“What?” croaked the old man. “My daughter?”
“Yes, the one Gudný wrote to you about,” said Thóra, taking a chance. “I think Grímur, Bjarni’s brother, who lived on the next farm, killed the child to ensure that he, and not you, would inherit his brother’s assets.”
“Me? Inherit?” echoed Magnús, gray-faced. Thóra noticed that he did not deny having received a letter.
“Actually,” she interjected, “I believe you’ve forfeited your right to the inheritance by your failure to pursue the matter. You knew about the child, and you should have put in your claim for inheritance at that point. In fact, there’s plenty more you should have done. For instance, you could have asked what had happened to the child, or acknowledged paternity at the time.” She went to the door, followed by Matthew. “Perhaps if you’d done the right thing, there’d be no skeleton in the basement.”
“But . . .” said the old man, his words trailing off. Baldvin said nothing, merely regarded his grandfather inscrutably. “How can you say that?” Magnús managed to say.
Thóra turned in the doorway. “Because if Grímur had realized that Kristín had a father who knew of her existence, he wouldn’t have been able to make her disappear.” She smiled at the two men. “Goodbye. Nice to make your acquaintance.” They left their hosts sitting as if turned to stone.
“That only leaves Bergur,” Thóra said, once they were outside. “He’s the least likely of all, really. I can’t see him getting in a canoe unless he had to, let alone sticking pins into someone.”
“Life is full of surprises, though,” said Matthew, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Who would have thought, for instance, that I would fall for a woman wearing dirty trainers?”
Thóra looked down at her feet and grinned. Her trainers were rather shabby in comparison with Matthew’s freshly buffed shoes. “Maybe the same person who could imagine I would fall for a man with a shoeshine fetish.”
Thóra paced back and forth, trying to jump-start her thought process, with little success. She and Matthew had returned to her room, where she hoped to find inspiration. She marched up and down past the bed, while Matthew sat serenely in the armchair by the window, sipping a beer. “It must be Bergur. There’s no one else left,” he said, setting his glass down. “Unless it’s Jónas.”
Thóra sighed. “We’re screwed if that’s the answer.” She clutched at her hair, and continued pacing. “Is there really no other possibility?”
“I really don’t think so—we’ve run out of men. Bergur and Jónas are the only two left.”
“Pity the killer can’t be a woman,” said Thóra. “I liked Rósa and Jökull as Bonnie and Clyde types. That rather lost its appeal when they turned out to be siblings.” She stopped in her tracks and looked at Matthew. “Have you ever heard of a criminal brother and sister?”
He shook his head. “No, never. Only brothers. The Kray twins, for instance. Never brother and sister.”
“Is it completely out of the question that Rósa could have come across Birna after the rape and killed her?” wondered Thóra aloud. “No, that doesn’t make sense,” she continued.
Someone knocked at the door. Expecting it to be one of the children, Thóra was a little surprised to open the door to Stefanía.
“Hello,” said the sex therapist, smiling nervously. “I just wanted to bring you something. I was actually hoping you’d come to me of your own accord, but apparently that’s not going to happen.” She shifted from one foot to the other, her hands behind her back, and Thóra wondered what she was hiding there. “I can help you,” Stefanía added, still smiling.
Thóra felt a knot form in her stomach. Surely the woman wasn’t here to give her and Matthew advice on sex with an impotent partner? She swallowed the saliva that suddenly flooded her mouth. It would be hard to blame language problems, or claim this was a misunderstanding. “That’s very kind of you,” was all she could say. She didn’t step back from the door, fearing that Stefanía would come in and start talking to Matthew about his imaginary impotence. He would not see the humor in it, that was certain.
“Anyway,” said Stefanía. “I can see you’re busy, so I’ll just leave this with you.” She handed Thóra a small bag and went on. “You can call me anytime. I’ve put my business card in the bag. The appliance is selfexplanatory—it’s a dildo, but the design is completely new and really innovative. Once it has been on for some minutes, it squirts gel out of the front end. It makes the experience far more realistic. It’s new on the market.” She beamed proudly.
