Thóra decided not to ask whether the girl thought any mediums were genuine. She looked back down at the bay. “Were you going beach-combing?” she asked.
“We were just going to see where the body was found,” replied the girl, as if nothing could have been more natural. “We knew the woman who died.”
Deep down, Thóra was relieved. Now she didn’t need to tiptoe around the topic of the murder. “How funny,” she said, as casually as she could. “We were here for exactly the same reason. We wanted to see the scene.”
The girl looked astonished. “Really? Did you know her too?”
Thóra shook her head. “No, not properly. We were connected with her, indirectly. My name’s Thóra.”
The girl held out her hand. “Berta.” She turned away and scanned the beach. “It was awful,” she said sadly. “I heard on the news that she’d been murdered.” She looked back at Thóra. “Why would anyone want to kill her?”
“I have no idea,” Thóra said truthfully. “Perhaps it was nothing to do with her personally. She might just have been in the wrong place at the wrong time and met some lunatic.”
“Do you think so?” Berta asked, a hint of fear on her face. “Here?”
“No,” Thóra said. “I doubt it. But it’s still more likely than a ghost being involved.”
“A ghost!” exclaimed Berta, the color draining from her face. “The fishermen, maybe? This is the same beach where they were washed up.” She shuddered. “I’ve always had a funny feeling about this place.”
Thóra stared at the girl, taken aback. She had expected her to laugh when she’d mentioned ghosts. Clearly the undead were no joking matter in these parts. “Do you believe in ghosts?” she asked carefully.
“Oh, yes,” Berta replied fervently. “It’s haunted around here for sure. I get really scared after dark.”
Not knowing how to answer, Thóra made a mental note that Berta was a potential witness if the compensation claim for the “haunting” ever went through. They made good progress up the slope and Thóra decided to skip ghosts for the moment and get straight to the point. “How did you know Birna?”
“She was the hotel architect. My mother used to own the land, and I helped her out.” She glanced up ahead to where Matthew, with some difficulty, was pushing the wheelchair up the slope. “She was really decent.”
Thóra did not push it, but took the glance to mean that Birna had been kind to the boy in the wheelchair. Then it dawned on her why the girl looked familiar: she closely resembled Elín, her mother, whom Thóra had met when the deeds of sale were drawn up. Perhaps it would be unfair to make her testify against her own family in court, and Thóra hoped it wouldn’t come to that, though it was definitely good to know about her. “What did you do to help Birna out?” she asked.
“She was interested in local history, but neither my mother nor my uncle Börkur could be bothered to discuss it with her. I told her what I knew and looked for old plans and drawings for her. Actually, I couldn’t find any, but I did dig out a few photographs. She was really pleased.”
“Do you remember what they showed?” Thóra asked. She was puzzled. There were plenty of photographs in the basement, more than enough for Birna. Maybe they were all too similar—always the same wall, although with different people.
“Yes, they were mostly of the old farm, my great-grandfather and great-grandmother. There were other people as well, but I didn’t know who they were.” The girl fell silent, then shot an anxious look at Thóra. “Do you reckon I’ll get the photos back? Mum and Uncle Börkur don’t know I lent them to her.”
“I’m sure you will,” said Thóra. “Just ask the police. They should be here tomorrow. Do you live locally?”
“No, not really. We have a house in Stykkishólmur where I can stay. I try to come as often as I can.” Staring intently at Thóra, she whispered, “Because of Steini. He doesn’t want to live in Reykjavík.”
Thóra nodded. “Are you related?” she asked. She and the girl had dropped back, but they weren’t far enough away for Thóra to risk asking what had happened to the young man. She didn’t want him to hear her asking about his appearance.
“Yes, he’s my cousin on my father’s side.”
In front of them, Matthew stopped and turned, clearly out of breath. They had reached the top of the slope. Thóra hurriedly changed the subject back to the murder. “Do you have any idea who could have killed Birna? Was she in a relationship with anyone, or had she made enemies?”
