My Soul to Take Read online

He smiled. “That’s my daughter.”

  “Really?” replied Thóra. “She doesn’t exactly take after you.” She looked at the picture again. “Apart from the hair, perhaps.” She wasn’t sure what else to say.

  Matthew laughed and ran his hand over his short hair. “No, we’re not related. I’m her foster parent through a charity.”

  “Oh, how sweet.” Thóra took a sip of wine to conceal her relief. “I thought for a moment that you had a wife or girlfriend. I don’t go in much for married men. On a scale of attractiveness from one to ten, they rank minus two.”

  “Women are strange,” Matthew said. “I find you attractive, and still would if you were married.”

  “Then you’re lucky that I’m divorced,” she replied, looking back at the photograph. “She doesn’t live with you, does she?” She absolutely couldn’t imagine Matthew washing children’s clothes, let alone producing such neat plaits on that little head.

  “No, no,” said Matthew. “She lives in Rwanda. I know a woman in her village who works on a relief program for the Red Cross. She talked me into it.”

  “What’s her name?” Thóra asked.

  “Who, the woman or the girl?” he teased.

  “The girl, of course,” she replied.

  “Laya,” he said.

  “That’s a pretty name,” Thóra said, placing both her hands over one of his where it lay on the table. “I’ll be quick, because when the food arrives, I’ll quite happily hang up on my own children.” She dialed her son’s number. “Hi, Gylfi, how’s it going?”

  “Are you abroad?” said her son’s startled voice.

  “No,” said Thóra, hastily adding, “I borrowed a phone from some foreigner at this hotel because mine isn’t working. How are things?”

  “Rubbish. This is dead boring. I want to go home,” Gylfi replied crossly.

  “Now, now,” Thóra said soothingly. “I bet it’s fun. Is Sóley having a good time?”

  “She always does; I don’t know why you bother to ask,” Gylfi grumbled. “But I’m going nuts here. Dad’s been clowning around with Sóley’s SingStar ’80s. If I hear him do ‘Eye of the Tiger’ once more, I’ll walk out of the door. I mean it.”

  “Well, sweetie,” Thóra said, “it’ll be over soon. Can I have a word with Sóley?” She didn’t feel inclined to defend his father’s karaoke skills.

  “Don’t stay on for too long. I have to phone Sigga. She put her mobile on her stomach just now and let the baby kick a text message to me.”

  “Did she?” said Thóra, who had long since ceased to be surprised by anything. “And what did it say?”

  “‘jxgt,’” Gylfi answered proudly. He handed the mobile to her daughter without any further explanation and a sweet little voice shouted, “Mum, Mum. Hi, Mum!”

  “Hello, sweetie,” said Thóra. “Having fun?”

  “Yes. It’s okay, but I want you to come home. Dad and Gylfi are always arguing.”

  “It won’t be long, baby. I’ll be really glad to get you back too. Say hello to your dad from me, and I’ll see you tomorrow.” Thóra said goodbye, closed the mobile, and handed it back to Matthew.

  “I didn’t understand a single word of that,” he said, putting the phone back in his jacket pocket. “Will you speak Icelandic to me later? In bed?”

  “Of course I will, you idiot,” said Thóra in the language of the Vikings, as she moved her foot from the floor to a much warmer place. The wine was starting to have an effect. “Aren’t you relieved that I’m not wearing stilettos now?”

  RÓSA STOOD BY THE STOVE, MAKING COFFEE IN AN OLD-FASHIONED pot. The process required no concentration and she let her mind roam, but any positive or joyful thoughts refused to linger, invariably yielding to more depressing ones. She forced herself to remember how eagerly her favorite lamb, Stubbur, had drunk from the bottle that morning, but the image dissolved at once. It was forced out by the memory of Bergur coming home the night before last and telling her about the body he had found on the beach. She tried to banish the memory by thinking about her brother’s impending visit. That would surely cheer them up; he was always really boisterous. And it was about time. These days the house was so quiet that a visiting stranger might have taken the couple for deaf and dumb. She smiled sadly. As if any strangers visited. Even their acquaintances never called. No one except their closest relatives ever dropped in. It was hardly surprising. Who wanted to come to a house where even the potted plants were infected with unhappiness?

