“We came to meet you,” answered Elín irritably. “Don’t you remember? You came to see us on the Monday. We’d decided to beat the morning traffic and go up to Stykkishólmur the previous evening. Surely you don’t imagine Börkur and I are involved in this murder case?”
Thóra demurred awkwardly. “It’s just one of a number of points I want to be able to tick off,” she explained.
“Well, you can tick this off too: Börkur didn’t go west to kill anyone on Thursday either,” snapped Elín.
Thóra said nothing, not wanting to reveal that she’d had no idea Börkur had been on the move that day. Elín obviously thought Thóra had a list of cars for each day. “So why did he come?” she inquired cautiously.
“He won’t be pleased that I’ve told you,” replied the other woman. “I had a hard enough time getting it out of him.” The loud screech of a horn cut her off, and when she came back on the line, she was swearing. “Stupid old bastard! Why don’t they take their driving licenses away before they go senile at the wheel?” she said crossly, before continuing. “The only reason I’m telling you what he was up to is to get rid of you, and prevent any more unfounded allegations against us.”
“I really don’t mind why you’re telling me,” retorted Thóra. “So what was he doing?”
“He went to see a real estate agent who was very keen to see the remaining farming properties, with a view to selling them,” said Elín. “He knows I want to wait, and he did it against my wishes. The real estate agent can confirm it, if you want to check.”
Thóra said goodbye and hung up. “Börkur and Elín’s mother had the rock placed there,” she told Matthew. “They’re very odd people, which is hardly surprising in view of their family medical history— both the grandparents had mental problems—but they’re probably innocent of both murders. She gave me reasonable explanations for being here, at any rate.”
Thóra stood up and picked up the bags containing Jón Árnason’s folktale collection. “If I can find the verse, there may be some further explanation of it in the accompanying text. That might tell us why their mother had the verse carved into the rock, and had it put there.” She put the bags on the desk. “I must remember to return the books on our way back to Reykjavík,” she said. “My fines are already enough to pay for a whole annex to the library at home. I don’t want to do the same all over the country.”
“You’re not going to read all those, are you?” asked Matthew as he watched Thóra extract one weighty volume after another. “Maybe I’ll have a shower in the meantime.”
“It won’t take long to look it up,” said Thóra. She turned to the contents page in volume I and found the entry for “abandoned children.”
“Here it is,” she exclaimed eagerly and looked up from the book. “Here’s a story with the title ‘I Should Have Been Wed.’ That must be it.” Thóra rapidly scanned the brief story, then placed the open book in her lap.
“What is it?” asked Matthew. “I can’t tell if that expression means good news or bad.”
“Nor can I,” said Thóra. “It’s the story of a mother who left her infant outside to die. Some years later she had another daughter, whom she raised. When the girl reached marriageable age, a young man asked for her hand and they were betrothed. In the midst of the wedding ceremony, there was a banging at the window, and the guests heard this verse chanted: ‘Kerns I should have cast, a farm was meant for me, I should have been wed, just like thee.’ ” She looked at Matthew. “It was the ghost of the dead child, speaking to her sister.”
“So the verse is a reference to the fact that the sister is enjoying what should have been the lot of the child left to die?” asked Matthew.
“Yes, that’s the obvious meaning,” said Thóra. “Could Gudný have had another child?” She was shaking her head even as she said it. “No, I don’t think so.”
“But who got what should have belonged to the child?” asked Matthew. “Presumably the child was her mother’s heir?”
Thóra puffed out her cheeks, then slowly let the air escape. “It depends when Gudný died of TB. If the child predeceased her, of course the child couldn’t inherit anything from her mother. If the child died after Gudný’s death, that changes things. Gudný’s father died first. Since he was a widower, and she was his only child, Gudný would have been his sole heir, so the child would have inherited all her mother’s assets on her death.”
“And if that’s the case, someone would have profited from the child’s death,” said Matthew, “inheriting all Gudný’s assets, which would have gone to the child. Who would it be, in this case?”
