My Soul to Take Page 11

  When she finally reached the post, she breathed a sigh of relief. She bent down and brought the light closer to the object she’d seen.

  Gold. Or gold-plated, anyway. With a smile, Thóra picked up a winged brooch. Thóra squinted at it in the dim light—it looked like it might be a pilot’s badge. She put it back and picked up a cracked china cup. Inside were a silver spoon that had turned black, two white milk teeth, and a crucifix necklace. A few curling photos of film stars lay in a neat pile nearby. Thóra began to straighten up but stopped dead halfway. She shone the light on to the vertical beam and leaned right into it. An inscription had been scratched into the wood. She twisted around to read it.

  “Matthew!” she called out. “Kristín’s name is here!”

  “What?” she heard him reply.

  She bent down again to reread the inscription and memorize it for Matthew, since he obviously couldn’t hear her properly. It said, “dad killed kristín. i hate dad.” As soon as the words left her mouth Thóra jolted up ramrod straight. She could have sworn she heard a child’s giggling coming from the deepest and darkest corner of the attic. Even though she knew full well that her imagination was running away with her, Thóra made a hurried exit, not caring at all if she fell through the rotting floorboards.

  CHAPTER 11

  YES, THEY FINALLY decided to remove that stuff, like I said,” said Jónas, leaning back in his chair. They were relaxing by the fire in an alcove beside the bar, where old pictures adorned the walls. Out of courtesy to Matthew they were speaking in English, and the hotelier’s almost accent-free pronounciation reminded Thóra that he had made his money abroad. “I asked Birna to inform them that work on the annex was pending, so they should take anything they wanted before construction began. In the end the plans for the annex fell through, but they started clearing it all the same. I have no idea what progress they’ve made. At least, no one has notified us that they’ve finished.”

  Matthew took a sip of his beer. “Have they ever stayed here?”

  “No, they’ve never asked for a room, but they’ve been here several times and dined in the restaurant.”

  “Have they both been here to clear the farmhouse, or just Elín?”

  “I have no idea,” Jónas replied. “I remember quite a few of them coming once, the brother and his wife, the sister and two kids, his son and her daughter. I don’t know whether they were just visiting for the day or if they stayed somewhere in the area. Vigdís told me the young girl had come to reception once or twice to ask us for cardboard boxes. They still own some land out here on the peninsula, I seem to recall, so they might have stayed there. I think they also own a house in Stykkishólmur or Ólafsvík, which they use as a summer house. Neither place is far away.”

  “Could any of them have had anything against Birna?” Thóra asked.

  “Not as far as I know,” Jónas said. “I know that she talked to the brother, but I believe it was all on very friendly terms. She was looking for local information from back when the farms were inhabited. I think she was hoping he had old maps or something.”

  “And did she find any?” asked Thóra.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Jónas replied. “I seem to recall that he didn’t have anything like that, or possibly he gave her something that turned out to be of no use. I know he let her look through the old stuff in the basement at Kirkjustétt, and on the other side at Kreppa.”

  “Do you remember Birna ever mentioning the name Kristín?” Thóra asked. “Did she ask them about her?”

  Jónas shook his head. “I don’t think so. Who’s this Kristín?”

  “No idea,” Thóra replied. “I’m sure she has nothing to do with this. We found her name in—” Thóra just managed to stop herself before she mentioned Birna’s diary “Carved on a beam at the farmhouse. Maybe it’s just the name of a pet—a cat, a lamb even. We think it was written by a child.”

  “Kristín’s quite a strange name for a cat,” Jónas said. “But I don’t remember Birna ever mentioning any Kristín, human or animal.”

  They fell silent for a while. Thóra sipped the white wine Jónas had ordered for her, and contemplated their surroundings. The snug was cozy, with old-fashioned décor despite being in the modern annex.

  “Are they local?” Thóra asked, pointing to the old photographs on the walls.

  “No, I bought them at an antique shop. I have no idea who those people are. It was Birna’s idea.” Jónas looked around. “Quite a good one, I think.”

