Lára stood up. Rage suddenly flared up in her. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she turned out to have more in common with your father than with Gudný and her daughter.”
“We’ll simply have to hope that Málfrídur’s remorse can withstand the challenge. She may not be so truthful when she realizes what’s in store for her own grandchild,” said Thóra. She said goodbye and hung up. No more evidence was needed: Lára’s telephone call confirmed that Berta was the killer. Thóra had pulled over when Lára phoned, and now she drove on at a snail’s pace through the thick fog toward Tunga. Here and there the fog lifted slightly, and bizarre shapes appeared in the mossy lava field. She felt a shiver down her spine as the fog thickened once more, swallowing the weird forms. Thóra hoped she was on the right road. It was only a stone’s throw, but due to the poor visibility, she drove slowly and she’d lost her bearings.
Suddenly an outstretched arm seemed to appear out of the fog; it was the sign for the farm of Tunga. She turned down the drive and speeded up slightly. A little farther on she saw the farmhouse looming in the fog, with Thórólfur’s car outside. She parked next to it and saw it was empty. She went over to the entrance, but after a few steps she froze. From the fog she could hear a baby’s low wailing. She turned, trying to determine where the sound was coming from, but without success. The crying stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and Thóra rubbed her arms to calm the shudder that had run through her. What the hell was that? Could a woman be wandering around with a baby in the fog? Thóra squinted, attempting to see better. She jumped when she saw a movement where she thought the stables ought to be. Propelled by curiosity, she went in that direction, taking care to tread softly on the gravel.
She had reached the stables when the crying started again. She looked back, but saw nothing, then jumped when she heard a loud crash behind her. The stable door was unfastened, and it was banging against the wall. Someone had clearly left it open. Thóra hurried out of sight when she heard movements inside the stables. She pressed against the wall, hoping she couldn’t be seen in the fog. She caught a glimpse of a human figure in the doorway, and watched someone emerge from the stables and close the door. Thóra quickly realized she couldn’t hide any longer.
“Hello, Berta,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
The girl was taken aback. She turned and looked at Thóra, wideeyed. “Me?” she said. “Nothing.”
“I saw you come out of the stables,” said Thóra. “Do you know the people here?”
The cries started up again and Berta peered out into the fog. “I heard the crying and I came out to check,” she said, shuffling her feet.
“Inside the stables?” asked Thóra. “That noise is clearly coming from outside.” She looked at the girl, who was chewing her lower lip. “Berta, you must realize it’s over,” she said calmly. “Kristín’s body has been found. There’s no point in trying to put off the inevitable. Why don’t you come with me and talk to Thórólfur? He’s from the police and he’s here at the farm.” Thóra pointed in what she thought was the direction of the farmhouse. She could now hardly see anything in the fog.
“What do you mean?” asked Berta. Her attempt at nonchalance was belied by the tremor in her voice. “What’s that?” she asked, as the wailing grew louder and more insistent.
“It’s probably the ghost of a baby left out to die,” said Thóra calmly. “Or your relative, little Kristín. I gather your grandmother’s already seen her.” Thóra was relying on Lára’s hazy account of Málfrídur’s dream, in which Kristín had supposedly appeared. “Come on,” she said, “we’re better off going indoors than standing out here, waiting for the ghost to circle us three times. I think it may already have gone around once.”
Berta looked at Thóra feverishly. She was deathly pale, her eyes bloodshot. “How did they find Kristín?” she mumbled.
“That’s not important,” said Thóra. “It had to happen, and it’s just as well it has. Now you have to face the music.”
“Mum and I will lose everything,” said Berta suddenly. Thóra was not sure whether she was talking to her or to herself. “And Steini. We own the house he lives in. His parents sold up and moved to Reykjavík. He’ll have to move in with them.” She looked out into the fog and took a deep breath.
Thóra saw tiny beads of perspiration on her forehead and temples. The wailing grew quieter and then faded away. Berta seemed to calm down a little.
“There are worse things than losing your property,” said Thóra. She couldn’t help adding, “Like losing your life.”