The girl shook her head. “She didn’t have any enemies, I don’t think. At least, she never mentioned it. We met quite a few times—I’m clearing up some family stuff in the old farm at Kreppa and she often used to go there. It was great, chatting to her. I don’t know if it’s relevant, but she said she had a boyfriend.”
“A boyfriend?” Thóra asked eagerly. “Do you know anything about him?”
Berta thought hard before replying. “Well, I don’t know whether I ought to tell you. He’s married, so they kept it a secret. She confided in me, so she obviously wanted to talk to someone about it. I don’t want to break Birna’s trust, even if she is dead.”
Thóra thought Birna must have been very lonely if she confided her secrets to such a young girl. Berta couldn’t be older than twenty. “I think you’ll have to tell us. Silly as it may seem, it’s usually love affairs that lead to situations like this. You don’t want the person who did it to get away with it, do you?”
Berta shook her head vehemently. “God, no.” She dithered, standing with Thóra beside Matthew and Steini.
“Can we go now?” said a hoarse voice from beneath the hood. “I
want to leave.”
Berta took hold of the handles of the wheelchair. “Okay, Steini,” she said, and thanked Matthew for his help. Then she turned to Thóra. “See you around, maybe. Do you have a vacation home here?”
“No, we’re at the hotel,” Thóra said, annoyed that she hadn’t learned the boyfriend’s name. She watched as the girl waved goodbye and set off slowly, pushing the wheelchair.
Berta had only gone a few steps when she suddenly turned. “His name’s Bergur. He’s the farmer from Tunga.” Then she continued on her way without another word.
Thóra and Matthew stood and watched the young girl plodding away over the bumpy track. When they were out of earshot, Matthew turned to Thóra. “What on earth happened to that poor boy?”
Vigdís stuck her head over the reception desk and peered around. No one. Looking at the clock, she decided that no guests would be back just yet. In spite of their diverse nationalities and interests, most seemed to fall into a fixed pattern after checking in—getting up between eight and nine, and going out for a stroll after breakfast. As a rule they didn’t come back until the afternoon. She knew this worried Jónas, because his original plan was for people to spend more time—and money—within the walls of the hotel. The masseuses, healers, sex therapist, aura reader, and all those other experts were equally annoyed, because they were paid for performing actual treatments. They were mainly busy in the evenings and on weekends, and most of them had been forced to dream up special offers in order to make a living. Jónas expected that the specialists would have more to do when winter set in and the weather became less appealing for outdoor activities. Guests would probably spend more time within the hotel grounds during the colder season and as a result be more likely to purchase the services on offer. But the summer was only just beginning, and it seemed obvious that some staff members would fall by the wayside if demand for their services did not pick up.
Vigdís didn’t care about those charlatans’ employment prospects; the current situation suited her just fine. She was dying of curiosity. After the police made her and Jónas promise that Birna’s room was offlimits to everyone, she was seized by an overwhelming urge to disobey. Jónas had taken a quick peek inside when he opened the room for the detectives, but said there was nothing much to see. Even so, Vigdís had to see it for herself. Maybe
there was blood—or worse—that Jónas had missed from where he was standing, or perhaps he’d seen something that he couldn’t or wouldn’t talk about.
Vigdís stood up, taking the master key with her. After checking there was no one down the corridor, she marched to the door of Birna’s room and stuck the key in without a moment’s hesitation. Swiftly she pushed the door open, slid inside, and closed it behind her. The instant she heard the lock click shut she realized she’d made a terrible mistake. It was a total mess. There was no blood, but clothes were spread everywhere, torn papers mixed in with them. Vigdís realized that she would have to tell the police that someone had broken into the room, but what was she supposed to say she had been doing inside? Dusting? Perhaps she could lie and say she had heard a noise inside, but that would confuse the investigation—they might think it had just happened. With a groan, Vigdís fumbled behind her for the door handle. As she slipped back out, she desperately tried to think up a credible excuse for having sneaked inside.
