My Soul to Take tg-2

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  Thóra didn’t dignify that with a response, but she had to say something after a speech like that. “If you’ll shut up for one minute, Hannes,” she said, “I’ll be able to tell you that I’m out here working, and if you had ever ventured outside the big city you would know that not everywhere has good mobile reception.” She had no qualms about saying this, although she’d only known it herself for a few days. “All I have to say is that Gylfi and Sóley are just outside Selfoss and they need to be collected. Sigga is with them.”

  “What am I supposed to do about it?” yelled Hannes. “I work too. I can’t just come and go at your beck and call.”

  “Can you fetch them or not?” Thóra asked. “If not, I’ll phone my parents and ask them to do it. But I’d like to remind you that technically this is your fault. If you hadn’t sung ‘Eye of the Tiger’ over and over again, he wouldn’t have left.” Thóra realized she could hear music in the background. “I can hear ‘Final Countdown,’ ” she said, shocked. “Are you still playing SingStar?”

  In the end Hannes agreed to collect the kids and Thóra hung up, annoyed at herself for being annoyed at him. She called Gylfi to tell him that his father would collect them. Then she shook herself. “Just a family drama,” she said to Matthew, who was looking at her inquisitively. “Let’s go over to Kreppa and try to find Birna’s office.”

  “By all means,” he replied. “I’d do anything except look at a dead whale. And who knows? Maybe we’ll find more names of murdered people carved into the house somewhere.”

  They were walking back toward the hotel when Thóra saw a man waving at them. It was the travel photographer, Robin Kohman. Thóra waved back and he came over.

  “Hi,” he called as they drew close. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Really?” she called back, quickening her pace. “We’ve been rushing around a bit.”

  “I’m leaving tonight,” the photographer said when they had exchanged greetings, “and wanted to give you Birna’s photographs.” Then he added gloomily, “I’ve heard what happened, and I really want to hand this over to someone who knew her. I was hoping you could maybe help me out.” He shook his head mournfully. “This is all so tragic, and so unexpected in a country like Iceland.”

  “Yes, it’s awful,” said Thóra. “We just have to hope that they catch whoever did it.”

  “Have the police talked to you?” asked Matthew. “No doubt they’ll want to talk to all the hotel guests before they leave.”

  Robin nodded. “Yes, I spoke to them this morning, but I couldn’t tell them anything.”

  “So you didn’t want to give the photographs to them?” Thóra asked. “Not that we don’t want them, of course. I’ll make sure they end up with someone close to her.”

  “No, I didn’t think they were relevant,” Robin said. “It’s out of the question that they could be connected with Birna’s murder in any way. They’re just normal, innocent photographs.” He smiled. “Although there is a slightly weird one of a dead fox.”

  Matthew put down the photo. They were sit ting at the bar with Robin and on the table in front of them lay a pile of pictures that Robin had taken from a large envelope marked with Birna’s name.

  “Where was this taken?” Matthew asked, pointing at the dead fox in the middle of the picture. The scrawny creature lay on its side in the grass. Its tongue was hanging out of one side of its mouth and its rich brown pelt was tattered and bloody.

  “It was lying beside the path, down toward that old abandoned farm near here. The one called Kreppa,” Robin replied. “Birna asked me to go with her to take some photos and we came across this poor thing. Birna asked me to take a shot of it; she thought it was rather sad. You can’t tell from the photograph, but the signs all around suggested that the fox had dragged itself there after being badly injured.” Robin pointed to a wound on the animal’s side. “It must have got away from the hunter, but the shot turned out to be fatal.”

  “Did you take the fox with you?” Thóra asked.

  “No, are you crazy?” Robin said. “We didn’t touch it. It was giving off a dreadful smell and we didn’t want to touch it.”

  “Do you think anyone else could have come along after you and taken it?” Thóra asked.

  Robin looked from her to Matthew, startled. “I don’t quite understand your interest, but of course it’s possible. The fox could be seen by anyone who walked past.” He grimaced. “But I just can’t imagine anyone being interested in taking a dead animal. Unless the skin is valuable.” He turned to Thóra. “Are Icelanders particularly fond of foxes?”