Now Berta looked at her. “Birna didn’t deserve to live, and neither did Eiríkur. They weren’t nice people. She blackmailed the old man, and Eiríkur tried to get money out of me. He rang me and said he’d seen me leave the séance. He said he’d tell Mum and get her to pay him to keep his mouth shut. He thought we were filthy rich because of all the properties we own here. I told him to meet me at the riding stables, and then . . . you know.”
“Yes, unfortunately I do,” said Thóra. She wondered how the girl could give the impression of being so sane and normal when she was clearly deranged. “I read Birna’s autopsy report. It said she was struck repeatedly in the face with a rock. Were you hoping she wouldn’t be identified?” asked Thóra.
“No,” gasped Berta. “I was going to hit her in the back of the head, but she turned around too quickly and I hit her in the face. She must have heard me coming. I was going to make it look as if her head had knocked against the rocks on the shore when she was being raped, but hitting her in the face made that impossible. I’d planned it so carefully. I picked the day of the séance and made sure people noticed me there. I sat at the back and sneaked out once the medium had the audience’s attention, and then I used the canoe to get there quickly. I heard about the boat from Sóldís, and I knew the owner wasn’t staying much longer, so I had to do it then.” She gritted her teeth. “Sóldís talks a lot. I heard about Jónas’s medication from her, and also that he was in the habit of leaving his mobile phone lying around. She also told me what the sex therapist sold, and other things that came in useful.” Berta sighed, and her eyes filled with tears. “It was all supposed to go perfectly, but it still went wrong. Birna didn’t die from the first blow, so I had to hit her again and again. And again.” She looked down at her feet. “I thought I’d throw up when the gulls flew down.”
Thóra was close to vomiting herself, but she steeled herself and kept talking. This was clearly her one chance to talk to the girl. “Why did you stick pins in the soles of their feet?”
“I wanted to make sure their spirits wouldn’t walk. That does no one any good, neither the departed nor those of us who live on,” said Berta, who looked like she was about to faint.
“Are you all right?” Thóra asked anxiously. “What were you doing in there?” Thóra wondered if she had taken something. Then she realized that it was because the girl’s life was collapsing around her.
“I was planting the drugs,” said Berta tonelessly. “I hoped it would cast suspicion on Bergur and Rósa if Jónas was released. I was worried the police might find out that Jónas didn’t send Birna the text message.” She sighed and looked up at Thóra. “I took his phone. It was all so easy, once I’d decided how to do it. Birna had to be stopped. She wouldn’t listen to me when I told her it was the wrong place to build. If she’d only done as I said, it would all have been all right.” Berta hesitated, then said, “I did it for Steini.” Thóra couldn’t be sure if the girl was justifying herself to her or to herself. “It was the least I could do. What happened to him was my fault—I’d called to ask him to pick me up on the night of the accident. Now he feels bad because he thinks it’s his fault I did it, and he keeps asking me to forgive him. But it was my decision to do it for him, so there’s nothing to forgive. I only did it for Steini.” She collapsed.
“Do you think so?” said Thóra, as she helped the girl to her feet. “I really doubt it.” They walked toward the farmhouse, Thór
a supporting Berta so she wouldn’t fall again.
They heard the wailing once more, then just as suddenly it stopped. Thóra was feeling quite unsettled by the time they reached the farmhouse steps, and the girl was shaking like a leaf. Thóra glanced over her shoulder as she rang the doorbell, hoping someone would come quickly. The door opened, revealing Rósa. She said nothing, but gazed past them. Thóra turned, half expecting to see a spectral child pulling itself laboriously up the steps with one arm.
“Gulli!” called Rósa. “There you are, you naughty cat. Where have you been?” The crying had resumed as she opened the door, and now it stopped as she finished speaking. “Puss!” she called in a soothing falsetto. “Come here, you silly cat!” A marmalade tomcat casually strolled up the steps.