  Matthew and Thóra nodded in agreement. “Maybe you should ask the family for permission to use some of the photos in the boxes down in the basement?” suggested Thóra. “There are several albums and a few in frames, and I think they show the former inhabitants. They might look quite charming here. I took most of them up to my room to take a better look at them, so I can show you if you like.”

  Jónas shuddered. “No, thank you, but thanks for the offer. The less I know about them, the better.”

  “Which photograph was it, exactly, the one you recognized the ghost from?” Thóra asked. “I’ve been through them and there are a number of candidates.”

  “It was a framed photo of a young girl,” replied Jónas. “Blond. The spitting image of the creature that appeared in my room.”

  “So it wasn’t a child?” asked Thóra. “I was under the impression it was a child.” The only framed picture that Thóra had come across was of Gudný, the one she had put on her bedside table. Gudný was not a child in the photo, but well into her teens.

  “Child or not,” Jónas said, “a young girl, much younger than me—a child in my eyes.”

  “And you’re positive that this happened?” interrupted Matthew. His expression spoke volumes. “You didn’t dream it?”

  “No,” snapped Jónas. “That’s out of the question. I was tired, which explains a lot. When you’re in that state, the mind’s defenses are down and you’re more receptive to otherworldly phenomena. It happened, I promise you.”

  “Okay, then,” Thóra said briskly. “Let’s leave that for the time being. How are you getting on with remembering where you were on Thursday evening?”

  “Oh, that,” said Jónas. “Not so badly. I remember I was here when the séance was about to begin, then decided not to go to it. I was afraid of what might come out of it.”

  “Afraid?” exclaimed Matthew. “Afraid of what?”

  “Of what might be revealed. This place is turning out to be full of evil, and I don’t feel the need to have that confirmed by departed souls,” Jónas explained, as if it were a normal thing to say. “So I decided to go for a walk and regenerate my energy centers. There was a low fog, which is always conducive to that.”

  Thóra spoke quickly, before Matthew had time to ask him about energy centers. “Did you meet anyone on your walk?”

  “No,” replied Jónas. “No one. The weather was foul and it’s low season, so there wasn’t a soul about apart from me.”

  “You’re forgetting Birna,” said Thóra. “And the murderer. They must have been out at the same time.” She looking imploringly at Jónas. “Please tell me you didn’t go down to the bay where Birna’s body was found.”

  “No, I didn’t go there,” he said. “I only walked part of the way. I was pretty wound up; I was just roaming around, really. I’d called in a local guy to mend the drain under the drive, and that very day he’d dug up the road, then just gone home without finishing the job. The guests at the séance had to leave their cars by the main road and walk the rest. Two kilometers. I’m sure a lot of people turned back, and you can only imagine how irritated the other hotel guests were at discovering their cars were blocked in.”

  “When was it mended?” asked Matthew.

  “First thing the next morning,” Jónas said, still grumpy at the memory of the road digger. “He didn’t dare do otherwise after I gave him a piece of my mind.”

  “So no cars would have been able to go between the hotel and the bay, where Birna was pro
bably murdered that evening?” Thóra asked.

  “No, that would have been impossible,” Jónas said. “There was a huge hole in the road.”

  “Did you have your mobile phone when you went for the walk?” asked Matthew.

  Jónas didn’t hesitate. “Definitely not. It emits waves that disturb me when I’m regenerating my energy centers.”

  Matthew’s brow furrowed. He seemed about to ask Jónas to explain when Vigdís came over carrying some printouts.

  “These are the lists you asked for,” she said, handing Jónas two sheets of paper. “These are the names of the guests staying at the hotel on Thursday and Friday nights, and these are the people with reservations who either didn’t turn up or canceled.” She flashed Thóra and Matthew a fake smile. “I must get back to reception to man the phones.” She strode off and Jónas called his thanks after her.