  Rósa sighed. She had no close friend she could ask for advice, but doubted they’d be able to tell her anything she didn’t know. Bergur was unhappy because he lived with her and didn’t love her. She was unhappy because she lived with him and loved him and her love was not reciprocated. Although she didn’t know exactly when he had stopped loving her—if he had ever started—she clearly remembered when she had fallen in love with him: the day they met. She still recalled how handsome he was, so different from the other young men she had known. He had come from the west to help with the spring chores on the farm, and had swept her off her feet immediately. They worked together side by side, up to their elbows in blood from the lambing, and her attraction for him grew as it gradually dawned on her from their conversations how well read and knowledgeable he was. Also, he had been much better spoken than most people, and still was. That gave him a certain cosmopolitan air, although he had never been outside the country. Back then, and even now, she felt like a yokel beside him. She had always known she wasn’t good enough for him. Eventually he would leave, and that knowledge filled her with a sadness that was smothering their marriage. Which came first, the chicken or the egg?

  For God’s sake. She shook herself. You sap, stop feeling sorry for yourself. The aroma of coffee filled her nostrils and cheered her up slightly. Better times might lie ahead after all. She fetched a freshly baked sponge cake and a knife to slice it. Bergur would be back any second and she wanted to have everything ready for him when he returned, weary after his evening’s work. He was mending the leaky roof of the barn, and she knew it was both boring and difficult for him. He could hardly be called a handyman, that was certain. She didn’t care, though. It wasn’t his carpentry skills that had attracted her.

  For dinner, she had boiled the last frozen black pudding from the previous autumn, with potatoes. Realizing that it wasn’t the most exciting of meals, she planned to jazz it up by serving her husband sponge cake with his coffee after dinner. She peeped inside the pot and saw that the water was about to boil. A tear suddenly ran down her cheek. That fucking bitch. She wiped away the tear, sniffled and lifted the knife. Fucking little bitch. He was spoken for, couldn’t she see that? The lid on the pot rattled suddenly and Rósa jumped. Then she smiled to herself as she lifted it and turned down the heat on the stove. Fucking dead bitch. Dead, dead, dead bitch. Rósa’s spirits lifted as she stood with the knife poised above the cake. Dead, and soon to be buried. She had never heard of anyone leaving their wife for a dead bitch.

  MATTHEW RAISED HIS HEAD FROM THE PILLOW. HE WAS THIRSTY and wondered whether that was what had woken him up or a noise from outside. He smiled at his own foolishness when he realized there was nothing but silence outside the open window. With a yawn he got up, taking care not to wake Thóra. That was easier said than done, because she had managed to sprawl in such a way that he had great trouble not disturbing her as he climbed out of bed. He went to the bathroom and let the water run while he fetched a glass. The glass was under the tap when a strange sound reached his ears. He turned off the water at once and listened. It sounded like a crying child. Ears pricked, Matthew left the bathroom and tried to work out where the sound was coming from. Suddenly, to his surprise, it stopped. Perhaps there were guests at the hotel with a baby that couldn’t sleep. That must be it. Chiding himself for overreacting, he went over to the window to close it properly. Unlike him, Thóra liked it wide open and the room was quite cold.

  While he was locking the window, the child began cryin
g again. Now there was no doubt that it came from outside. Matthew opened the curtain and peered out into the bright night. He saw nothing and the noise stopped again, just as suddenly as before. He stood by the window for a while, waiting to hear it once more, but to no avail. Although the temptation to get back into bed was overwhelming, the thought of an infant exposed to the elements was something he could not ignore so donning a bathrobe Matthew stepped outside onto the small patio, careful not to wake Thóra. The brisk air immediately called forth goose bumps on his bare calves and a light wind threatened to blow the robe open. Matthew tightened the belt and looked around seeing nothing but the familiar serene surroundings of the hotel grounds. There was no abundance of places to hide so a short walk around the rugged lawn was enough to clear his conscience; there was no baby to be found. Possibly the infant had been outside with its mother or father and was now back inside. Why anyone would take a baby out in the middle of the night was beyond him but then again he had never had one to call his own so what did he know. He returned to the room and got back under the duvet, taking precautions not to touch Thóra with his now cold limbs and body. That would have to wait until he had mustered up some heat.