CHAPTER 35
Sunday, 18 June 2006
The lemonade from the minibar was expensive, but to Thóra it was worth every penny. She put down the can and wrapped the thick white dressing gown more closely around her. She went to the window of her room, opened the curtains a crack, and looked out over Austurvöllur Square. Not many people were around, and the few who were up and about seemed to be the last few stragglers from the previous night’s revelry. Thóra smiled. She let go of the curtain and walked back over to the bed, where Matthew lay asleep. Now that she had finally met someone who was neither divorced nor alcoholic, neither megalomaniac nor sports fanatic, just her luck that he had to be a foreigner who was hardly likely to want to move to Iceland.
Perhaps that was exactly why she liked him.
She heard a faint ringing somewhere in the room and listened carefully to identify where her phone was. Finally she located it in her bag. She answered quickly. “Hello,” she whispered, taking the phone into the bathroom so as not to wake Matthew.
“Mum,” shouted Gylfi, “Sigga’s dying!”
Thóra shut her eyes and put her head in one hand. She had left Sóley with Gylfi and Sigga—mainly so that she could be with Matthew for his last night in Iceland. They would soon be taking care of a baby, so they ought to be able to babysit a six-year-old for one night, and Sigga had hitherto shown no signs of going into labor.
“Gylfi, sweetheart,” she said, “she’s not dying. The baby’s coming.” She heard Sigga moaning in the background. “Is she in a lot of pain?”
“She’s dying, Mum,” said her son. “Really. Listen.” The moans grew louder, then suddenly stopped. “It comes and goes,” he added.
“She’s in labor, darling,” said Thóra, more calmly than she felt. “I’m on my way. Get yourself and your sister dressed. If Sigga feels able to get dressed, that would be good, but otherwise she can go as she is.” Thóra opened the bathroom door and went back into the bedroom. “Has Sigga called her mum? Is she on her way?” she asked as she pulled her clothes on.
“No,” said Gylfi firmly. “Sigga wants me to call, but I won’t. She’s horrible.”
Thóra couldn’t disagree, but she urged him to ring all the same, as Sigga’s parents would certainly want to be there for their daughter. It would be the last straw for Sigga’s mum and dad if Gylfi failed to let them know.
“I’m coming, anyway,” she said. “You make sure you’re ready. If they want to pick Sigga up, they can. It’s up to you whether you go with them or come with me and Sóley.” She hung up and zipped up her skirt. Uncharacteristically, she had dressed up for the occasion—high heels and everything. She’d wanted to celebrate the end of the case and enjoy her time with Matthew before he left. She looked at her tights, draped over the TV. She grimaced, but decided she would rather put them back on than expose her pasty white legs.
“Matthew,” said Thóra, nudging him gently, “I’ve got to go. Sigga’s in labor.”
Matthew, who lay facedown, lifted his head from the pillow and blinked groggily at her. “What?”
“I’ve got to go to the hospital,” she repeated, “Sigga’s screaming blue murder, so it shouldn’t be long. I’ll ring and let you know.”
Thóra drove home faster than usual. She smiled to herself as she turned into her road, remembering how Gylfi and Sigga had betrayed their ignorance when they had talked about the birth. Sigga had at various times expressed a desire to give birth underwater, or standing up outside surrounded by nature, or silently, like Tom Cruise’s wife, all depending on what she had been reading on the Internet that day. All these idyllic births took place without any pain medication, but Thóra suspected that would change when the girl was faced with reality. After the first session of a course for expectant parents, both had refused to return. Sigga had scandalized the midwife by asking whether there was MTV in the delivery room.
“I’m here,” called Thóra as she entered, but she could not be heard over Sigga’s howling. She wouldn’t be welcome in a Scientologist delivery room.
“There’s something wrong,” shouted Gylfi when he spotted his mother. “I think the baby’s trying to come out sideways.”
“No it isn’t,” said Thóra. “Unfortunately this is just what it’s like.” She went over to Sigga, who was sitting in the dining room with her head in her hands.
“It’s because she’s got such narrow hips,” said Gylfi anxiously. “Everybody says that makes it really hard to give birth.”