  She smiled. “No, not to the extent of taking home dead ones. We’re interested in this for completely different reasons, which would take too long to explain.” She picked up the pile of photographs and started flicking through them. “Did Birna tell you why she chose these specific subjects?” she asked him. “I see that many of the photos are of the old farm Kreppa and the area behind the hotel, but here’s one of a steel trapdoor, and another of an inside wall, as far as I can tell. Did she explain this at all?” She handed the photographs she was talking about to Robin.

  Robin examined the pictures and nodded. “If I recall correctly, this trapdoor was in the meadow by the old farm, on the other side of the hill,” he said. “The photo of the wall was taken in the basement here, in the old part of the hotel. She asked me to take it the day after we’d been shooting, but offered no further explanation, any more than she did about the trapdoor. I thought it was something to do with architecture, but I still couldn’t quite work out why she wanted these photos.”

  “And did she say anything about this rock?” asked Matthew, showing him three photographs of the engraved rock they had found behind the hotel.

  Robin looked at the pictures. “Yes, funnily enough. I asked her about this rock while we were shooting it from all angles. She translated the verse for me, and because I thought it was rather unusual, I asked her whether it was an Icelandic tradition to write verses on rocks.” He put the photographs down. “She said it wasn’t, and seemed quite surprised to find an inscription there.”

  “She didn’t offer any explanation for this, or say what she thought the rock was doing there?” asked Thóra hopefully.

  “Not exactly,” Robin replied. “She was wondering whether the verse could have been written by the occupants of the farm, or whether a poet had lived there. Then she speculated that it might have been a pet’s grave, although she didn’t think the verse was appropriate. She didn’t reach any conclusion that I remember.”

  Matthew tugged at Thóra’s sleeve. “Here’s an interesting one,” he said, handing her a picture of Birna talking to an old man in front of the hotel entrance. Thóra snatched it from him. “Maybe they were talking about converting his vacation home for year-round use,” Matthew said slyly.

  Robin leaned over to see what had aroused their interest. “Yes, this one,” he said. “I just took it for fun. We were setting off from the old farm when this man came out from the hotel and started talking to Birna. I know he’s a guest here because I’ve seen him in the dining room several times.”

  Thóra nodded. “Do you know what they were talking about?”

  “No, I have no idea,” Robin said. “They spoke in Icelandic, but actually I didn’t need to understand in order to realize that it wasn’t a friendly chat. I only took the one photograph because they soon started arguing and it didn’t seem appropriate.”

  “Did she tell you what they’d been arguing about?” asked Matthew.

  “Well, she muttered something about people having to take responsibility for their actions,” Robin said. “She was quite annoyed, so I didn’t press her.” He thought a little longer. “Then she said something about old sins bearing fruit, just like old debts. I couldn’t figure that out, so I changed the subject.”

  Thóra and Matthew exchanged a glance. Magnús Baldvinsson. Old sins?

  The nurse walked over to the old woman’s bed and gently nudged
her shoulder to wake her. “Malla, dear,” she said gently. “Wake up. It’s time to take your medication.”

  The old woman opened her eyes without saying a word. She stared up at the ceiling above her, blinked a few times and coughed weakly. The nurse waited in silence. She knew that sometimes it could take the old lady a while to get her bearings. She stood calmly beside her, one hand resting on her skeletal shoulder and a little plastic cup in the other. It contained the white and red pills she was supposed to administer. “Come on,” she said kindly. “You can lie back down afterward.”

  “She came,” said the old woman suddenly. She was still staring up at the ceiling and had not yet looked at the woman who was patiently standing at her bedside.

  “Who did?” the nurse answered vaguely. She was well accustomed to all kinds of nonsense from the old people, especially when they were only half awake. It was as if they traveled back to times long past, when they were younger, fitter, and not completely helpless.

