. He would rather walk to the nearest landline than babble into a mobile, knowing that his aura grew dimmer with every word. No, he must surely be able to interpret this himself. He lowered his forehead onto his palm and stared at the cards, concentrating. King of Pentacles. Death.
Eiríkur sat up. Might Death not represent his own death at all, or even that of someone close to him, but simply the death of the architect? He nodded to himself. Of course. It foretold that her death would have a great impact on his life. That was why the card appeared repeatedly. But what about the King of Pentacles? Eiríkur had a little knowledge of the tarot and seemed to recall that the King of Pentacles signified money. How was that connected? Could he be about to grow wealthy by her death? He had warned her. Her aura had been black as a thundercloud, which never boded well. Might he be able to somehow use this prophecy to advertise his service? Damn shame he hadn’t told anyone but her about it beforehand. Now he was the only one left to tell the tale and people would think he was making it up.
Eiríkur groaned as he tried to suppress the urge for a cigarette. Jónas frowned upon smoking among his staff and Eiríkur couldn’t stand having to sneak around like a teenager. He was too old for that. Huddling up behind a wall, hoping no one would see. It was pathetic. Perhaps it made sense to ban the nutritionist and personal trainer from smoking, but what guest in their right mind would complain about an aura reader lighting up a cigarette? None, of course. Eiríkur gave a start—his reflections on smoking had stirred something in the back of his mind. What was it that Vigdís had said? The body had been found on Friday, and no one had seen Birna since Thursday evening—the evening he’d slipped out of the séance to have a sneaky cigarette. Suddenly he understood what he hadn’t realized at the time—what that person had been up to. Of course—he had seen the murderer. And they say no good can come of smoking, he thought smugly to himself.
Eiríkur gathered up the cards and smiled. Now he realized how the King of Pentacles was connected with the murder, as represented by Death. The money was for him, because where there was muck, there was brass, as the proverb went. The amount would need to be negotiated—surely confidentiality was priceless? But he was a fair man, and was not overly concerned about the small print. He just needed to nip over to the hotel to use the telephone, and he also had a few choice words to say to his employer, Jónas. It would be fun to talk to him without having to make nice to keep his job. Long-awaited financial independence was in sight, and there was no need to suck up to the boss anymore.
He put the cards back in the pack, stood up and went outside. There was no time to lose; he needed to begin negotiations. He was in such a hurry that for once he didn’t stop to admire himself in the little mirror hanging beside the coat rack by the door. If he had, he would have seen that his aura was heavy and dark. Almost black.
Thóra sighed. “So everyone’s out? ”
Vigdís regarded her dispassionately. “Well, I wouldn’t say that, but most people do some sightseeing or other activity while they’re here. We have very few guests who check in and then just hang around in their rooms waiting to meet you.”
Matthew flashed a sweet smile at Vigdís, not having understood a word she said. “Lovely day,” he interjected in English.
“Very nice,” agreed Vigdís. “That may be why there are so few people inside.” She turned back to Thóra. “I’m not being rude, but I just can’t help you. People start getting back around dinnertime. New guests come earlier to check in, of course, but I don’t think anyone has arrived yet today.”
“Damn,” said Thóra. “And there are no free staff who wouldn’t mind a quick chat?”
Vigdís shook her head. “There aren’t many staff in, and they’re all very busy. It calms down for them after dinner.” She eyed them suspiciously. “What are you after, anyway?”
“Nothing special,” Thóra said. “We just wanted to find out a bit more about Birna—what she did, who she hung out with. Someone may have information that explains her death.”
“Her murder, you mean,” Vigdís corrected her. “If you’re completely stuck, you could always go up to the church. I know Birna went there sometimes, because I lent her the key.”
“Church?” asked Thóra. “What church?”
“The little church near here. It isn’t part of this estate, actually, but we keep the keys. Coaches come there sightseeing sometimes. Foreigners think it’s charming.” Vigdís reached under the reception desk and handed over an old key. “You have to shove the door a bit when you turn the key.”
Matthew took the key and Vigdís gave them directions. “Although the church dates from 1864, it still serves the local farms, so don’t make a mess.” Vigdís yawned. “I remember Birna was terribly excited about the cemetery. I think she was looking for a gravestone.”
He’d turned the room upside down. He’d torn everything apart but found nothing. What had the stupid woman done with it? He sighed, frustrated, but made sure to keep very quiet. If he could just find it, this whole sorry story would finally end. He put an ear to the door and listened. All seemed to be quiet out in the corridor. He turned back to the room. Should he go on searching, or accept that it wasn’t here? Further investigation seemed futile. He went to the door leading into the garden and peeked cautiously through the curtains. No one about. He carefully opened the door and crept outside into the fresh air. Then he pushed the door to and left, slipping off his gloves and putting them in his pocket. So where was it?
CHAPTER 15
The church was on an area of grass not far from the beach. It stood at the top of a little hill; tiny, built from jet-black timber, it reminded Thóra of the churches she had drawn at primary school—little buildings with a small tower and a cross on the top. Hers had been much more cheerfully colored, in fact, but she had to admit that black suited this church. The white-painted windows and door set it off nicely, and overall it looked as though the local people had built as impressive a church as their finances allowed. Thóra couldn’t recall ever having seen a church this color before, and wondered whether it was an attempt to replicate the building’s original appearance. Scant though her knowledge of architectural history was, she thought the walls had been tarred, which was presumably done instead of painting in the old days. After deciding to herself that this was the explanation, she fed it to Matthew as cold, hard fact. He swallowed it.
The broad stone wall enclosing the churchyard was almost entirely covered with grass and moss, revealing only the occasional flash of gray. Directly in front of the church door was a high iron gate leading into the chu
rchyard. They opened the gate, which gave a mighty creak, and walked through.
“Look,” Thóra said, “there’s the cemetery.” A few graves could be seen at the far end.
“Fewer people must have died here than they were expecting,” Matthew said, surveying the expanse of ground between the church and the gravestones.
“Yes,” Thóra said. “That’s odd. Vigdís said the church still served the local community, so it might fill up over time.”
“Seems unlikely,” said Matthew. He went up to the church door and examined the lock. “What am I supposed to do again? Push or pull?”
“Push, I think. Or pull. One of the two,” Thóra said vaguely. Instead of watching Matthew, she scanned the cemetery and gravestones. “Do you think we’ll find Kristín’s grave?” she said, turning back to Matthew. He was struggling furiously with the door. “Birna must have been looking for it when she was here.”
“I don’t know,” he snapped. “I’m more concerned with opening this bloody door.” He pressed one shoulder against the wood and turned the key. A soft click was heard. “Na endlich!” he said proudly, and pushed the door open. “Bitte, Frau.”
The vestibule would have held four people at the most. It led to the nave with an altar, pews, and pulpit. Most of the interior was timber, painted in soft colors and embellished with flower patterns around the edges of the ceiling and along the pews. The overall effect was neat and cozy, with the exception of the altarpiece showing Christ’s crucifixion on Calvary.
“Why are these pews so small?” asked Matthew, trying to sit down. His backside hardly fit on to the bench, and the one in front left no leg room.
“I bet it’s to make sure you don’t fall asleep,” Thóra replied. “Or to save space. Actually, that’s a more likely explanation.”
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