“It’s not the hips that are the bottleneck in this process, sweetheart. That comes a bit farther down.” She leaned over Sigga. “Just breathe deeply, Sigga,” she said. “Okay, let’s go out to the car. Have your waters broken?”
Sigga looked at Thóra blankly. “Waters?”
“Come on,” said Thóra, clapping her hands briskly, “you’ll find out soon enough.” She helped Sigga out of the house, while Gylfi hurried ahead to open the car door. Sóley followed sleepily, unclear what was happening. “Just say yes, Sigga, if they offer you an epidural. It’s the fashion,” said Thóra, helping Sigga lie down in the rear seat of the SUV. She had decided to sell it, and the caravan, in order to clear her debts, but the SUV was bigger than her old banger and had room for all of them.
Thóra sat in the driver’s seat and started the engine. Just as she backed out of the drive, Sigga shouted out and she slammed on the brakes. Gylfi and Thóra looked into the back. She sighed. She would have to knock something off the price of the SUV, now that the rear seat was awash with amniotic fluid.
Sóley sat swinging her legs. She had nothing else to do in the waiting area. Thóra was impressed by how good she was being, especially since they’d been waiting in the little room for nearly three hours. Their time there wasn’t made any more enjoyable by the presence of Sigga’s father, who barely spoke, just sent Thóra an impressive range of contemptuous looks, so Thóra was relieved when her phone rang, breaking the oppressive silence. She answered and took the call in the corridor.
“Hello, Thóra, this is Lára on Snæfellsnes, Sóldís’s grandmother,” said the old lady’s pleasantly modulated voice. “I hope I haven’t rung at a bad time.”
“No, not at all,” replied Thóra. “I’m so pleased to hear from you. I was going to call you myself, as I didn’t manage to see you before I left.” Five days had passed since Berta and Steini were arrested by the police, and Thóra had been busy tying up the case and working off the backlog that had accumulated at the office. Jónas had fortunately decided not to take legal action against Elín and Börkur, after it transpired that the “ghost” had been Berta all along. “You know they found Kristín, of course.”
“Yes, that’s why I’m ringing,” said Lára. “There are actually two things I wanted to mention. I’m arranging to have her buried next to her mother, and I was hoping you’d come to the service. It was thanks to you that she was found. I don’t suppose her relatives will be attending en masse, and I feel it’s important that it shouldn’t just be me and the priest.”
“I’d be honored,” said Thóra warmly.
“Good,” said Lára. “I’ll let you know as soon as the date is fixed.” She cleared her throat delicately. “Then there’s the other matter. T
he policeman who handled the case came to see me earlier.”
“Thórólfur?” said Thóra, surprised. “What did he want?”
“He brought me a letter, or to be more precise, a copy of a letter,” replied Lára. “A letter that’s taken sixty years to reach me. It’s from Gudný.”
“Where was it found?” asked Thóra. She was astonished. “Was it in the coal bunker?”
“It was in Kristín’s coat pocket,” said Lára. It seemed to Thóra that her voice might break, but when she spoke again, she sounded strong and steady. “Most of what’s in the letter is my private business, but I wanted to share one thing with you.”
“Of course,” said Thóra. “I think it must explain quite a lot.”
“When Gudný wrote the letter, she knew she was dying. She realized it was her last chance to tell her story. She starts by apologizing for not telling me the truth in her previous letters. She says she didn’t feel able to as she was afraid I would come to visit her, and she or her father would infect me. I’d started a new life in Reykjavík and she didn’t want to unsettle me by complaining about her own problems.”
“Presumably she meant the tuberculosis,” said Thóra. “It can’t have been the child that she saw as a problem.”
“No,” Lára replied. “She loved her daughter more than life itself. She calls her ‘a light in the darkness.’ She says she’s such a good little girl, sweet-natured in spite of her unusual upbringing, cut off from everyone except her mother and grandfather. I can’t deny that Gudný seemed terribly ashamed of having had an illegitimate child, but it didn’t affect her love for Kristín.”
“Children are incredibly adaptable,” said Thóra, thinking of her own little grandchild starting his or her life, possibly by coming out sideways.
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