Thóra stood gazing into the bag. “Oh. Gel. I see,” she said, embarrassed. Suddenly she had a flash of inspiration. She shoved the bag back to Stefanía and hurried back into the room. “Hang on,” she said to the sex therapist, who was staring at her openmouthed. She returned with the box she’d borrowed from reception when collecting things from the basement. “Is this the same thing?” she asked, pointing out the words “Aloe Vera Action.”
Stefanía gaped at Thóra, clearly doubting her sanity. “Um, no,” she said, watching as Thóra’s enthusiasm gave way to disappointment. “This is the older model. Yours is newer.” She regarded Thóra suspiciously. “Those sold out recently. They were hugely popular. Actually, the last one was stolen,” she added. “Only last week there was a breakin, and I’ve just done inventory and found out what’s missing. I was intending to give you the last one.” She looked at Thóra, still a little confused. “The model I gave you is just as good. The only difference is that the lubricant gel isn’t made with aloe vera.”
“A break-in?” exclaimed Thóra. “When did this happen?”
“Last week,” said Stefanía. “Let me see, I left on holiday on Tuesday and everything was in its usual place, but when I got back on Friday, I saw that the lock had been forced. Birna’s murder was more important, of course, and in any case I thought at first that nothing was missing. Not until just now, when I was looking for the toy for you.”
Thóra hastily thanked the sex therapist and shut the door. She turned back into the room, still holding the box. “Guess what?” she said. “Rósa’s back on the list. Right at the top of it, in fact.”
Matthew gazed at her, bemused by her agitated state. “How did that happen?” he inquired.
“Birna wasn’t killed by a man; it was a woman. The rape was staged to mislead the police.” Thóra placed the box on the floor. “Who would do such a thing?” She answered her own question. “A woman, of course. A woman who didn’t know about the aloe-vera gel.”
Matthew was still regarding Thóra quizzically. “I think you may need to explain this to me a little more clearly,” he suggested, taking another sip of beer.
Thóra took the file of police documents, flipped through it, and passed it to Matthew. She pointed out a photocopied picture of a dildo lying in a steel tray. “It was found on the beach, with a load of other stuff, so the police may not have picked up on it.” Thóra waved a hand toward the box she had borrowed. “It’s the same model as was in there, if you’re wondering how I happen to suddenly be an expert on sex toys.”
Matthew looked at the box, grinning. “I see,” he said, looking back at her. “But I still don’t quite get how it fits together.”
“According to the description on the box, the thing squirts aloevera gel,” she said, her cheeks flushing pink. “Don’t ask me why.” She pointed to the picture again. “It’s quite possible that two men’s semen was found in Birna’s vagina, but neither came from a rape.”
“But how can you know that?” asked Matthew. “Although two men have admitted having sex with her, it may not have been consensual.”
“I think the murderer tried to make it look like rape,” she replied, “using the sex toy. It’s the only plausible explanation for the presence of aloe vera. A woman who’s just had sex with two men in one day is hardly going to wander down to the beach with a gadget like this.” She pointed to the picture again. “And why would anyone want to make it look like rape? To de
ceive the police. It can only mean that the murderer was a woman. Women don’t rape other women, so by making it look like a rape, the murderer would have diverted suspicion away from herself.”
“Well,” said Matthew, “you have a point, but there are plenty of other women who could have killed her. It needn’t necessarily be Rósa.”
“True,” said Thóra, “but it has to be a woman with a good motive, and Rósa certainly had that.”
“Quite,” said Matthew, then fell silent. A knock on the door had interrupted him and he stood up to see who it was. To his surprise it was Stefanía, still standing in the same place as when Thóra had shut the door in her face.
She smiled at him, still carrying the bag, which she handed to Matthew. In her excitement, Thóra had completely forgotten to take back the gift bag from the sex therapist.