  After scanning the lists, he handed them to Thóra. “This is a printout from the reservations system, although it’s probably not much help. I can’t imagine that one of the hotel guests would have murdered Birna. That seems quite unbelievable to me.”

  “You never know,” Thóra admonished him. She began reading. It was not a long list. “Are these bookings quite low? There aren’t many names here.”

  “No, not at all,” Jónas replied, looking wounded. “You can’t expect the hotel to be fully booked except right in the middle of summer. The tourist season is so short it can hardly be called a ‘season.’ I’ve been thinking of arranging events here this winter to attract people. Otherwise it will be rather bleak.”

  Thóra nodded without taking her eyes off the list. “According to this, eight rooms were occupied on Thursday night and ten on Friday.”

  “That fits,” said Jónas. “Of course, I don’t memorize the figures, but that’s probably about right.” He reached for his beer and took a sip. “This is organic beer,” he said as he put the glass back down and wiped the froth from his upper lip.

  Thóra noticed Matthew’s eyebrows twitching. He sniffed suspiciously at his glass. Before he could grill Jónas about brewing methods, she showed Jónas the list and said, “Do you know any of the guests? Are there any regulars here, for example?”

  “We opened so recently that we haven’t established a regular clientele unfortunately, but I must be able to remember them.” Jónas put his finger against the name at the top and began there. “Let’s see, Mr. and Mrs. Brietnes—no, they were an elderly couple from Norway and are very unlikely to be involved in the fatality.” He moved his finger down. “Karl Hermannsson—I don’t remember him; he seems to have stayed just the one night. But I remember this couple, Arnar Fridriksson and Ásdís Henrýsdóttir—they’ve been here before. They’re interested in what we’re doing and take lots of treatments. They can’t be involved in any way. Hang on. Who’s this? Thröstur Laufeyjarson?” Jónas thought to himself. “Oh, yes, the canoeist. He’s been paddling around here, training for a race. He’s booked until Wednesday. Very quiet, very moody. Could well be a murderer.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Thóra, who didn’t believe murderers were any more reserved or secretive than the rest of us. “What about these foreigners?” She pointed at the next names.

  “Mr. Takahashi and his son.” Jónas looked up at Thóra and smiled. “Far, far too polite to kill anyone. Both very quiet, and the father’s recovering from cancer treatment to boot. His son never leaves his side. You can rule them out.” He looked at the next line. “I don’t know who these two are, Björn Einarsson and Gudný Sveinbjörnsdóttir—I can’t place them. But you ought to recognize this one, Thóra: Magnús Baldvinsson, an old left-wing politician.”

  When Thóra heard the name, it clicked with the face of the man she had seen in the dining room at lunchtime. “Yes, of course. I saw him at lunch. I read an article about him in the paper the other day. He’s the grandfather of that city councilor Baldvin Baldvinsson, quite a rising star in politics. What’s he doing here?”

  “Just relaxing, I think. He’s not exactly chatty, but he did tell me he was brought up in the countryside around here. I suppose the heart and mind return to childhood haunts when people grow older,” Jónas said. He carried on down the list. “I don’t recall this Thórdís Róbertsdóttir, no idea who she is. I remember this one, though, Robin Kohman—he’s a photographer shooting for an article in a travel magazine about western Iceland and the West Fjords. There was a journalist with him for a while, but he’s just left. On Tuesday or Wednesday, I think. This Teitur Jakobsson is a stockbroker who’s been here for a few days; he seems pleasant enough in a slightly snooty way. He was injured in a riding accident after he arrived and I was certain he’d leave, but he’s still here. The rest of the names, I don’t recognize. No one arrived on Friday, and no one canceled.” He put the papers down on the table, and Thóra picked them up.

  “Is it okay if I try talking to these people?” Thóra asked.

  “Of course,” Jónas said. “But try to treat the guests with consideration. Don’t offend them.” With a sideways glance at Matthew, he whispered in Icelandic, “Don’t let him interrogate anyone. Just make it look like a chat.” He straightened up and slapped his thigh. “I’ll go and check on the cops. They’re examining Birna’s room now; I don’t know what they think is hidden there.”