  “She came,” the old woman repeated, smiling. “She’s forgiven me.” She looked up at the nurse for the first time, still beaming. “She wasn’t angry. Always so sweet.”

  “That’s nice,” soothed the nurse. “It’s not good to be angry.” She shook the cup of tablets. “Well, let’s sit you up and give you your medication.”

  Instead of looking at the pills, the old woman continued to stare at the young nurse. “I asked her if she was angry,” she said, “and she just said, ‘Why should I be angry?’ ” With difficulty she lifted herself on to her elbows. “Always so sweet.”

  “Do you want me to hold the water, or can you do it yourself?” asked the nurse, reaching out for a beaker on the bedside table. She handed the water to her patient.

  “Of course I told her why she ought to be angry,” the old lady said, completely ignoring both water and pills. “And I thought she always knew I was there.” She shook her head in surprise, her white curls bouncing. “Apparently she didn’t,” she said, closing her eyes. “But she forgave me all the same.”

  “That’s great,” the nurse said, putting down the container of pills and the beaker. “Come on,” she said, and gripped under the woman’s arms. “You need to sit up more.” She lifted her into a better position. Her back was crooked and she couldn’t be expected to sit up straight, but this would do. “Now, let’s take some tablets.” She picked up the pills. “There are more people waiting, so we have to be quick.” She held the glass to the woman’s thin, pale lips.

  The old lady opened her mouth and allowed the nurse to pour the pills into it. She knew the routine by now and didn’t swallow until she had been given the water. The pills disappeared with loud gulps that seemed not to embarrass her.

  When she was done, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and looked up at the nurse. “She was so good, so sweet. Just imagine.”

  “Imagine what, love?” the nurse asked politely, privately wondering if the old woman was in full possession of her faculties.

  “She forgave me,” she said, sounding even more surprised than before. “And I’d done nothing to help her.”

  “Oh, are you quite sure about that?” The nurse smiled. “I’m sure you did a lot for her. You just don’t remember.”

  The old woman glared. “Of course I remember. She died. How could I forget that?”

  The nurse gently stroked the woman’s white hair. Just as she’d suspected, the poor old dear was rambling. A dead woman visiting her? Taking care not to smile, she laid her back down in a comfortable position. “There, there, Malla. Just try to go back to sleep.”

  The old woman closed her eyes the moment her head touched the pillow. “Murdered. Evil is everywhere.” She smacked her lips, then muttered sleepily, “My sweetheart. My sweet Kristín.”

  CHAPTER 27

  “It must be the same fox that was tied to Eiríkur’s body,” said Matthew. “At least, I can’t see it anywhere here.” He and Thóra had followed the path that Birna and Robin had taken to Kreppa and were at the spot where they’d apparently found the fox. It was nowhere to be seen.

  “It could have been eaten by another animal, but I’m sure you’re right,” said Thóra. “The only animals I’ve seen around here are sheep, and I doubt they eat foxes.” She looked skyward. “Birds, perhaps, but then the bones would still be here.”

  “So the murderer would be someone who uses this path,” Matthew said, swiping at the tall grass beside the path with a branch he’d picked up while they were looking for the dead fox.

  “Either that or he shot the fox and tracked it here after Birna and Robin had left,” Thóra said. “What I’d give to know why he did it.”

  “Who knows, Wonderwoman Bella might find that out for us,” said Matthew. “Perhaps the fox was supposed to signify something.”

  “Like a message?” said Thóra, unconvinced. “From an animal rights group or something?”

  “No, from the murderer,” he replied. “It could be some psycho who’s trying to communicate something. Have we established that nothing like this was attached to Birna’s body?”

  “Not as far as I know,” said Thóra. “They both had pins pushed into the soles of their feet, but no one’s said anything about a fox or any other animal in connection with her.”

  They stopped on the gravel driveway in front of the farmhouse.

  “Whose car is that?” Matthew asked, pointing to a newish Renault Mégane.