“Here, this for you. You may have. Believe me, it have help many men like you,” she said to Matthew in broken English, then turned and left.
Matthew stood rooted to the spot. In one hand he held his beer glass, in the other the sex toy. He stared at it, lost for words, but as soon as he had closed the door behind Stefanía, he turned to Thóra. “Surely you didn’t tell that woman I was gay?”
“No, are you crazy?” answered Thóra innocently. “I would never make up stuff about your sex life. Come on, let’s go and find Thórólfur. He may not have figured it out yet.”
“Unless that weird woman is distributing her kinky toys to all and sundry,” said Matthew. He put the box down and stood up.
In reception, Vigdís told them that Thórólfur and another police officer had gone out with Thröstur to find and remove the canoe. Thóra assumed they would send it for tests, in case Thröstur had not succeeded in obliterating all the evidence, but she didn’t hold out much hope, based on what Thröstur had said.
While she and Matthew stood with Vigdís, deciding whether to wait for him or try to contact another police officer, she noticed the injured stockbroker limping toward reception. He was pulling a suitcase behind him with some difficulty. “I’m going to give him a hand,” she said to Matthew, and hurried over to Teitur. “Hey, I’ll do that,” she called, and was rewarded with a smile.
“Thank you,” he said with relief, allowing Thóra to take the case. “I’m still not a hundred percent better, but I’ve got to get home.”
“Is someone picking you up?” she asked. She didn’t think he should be driving in his condition.
“Yes, my brother,” puffed Teitur. “I’ll have someone collect my car later. You don’t need a car to get to town, do you?”
Thóra laughed. “No, actually,” she replied, thinking of the SUV and how she would get it back to the city. Gylfi wouldn’t be driving it, that was certain.
Teitur stumbled and winced. “That bloody mare,” he said. “I don’t think anyone will ever get me on horseback again.”
“You’re lucky it wasn’t worse,” said Thóra. “I don’t understand why the place you rented it from didn’t give you a safer horse. Which riding stables did you go to?”
“Oh, it was the farm just up above here—Tunga, I think—but it wasn’t their fault,” said Teitur. “The woman was terribly upset. Not a good start to a new business.”
“Tunga?” asked Thóra. “You hired a horse from there? Was it a wild stallion, by any chance?”
Teitur laughed. “No, I’m not that daft. It was just an ordinary horse. I was incredibly unlucky, though. I mean, what are the chances of coming across a dead fox? The horse was still panicking long after I had fallen off.”
Thóra stopped in her tracks. “Was it near here? Was the dead fox near the path to the old farmhouse?”
Teitur nodded. “Yup. I had no idea horses hated them so much.”
“Did you tell the horse-rental people about this?” Thóra was struggling to stay calm.
“Yes, of course,” said Teitur, surprised that Thóra was so interested. “I had to go back and let them know their horse had run off into the wild blue yonder.”
“And you told them what happened and where?” asked Thóra. “You told them about the fox and how the horse reacted?”
“Yes,” said Teitur. “The woman was in shock, of course, because the horse was gone, and also because I was injured.”
“This woman,” said Thóra. “Was her name Rósa?” Teitur nodded. “Was there anyone with her who could have heard the story about the fox?” she asked. “Her husband, maybe?”
“No,” answered Teitur. “She was home alone. I wouldn’t know if she told him, but I’d imagine she probably did.” He looked searchingly at her. “Why do you ask?”
“No special reason,” said Thóra vaguely. “Well, I hope you get home safely and make a swift recovery,” she said, and set the case down by the reception desk.
“I will,” said Teitur. He reached into his jacket pocket for his wallet. For a moment Thóra thought he was going to tip her for her assistance, but he handed her a business card. “Do get in touch if you’re ever wondering what to do with your money,” he said with a smile. “I get good returns on my clients’ investments.”
Thóra took the card, politely read it, and put it in her pocket. Something major would have to happen in her life for her to ever scrape together enough money to make an investment. “Thank you,” she said. “You never know.”