“The mother’s closest relative,” said Thóra. “Grímur, Gudný’s uncle and the child’s great-uncle.” She closed the book. “Lára, Sóldís’s grandmother, said he had money troubles, so he could have killed her to prevent her reaching adulthood. As soon as the girl married or had a child of her own, Grímur would lose his claim to the inheritance.”
“That’s incredibly callous,” said Matthew. “But he wasn’t the one who put the rock there. His daughter, Málfrídur, Elín and Börkur’s mother, must have known of the body under there. It’s no coincidence that she placed a stone with that inscription in that very location.”
“Málfrídur,” said Thóra thoughtfully. “Málfrídur inherited what should have belonged to the child when her own father died years later in Reykjavík. If there is indeed a child, and if it’s Gudný’s.”
“There are a lot of ‘if”s in this story,” commented Matthew, “but I have to admit it sounds plausible. Could she be the murderer, rather than her father, Grímur?”
“Hardly. She was just a little girl during the war. When Lára came back here after the war, Gudný’s child had vanished from the face of the earth. It’s a reasonable assumption that Gudný’s daughter, Kristín, is the Kristín mentioned in the message scratched into the post upstairs. If so, it’s more than likely that it was Málfrídur who carved ‘dad killed kristín. i hate dad’ in the attic. It was in their house, after all. Perhaps she found out about it, or witnessed the murder, or maybe he even told her.”
“You’re probably getting close to solving this old case,” said Matthew, going into the bathroom to wash the dirt from his hands. He called over the noise of the running water, “It’s a pity it doesn’t help Jónas. I don’t suppose this is why Birna and Eiríkur were killed?”
“Well, I don’t know,” Thóra called back. “Maybe Birna found out about it and that led to someone wanting her dead—someone who didn’t want the truth to come out. She was going through that old stuff, as we know from the photo of Magnús. Maybe she’d found something that gave her a clue.”
Matthew appeared in the doorway with a towel and dried his hands. “But who would want her dead because of it? Elín and Börkur?”
“Unlikely,” said Thóra. “They would scarcely have sold the property if they’d been desperate to keep the secret.”
“Maybe they knew nothing about it,” said Matthew, putting the towel back in the bathroom. “Birna may have told them about it and tried to blackmail them. She seems to have already tried to blackmail Magnús and Baldvin, so we know she was capable of it.”
“Maybe,” said Thóra, “but I have a feeling she didn’t know. From her diary I’d say she suspected something odd had been going on in the house, but there’s no indication she was on the right track.” She fetched the journal and slowly turned the pages. “Do you remember where the annex was located in the plans on the walls at Kreppa?” she asked. “Did it include the area of the rock and the hatch?”
Matthew tried to visualize the sketch. “I think it did,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
“Could Birna have been killed to stop the design of the annex to the hotel?’ Thóra speculated. “As soon as construction work began, the hidden part of the basement would have been excavated. Perhaps it was preventive action. Someone had been digging here and there in the field, remember. Maybe they were trying to find the hatch,
and the child’s remains, before construction began, but they couldn’t find them and resorted to the desperate measure of killing Birna.”
“Which brings us back to the question of who would want to keep it a secret,” said Matthew. “The last thing Elín and Börkur would want was for the truth to come out. Nobody wants unnecessary attention drawn to the fact that their grandfather was a child killer, but it’d hardly be normal to commit murder to conceal it.”
“If they’d wanted to keep it secret, though, they’d never have sold the land,” Thóra reminded him. “And I quite agree: it’s a bit extreme to kill someone just to avoid a scandal.” She closed her eyes. “I’m missing something. It’s something really obvious, but I can’t put my finger on it.” She reached for the police file and flicked through it. “I don’t even know what I’m looking for.” She sighed.
Matthew came up to the bedside table and picked up the list of cars that had driven through the Hvalfjördur Tunnel. “What if the killer isn’t directly involved? What if it’s someone who wants to protect the family?”
Thóra looked up from the file and tilted her head curiously. “Who do you mean?”