  Thóra shrugged. “No idea,” she said. “No one’s supposed to be here.” She noticed a light in one of the windows. “Maybe Elín and her brother are clearing the place out. I hope so.” She got the key out and they went up to the door, which turned out to be unlocked. Thóra opened it and put her head inside. “Hello,” she called. “Anyone here?”

  “Hello!” someone replied, and they heard approaching footsteps.

  “Hi there,” said Thóra cheerfully when Elín’s daughter Berta appeared. She had tied back her hair with a bandana and was holding a filthy duster.

  “You scared me to death!” Berta said. “Do come in. I’m packing away some old things for Mum and Uncle Börkur.” She brandished the cloth. “Everything’s really dusty, so I’m trying to clean every item before I pack it up, even though it’s taking me ages.”

  Matthew smiled at her, delighted that someone had remembered he was a foreigner and was bothering to speak English. “Hello,” he said, offering her his hand to shake. “Nice to see you again.”

  “You too,” said Berta. “I had the presence of mind to bring a thermos flask and I’ve just made coffee. Your timing’s perfect because Steini doesn’t want coffee and I made far too much.”

  They followed her into the kitchen, where the young man sat in his wheelchair. As before, he had pulled a hood over his head to cover his face, and when they walked in, he glanced at them from under it but said nothing.

  “Visitors, Steini,” said Berta, and he mumbled something unintelligible in reply. “Help yourselves,” she said, pointing to some china cups by the sink. “Don’t worry, I’ve washed them.” She grinned.

  “Thank you,” said Thóra. “I hadn’t realized how much I needed a coffee.” She poured a cup for Matthew and one for herself. “Isn’t this an awful lot of work for you?” she asked, after taking a sip.

  “Oh, yes,” Berta agreed vigorously. “I don’t know what I was thinking when I offered to do it.” Then she added, “Actually, it’s quite fun. It’s weird handling all these objects that my great-grandparents cared about so much.”

  “I can imagine,” said Thóra. “We dropped in to take a look at the room Birna was working in. We understand she’d set up an office here, is that right?”

  “Yes, upstairs,” Berta replied. “Shall I show you? There’s not much in there, only drawings and stuff—no computer. She used a laptop and never plugged it in here.” She gestured at the socket where the coffee maker was connected. “The plugs are so old that you need an adapter for them. Birna was afraid the electricity was unreliable and
didn’t want to risk damaging her computer. She always charged it at the hotel before she came.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” said Matthew. “We’re not necessarily looking for her computer. We just want to see what she was up to.”

  Berta narrowed her eyes skeptically. “Do you think her murder was connected somehow with the building she was designing? Doesn’t it seem obvious to you that the murderer was some psycho who raped her?”

  “No, it’s not at all obvious,” Thóra replied, deciding not to mention Jónas’s arrest just yet. That might make Berta think Thóra and Matthew were working for the murderer, and she might refuse to assist anyone connected with her friend’s death. “But it seems unlikely that her architectural designs had anything to do with the murder. We just want to see whether there’s something in there that could help explain it.”

  “I see,” Berta said. “I haven’t been in there since the murder,” she added. “I expected the police to search the room, so I didn’t want to disturb anything. They haven’t come, though, so perhaps it doesn’t matter.” She looked at Thóra. “You’re a lawyer, aren’t you? For Jónas and the hotel?” she asked.

  “I am,” Thóra said, praying the girl wouldn’t start asking about her client.

  “Then I don’t see why you can’t go in there,” she said. “You’d hardly compromise the investigation, would you?”

  “God, no,” Thóra lied fervently. “I’d never do that. We’re not going to take anything, just have a look around.” She sipped her coffee. “This is great coffee.” She smiled.

  “Thanks,” said Berta. “Some people think I make it too strong.” She tilted her chin toward Steini.

  “It is too strong,” said a voice from beneath the hood. “Much too strong.”

  Matthew clearly didn’t feel as awkward as Thóra, because he answered Steini at once: “Put more milk in it. That’s the trick,” he said in a perfectly normal voice. “You ought to try it. Cream’s even better.”