  Matthew winked and grinned at Thóra. “Nope, they definitely won’t find anything there,” he said, deadpan.

  “And they’ve got my mobile-phone handset now,” Jónas said, “so at least they can keep themselves busy writing down everything on it.”

  STEINI SAT AND BROODED, STARING OUT AT THE DRIVEWAY THROUGH the window. For all the traffic that passed, he could have been alone in the world. No cars, no people. He had already watched enough TV to last a lifetime, and he was only twenty-three. If his life had unfolded properly, things would have been different. It wasn’t supposed to turn out like this; in fact, he was still waiting for someone to come and tell him that it was all a misunderstanding, that it hadn’t happened to him, but to someone else. Anyone, he didn’t care who, as long as it was someone else. “Sorry we put you through all this unnecessarily, mate, but these things happen sometimes. You can stand up. Go on. It was all a misunderstanding. Your car isn’t in the scrapyard; someone else’s is. And you weren’t in it.” A harsh, bitter laugh escaped him. Fat chance.

  As he shifted in his seat, the reflection of his face appeared in the window. He flinched and pulled his hood farther over his head, leaving as little of his face visible as possible. He would never get used to this. Never. With practiced hands, Steini grasped the wheels of his wheelchair and rolled away from the window.

  Where was Berta? She had promised to come, and she always kept her word. Dear, wonderful Berta. Without her, he did not know how he’d manage. Therapists, doctors, psychiatrists, whoever, they never stopped nagging him to go to Reykjavík, enroll at the university and do something with his life. It wasn’t over just because he was in bad shape. With proper therapy he might be able to get along okay without the wheelchair most of the time, although it would be a slow and painful process. Those people didn’t understand him. He had to stay here. He belonged here; this area was his home. There weren’t too many people, and most of them knew him. No one recoiled in shock at the terrible mask where his face should have been. In Reykjavík that would happen to him a hundred times a day. He would wither and die in no time. He was infinitely grateful to Berta. She was largely responsible for enabling him to stay here in such a helpless condition.

  Had Berta abandoned him? Had she had enough? Helped him for the last time? Steini wheeled himself over to the television and picked up the remote. He would rather watch trash than follow that thought through to its logical conclusion. He turned up the sound and focused his attention on the screen. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.

  THÓRA AND MATTHEW CLINKED THEIR GLASSES. “I DO HOPE THIS isn’t organically cultivated,” he said before tasting it.

  Thóra laughed. �
�No, hopefully it’s grown using gallons of insecticide and preferably mercury fertilizer.” She took a sip. “Whatever the vintner used, the end result is delicious.” She put her glass down and picked up a canapé to nibble. “I’m starving, absolutely starving.”

  “Uh-huh,” Matthew said. “I’m glad that hasn’t changed. And you haven’t changed.” He winked at her. “Even your taste in clothes is still so…what’s the word…?”

  Thóra looked down at her plain sweater and then stuck her tongue out at him. “What was I meant to do—bring an evening gown and stilettos in the hope that someone would invite me out to dinner?”

  “I doubt whether you’d have turned up in an evening gown even if you had been invited out.” He adjusted his tie theatrically.

  “Ha, ha,” said Thóra. “I’m too hungry to defend myself against your hilarious jokes. Where’s the food?” She looked at the clock. “Damn. I have to phone home before Sóley goes to sleep.” She picked up her bag, then remembered that her mobile was in police custody. “Sorry, can I borrow your phone?”

  “Sure,” said Matthew, handing her his mobile. “Are your kids all right? I hardly dare ask—are you a grandmother yet?”

  Thóra took the phone. “You can relax—you’re still dining with a young woman.” It was a clamshell phone and she flicked it open. On the display was a photograph of a little black girl with cornrows. “Who’s this?” she asked, turning the mobile to face Matthew. Was he a father? Did he live with someone? He’d never mentioned it.