Matthew handed her the list and pointed out one of the registration numbers. “While you were out this morning, I asked Sóldís if she knew Steini’s full name. Since he can drive, it occurred to me to check whether he was on the list, and he was.” He pointed out the entry that a car had been driven through the tunnel from the Reykjavík direction: owner Thorsteinn Kjartansson. “You remember he said he couldn’t give Sóldís a lift because he wasn’t going to Reykjavík,” Matthew added, “but he did go, and he appears to have driven back here via the tunnel about an hour before Birna was murdered.”
“What, you think he killed her so that Berta wouldn’t be traumatized by the scandal?” asked Thóra. “That’s ridiculous. And he’s disabled. Would he have been capable of that?”
“I feel like we keep on hearing things that prove he’s less handicapped than we thought,” said Matthew. “If you look at the other list, the vehicles driving through the tunnel from here toward Reykjavík, you’ll see that Berta’s car left here at about the same time. Maybe Steini wanted to ensure she wouldn’t be a suspect, which is why he carried out the murder in her absence. There wouldn’t be much point in killing Birna and Eiríkur, and getting Berta into even more trouble than he was trying to prevent.”
Thóra frowned. “Even if he’s less disabled than we realized, I somehow can’t see him manhandling someone into a stall with a wild horse.”
“What if Eiríkur wasn’t quite unconscious?” said Matthew. “Maybe the drugs just made him confused—confused enough to do as Steini said. Perhaps he was taking his revenge for the accident by planting Eiríkur in Bergur and Rósa’s stables—revenge for her father causing the accident. He may have assumed Bergur or his wife would be suspects. He needn’t have been motivated only by wanting to protect Berta.”
Thóra nodded, deep in thought. “But what about the rape?” she asked. “Steini would also have had to rape Birna, and she wasn’t drugged.” She looked up the autopsy report. “The theory is that she was attacked from behind and hit on the head with a rock.” She read a little further. “You don’t happen to know what A. barbadensis Mill, A. vulgaris Lam is?” she asked when she came across the reference to the substance found in Birna’s vagina.
“I can’t say I do.” Matthew smiled ruefully. “I think ‘vulgaris’ means ‘common,’ but that’s not much help. Can’t you find it on the Internet?”
“Yes, I’m sure I can,” said Thóra. “I just haven’t had time. Perhaps I’ll ask Gylfi to look it up for me. It’ll do him good to think about something else, after the shock of finding the bones.” She phoned Gylfi’s room and asked him to look it up on the guests’ computer in reception. “He says he’ll do it in a minute,” said Thóra, hanging up. She looked over at Matthew and smiled. “When children reach the age of twelve, they stop being able to do things when they’re asked. It always has to be in a minute. My dad says I was just the same, and that Grandpa said the same about him. Maybe it’s genetic.”
“Shall we try to get hold of Steini, or even Berta?” asked Matthew. “She might be able to tell us something to corroborate my theory. Although she’s his friend, I’m not sure she’d cover for him under these circumstances.”
“You may be right,” said Thóra, and went to stand up. “Let’s do it. You broke down a wall for me. The least I can do is repay you by investigating your crazy theory as well as mine.”
“You could always find another way to repay me,” said Matthew with a smile.
Thóra didn’t answer. She stood with the book of folktales open in her hands. “Hang on,” she said excitedly. “What’s this?”
CHAPTER 32
Thóra stabbed her finger at the page. Matthew looked at it, understanding nothing. “Right here, on the page before the story of the abandoned infant at the wedding, it says that if you want to stop someone’s spirit walking, you must drive needles into the soles of his feet.” She slammed the book shut. “The murderer must have wanted to ensure that his victims’ ghosts wouldn’t go wandering.”
Matthew looked skeptical. “What on earth for?”
“We might not get it, but presumably he believes in ghosts,” said Thóra, blushing slightly as she recalled the wailing she had heard, like an infant left to die. She had stuck to her resolution not to mention it to anyone, least of all Matthew.