“There’s one thing that doesn’t make sense,” said Matthew. “We don’t know if Rósa came here the evening of the séance. And how does this fit in with Jónas’s phone and the canoe?”
Thóra watched the front door open, hoping it would be Thórólfur at last. It was not. A young couple entered pulling a suitcase behind them: new guests, heading for reception. She turned to Matthew. “Maybe Jökull pinched the phone for her and sent the text message.”
“That doesn’t explain the canoe,” said Matthew. “She must have come here, otherwise using the canoe makes no sense.”
“Maybe she was here,” said Thóra. “She needn’t have been at the séance.”
Matthew looked dubious. “It seems to me that the only reason for using the canoe was to be able to leave the séance unnoticed and return before the interval. Perhaps there’s another explanation, but I can’t see it.”
Thóra stood up. They had been sitting in chairs by the main door, so as not to miss Thórólfur. “I’m going to have a word with Vigdís.” She went over to the desk and waited while the receptionist dealt with the young couple, who finally left happily with their key.
“Vigdís,” said Thóra, “do you know Jökull’s sister by sight?”
Vigdís removed a sheet of paper from the printer on the desk in front of her and reached for a hole-punch. “Rosie, or whatever her name is? Yes, I do,” she answered, punching holes in the paper. “Why? Are you looking for her?”
“Her name’s Rósa, actually,” Thóra corrected her. “No, I’m not looking for her. I was just wondering if you remember whether she came to the séance last Thursday?”
“No,” said Vigdís firmly. “She wasn’t here.” She opened a binder and placed the sheet of paper in it. Then she stopped and looked up at Thóra. “Oh, wait, yes. She was here.”
“She was?” Thóra tried to conceal her excitement.
“Yes, I remember I felt kind of sorry for her. She had brought a bunch of flowers for that man who got hurt falling off her horse—Teitur Jakobsson, the one who just checked out.” Thóra nodded. “She had to walk all the way down the drive because there was a gap in the road, and the flowers were a bit windblown.”
“Are you sure this was on Thursday evening?” persisted Thóra.
“Absolutely,” replied Vigdís. “I remember I had no time to talk to her because I was so busy dealing with people who were arriving for the séance. I took the flowers and said I’d deliver them. She thanked me and asked if she could pop into the kitchen to see her brother.”
“Did you see her leave?” asked Thóra.
“No, I don’t think so,” answered Vigdís. “I
wanted to go the séance myself, so I left a note on reception asking people to come inside if they needed anything. I had the cordless phone, in case there were any calls.”
“Do you know if she had anything to do with Eiríkur, the aura reader?” Thóra said.
Vigdís slowly shook her head. “No,” she replied. “I don’t think so. Actually, Eiríkur came to see me before he went to meet Jónas to ask for a pay raise. He wanted information about the local landowners. He needed the phone number of that brother and sister, Elín and what’s-hisname . . .”
“Börkur,” said Thóra. “Why did he want to contact them?”
“I don’t know. I thought it had something to do with the haunting. He’d been fascinated by all the commotion. I didn’t have their phone numbers, of course, but I did have a number for Berta, the girl who’s clearing out the old farmhouse, so I suggested he ring her to get their numbers.” She shut the file and put it back in its place. “Eiríkur tried to call her from the phone here in reception, but there was no answer, so I gave him the number of another local landowner, the only one I had apart from Berta’s.”
“Whose number was that?” asked Thóra.
“It was Rósa’s,” answered Vigdís. She took a sheet of paper from a pile on the desk and handed it to Thóra. “It’s an ad for the riding stables that Jökull asked me to hang up. It has her name and phone number.” She took the sheet back. “I took it down after that guy got hurt. I didn’t want any more guests getting crippled.” Vigdís seemed to suddenly notice that she had Thóra’s rapt attention. “I told the police about it because it was just before Eiríkur was killed in the stables.”
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