“Is this meant to be a joke? Who was in charge of the crime scene?” Thórólfur glared at his subordinate. He gestured at a heap of steel trays containing the objects retrieved from the area around the body on Snæfellsnes. “Shells and dead crabs!” He closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed his temple. A major headache was on its way.
“Um, it was Gudmundur. He’s new,” Lárus mumbled.
“It looks like a ten-year-old’s been on a school beachcombing trip. What did this Gudmundur think he was supposed to do? Vacuum the bloody beach? Maybe I should be glad I haven’t got an in-box full of sand.” He walked around the desk and examined the trays.
“Pebbles,” Lárus muttered, regretting it immediately when Thórólfur spun around and glared at him. “The … the beach is pebbly, not sandy.”
“Pebbles, sand, what’s the difference?” Thórólfur snarled. “This Gudmundur of yours appears to have had no idea what he was doing. Firstly, he seems to have combed an enormous area, and secondly, it looks like he took everything that wasn’t nailed down.” Thórólfur stuck a pencil in an old, dented beer can and lifted it up. “Like this,” he said, wielding the can. “Anyone with an ounce of sense can see this has been outside for months. And this …” Thórólfur moved to the next tray and threw his hands up in the air. “A dead catfish!” He turned to Lárus. “Have you seen the photos of the body? How could a dead catfish be connected with this woman’s death? Does this Gudmundur think she slipped on a dead fish, perhaps, and hit her head on a rock? In your opinion, is that what happened?”
Lárus said nothing, just shook his head. Thórólfur had started shouting, never a good sign. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and opened his mouth to speak, but before anything intelligent occurred to him, his boss remarked, in a much calmer tone of voice, “What’s that? Some kind of sex toy?” Lárus walked over to get a better look. He was right. Poking out from under the catfish’s gaping mouth was a battered plastic object that looked very much like a dildo.
CHAPTER 17
Thóra nudged Matthew and nodded in the direction of the young man walking past. “That’s Jökull, the waiter who was so unpleasant about Birna,” she whispered as she stood up. “Something must have happened to make him hate her that much. I’d love to know what it was.” They’d been drinking coffee in an alcove off the hotel lobby and debating their next move—inconclusively, although they agreed that they would have to find Birna’s lover, Bergur from Tunga. They couldn’t work out how to approach him and Thóra was bored stiff with discussing it, so the waiter was a welcome distraction.
She strode after him. He was heading for the dining room, but Thóra managed to tap him on the shoulder before he escaped inside. “Hello.” She smiled. “Remember me?”
Jökull turned, caught off guard. “Huh? Oh, yes. Aren’t you the lawyer?”
“That’s right. My name’s Thóra. Have you got five minutes? I’d really like to talk a bit more about Birna.”
The waiter looked at his watch. “Sure, why not. But I can’t tell you much. You know what I thought of her. There’s really not much more to say.”
“You never know,” replied Thóra. “Can we sit down here?” She pointed to a sofa that had been positioned in the corridor and was clearly intended to be merely decorative. This was probably the first time it had been used, she thought as she sat down. She patted the seat beside her, sending up puffs of dust. “How do you know her? Just from the dining room?”
Jökull perched on the edge of the sofa. “I didn’t know her really, but this isn’t a big place so I couldn’t help seeing her sometimes. I haven’t been working here long and I avoided her, so we never became particularly well acquainted. I’m the last person who can tell you anything about her.”
Thóra frowned. “I don’t understand—you say you hardly knew Birna, but you seem to have formed a very strong opinion about her. Very strong, and very negative. There must be a reason.”
A flash of anger passed across his face. “I’m just a good judge of character,” he said, without further explanation.
Thóra decided to head into safer waters so as not to scare him off. “Your name’s Jökull, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he answered, still on the defensive. “Jökull Gudmundsson.”