“Why are you blushing?” he asked. “Starting to believe in ghosts in your old age?” He prodded her arm. “Did you hear it too?”
Thóra was no good at lying to people she cared about, so she decided to confess. “Yes, I heard something,” she conceded. “Of course, it wasn’t the ghost of an abandoned infant, but I did hear crying and it sounded like a baby.”
“That’s great!” said Matthew, pleased. “Now, you have been careful about letting the baby go around you three times, haven’t you? You don’t seem any more insane than usual, anyway.”
Thóra stuck her tongue out at him. “Come on,” she said, “we’ve got more important things to do than talk about ghosts. Let’s go and find Berta or Steini.”
“You must try to send the ghost baby back to its mother,” Matthew persisted. “That’s what you’re meant to do . . .”
Thóra couldn’t wait to get out of the reception area . A scorched smell hung about the place from the charred carcasses that had been carried through the building. She would have liked to pinch her nose as she went past Vigdís, but decided to just hold her breath and keep walking. As she hurried past, she bumped into Thröstur Laufeyjarson.
“Oh, sorry,” she said, trying to regain her balance. “I didn’t see you.”
“That’s all right,” said the canoeist grumpily. He was wearing a wet suit, his hair wet. “No harm done—shame I can’t say the same for my canoe,” he added.
“Oh?” asked Thóra. “Has it been damaged?” When she saw Thröstur’s fierce expression, she involuntarily blurted, “I haven’t touched it.”
“No, I know,” said Thröstur, continuing on his way.
“Hang on, I wanted to ask you something,” said Thóra, grabbing his arm. She was startled to realize how muscular he was. “I’ve been trying to find you, but you’re hard to get hold of.”
“What do you want to ask?” he said. She let go of his arm, not wanting to push her luck. “Whether I’ve ever got stuck with my head underwater when I’ve been out in the canoe?”
“Er, no,” replied Thóra, baffled. “That had never occurred to me. No, my question is about the two murders that have been committed here. You must have heard about them.”
Thröstur’s expression was a strange mixture of irritation and apprehension. The hotel doors opened and he caught sight of the pile of bones that was being carried past. “What’s going on there?”
“Quite a lot,” said Thóra. “None of it good. Have you got time to talk? It could be important.” She hoped the
sight of the bones would sway him.
“Yes, all right,” he replied abruptly. “I was on my way to talk to the police, anyway. Since my canoe’s damaged, there’s no reason to keep quiet anymore.”
“About what?” asked Thóra, directing him to a table outside. They sat down, and Thóra introduced Matthew. “What were you going to tell the police?”
Thröstur looked grave. “On Friday morning, I went out to train and found my canoe all covered in blood.” He checked himself. “Well, not exactly covered. There was blood on the paddle and the seat, and splashes here and there. It wasn’t my blood, and I assumed it must have something to do with the murder committed on Thursday evening.”
Thóra stared at him. “It’s Tuesday today,” she said. “Why on earth haven’t you said anything before?”
“I didn’t know anything about the murder until Saturday, when some woman in reception told me, and I’d cleaned most of it off by then,” said Thröstur impatiently.
“So there’s still some blood left?” asked Thóra hopefully. Perhaps the murderer’s fingerprints could be preserved.
“Er, no, there isn’t,” muttered Thröstur sheepishly, adding by way of mitigation, “I’m due to compete in the world championships in two weeks’ time. I couldn’t have my canoe being taken off to some lab, so I cleaned the rest off and decided to keep my mouth shut. The damage had been done, because I’d already removed most of the blood.”
Thóra didn’t envy him; he’d have to confess all to Thórólfur. “But what made you change your mind?” she asked.
“Whatever idiot did it must have run the canoe up on to some rocks and damaged the bottom. I couldn’t understand why my times were so bad, but I only just noticed the damage. The bottom was fine when I checked it last week, so it’s that bloody killer who’s caused me all this trouble.” He leaned back and crossed his arms. “The police may as well take the canoe. I won’t be able to compete now.”
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