“Are you a local?” she asked.
“Yes, actually, I am,” Jökull said. “I was brought up on a farm near here. Then I went to Reykjavík to train as a waiter and stayed on there, but I jumped at the chance to come back when Jónas advertised for staff.”
“That’s understandable,” Thóra said. “It’s quite beautiful. I can well believe that you’d want to come back.”
“Yes, it’s very different from Reykjavík,” replied Jökull, and smiled for the first time.
“Do you know much about local history?” she asked. “For instance, do you know anything about the farm allegedly being haunted?”
Jökull clammed up again. “There’s no point talking about ghosts to people from the city,” he said. “You don’t get it. If something’s not made of tarmac or concrete, you can’t take it seriously.”
Thóra raised her eyebrows. “I’m not putting down your belief in the supernatural—I’m actually preparing litigation for Jónas, which involves ghosts. That’s all there is to it. Any knowledge you might have about local ghost stories would be very useful to me.”
“I’m sure it would,” Jökull said mutinously. “But you’ll have to get it from someone else. I’m no expert on ghost stories, although I do know a few. I think the world’s a complex place, and people from Reykjavík don’t know everything there is to know.”
“In that case, forgetting about the ghosts, do you know anything else about the place? For example, would you know anything about the people who used to live on the farm?”
Jökull shook his head. “No, nothing. I’m not old enough to be interested in history.”
That was a good point, thought Thóra, making a mental note to look for older people who knew the area. “Do you still have any relatives here?”
“One sister.”
“Did your parents move to the city?”
“No, they died,” Jökull answered tersely.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Thóra. She didn’t want to pry. “Forgive my obsession with local history, but do you know anything about a Nazi movement that operated around here?”
Jökull’s eyes widened, and she believed him when he responded instantly, “No, I’ve never heard of it. Although I don’t chase around after the past, I’d definitely have remembered that. That can’t be true.”
“You’re probably right,” Thóra replied. “But since you come from around here, there’s one thing you can definitely tell me. It’s nothing to do with the past.”
“What?” asked Jökull suspiciously.
“I met a young man today and I think he’s from around here. I can’t work out how old he is, but he could be your age. He was in a wheel-chair and in a terrible state, probably from burns. D
o you know what happened to him?”
Jökull didn’t answer. He stood up. “I’ve got to go and work. Your five minutes were up ages ago.” He pressed his lips tightly together, as if afraid to speak.
“So you don’t know him?” Thóra asked, standing up as well.
“I’m late. Bye,” said Jökull.
Thóra watched him walking away. She had clearly struck a nerve. “He was very odd,” said Thóra, taking a sip of her coffee. It had long since gone cold. She swallowed and pulled a face.
“Do you think he’s connected with the murder,” Matthew asked, “or is he just a bit weird?”
“To tell the truth, I don’t know whether he’s involved. He clearly hated Birna, but he wouldn’t explain why. He just said he was ‘a good judge of character.’ Might he be an ex-lover? Perhaps she dumped him for the farmer.”
“Or maybe he really is just a great judge of character.” Matthew shrugged. “I’m starving. What time is it?”
Thóra ignored him. “No, there’s something weird going on. And he turned on me when I asked about the young man in the wheelchair.”
Matthew was shocked. “You asked about him? What on earth did you do that for?”
“I just did. They are both from around here and about the same age. I thought he might know what happened,” she said. “I know I can be a bit too nosy, but I didn’t expect a response like that—what reason would Jökull have to be touchy about it? At least now I know I have to find out what happened.”
“I just think that’s really inappropriate,” Matthew said, still scandalized. “Asking personal questions about a complete stranger. And he’s disabled.”
“So? Is it illegal to ask about disabled people?” replied Thóra. “You’re just grumpy because you’re hungry. Let’s go and have something to eat.” She stood up.
Matthew perked up. “Why don’t we go somewhere else to eat?” he asked. “Is there anywhere nearby?”
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