  One thing was certain, he had heard a child crying and he was equally sure that the child had not been a ghost.

  CHAPTER 12

  SUNDAY, 11 JUNE 2006

  THE JAPANESE FATHER and son were so overwhelmingly polite that Thóra felt like a drunken oaf in their presence. She tried her best to talk calmly, move slowly, and avoid all unnecessary facial expressions, but to no avail. Matthew was faring much better. Thóra, suspecting that he’d learned from his experience working for a German bank, kept her head down and let him do the talking. They had waited in the lobby for the Japanese to return from the short walk that, according to Vigdís from reception, they always took in the mornings. Now they were all sitting in wooden chairs at the front of the hotel, enjoying the rare sunshine.

  “So you didn’t know her?” Matthew asked in a low, clear voice. He was still a little annoyed at Thóra, who had teased him about the crying child he’d heard in the night. She thought he’d dreamed it.

  The son translated Matthew’s words into Japanese for his father. Then he turned back to them. “No, sorry. We don’t know who you are referring to.”

  “She was an architect, working for the owner of this hotel. A young woman, dark-haired,” Matthew explained.

  The old man put a skinny hand on his son’s shoulder and said something. The son listened intently, then nodded. He addressed Matthew. “It is possible that my father saw that woman. She was out in the front here, talking to a man in a wheelchair and a young girl. He says she was holding some drawings and writing on them. Could that be her?”

  Matthew looked quizzically at Thóra. “Was she connected with anyone in a wheelchair?”

  She shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

  Matthew asked if the elder man knew who these people were.

  Again the two men exchanged words that the son translated into English for Matthew and Thóra. “No, my father didn’t know them, but he had seen them before—the woman at the hotel, and the young people nearby.” He bowed his head slightly before continuing. “My father says he noticed the young couple because of how especially caring the girl seemed to be toward the crippled boy, but he doesn’t know anything else about them, or about the architect. I don’t remember the woman myself, so I am of no help.”

  Matthew and Thóra exchanged a glance. It was pointless to disturb the men any further, so they stood. “Mr. Takahashi, thank you very much,” Matthew said with a bow. Thóra followed suit. “We hope you have a nice stay.”

  “Thank you,” the son said, also rising. He helped his frail father to stand. “This is a good place to stay. My father has been ill, but the fresh air makes him feel better.”

  “I hope he gets well soon,” said Thóra, smiling warmly at the old man. He smiled back and they exchanged farewells.

  When they were inside the lobby, she turned to Matthew. “Not much joy there, I’m afraid.”

  He shrugged. “You can’t have expected them to know who the murderer is.” Then he frowned. “But I do think it’s odd that the son had no idea who Birna was, although his father had almost certainly seen her. You remember what Vigdís said about those two? The son follows his father everywhere, like a shadow. So where was the son when the father saw Birna with the young couple?”

  “Maybe the father saw them through the window,” suggested Thóra. “The son would have told us if he remembered. Why wouldn’t he?”

  “I don’t know,” Matthew said pensively. “But it’s strange how long they talked to each other when you think how short the answers were when the son translated them. It’s also weird that they didn’t ask why we were inquiring about Birna.”

  “Isn’t it something to do with Japanese politeness? Curiosity might be considered as bad as theft in their country.” Thóra was hungry. She stole a glance at the clock above their heads. “Come on, let’s get something to eat before they clear breakfast away.”

  Matthew looked at her in surprise, then consulted his own watch. “They don’t close the dining room at eight, do they?”

  “Come on,” she said again, hopping impatiently from foot to foot. “I’ll die if I don’t have some coffee. There should be other guests in there who we can talk to as well.”

  “Well, I don’t want you dying on me,” Matthew said, following her. “Even if you didn’t believe me about that crying I heard.”

  “Whooo,” Thóra chanted. “We’re the ghoooost children—whooo.” She chuckled at Matthew’s petulant expression. “Don’t be so silly,” she said. “Some coffee will perk us up.”

  Only three tables were occupied in the dining room. An elderly couple Thóra had not seen before were sitting at one, at another sat Magnús Baldvinsson, the old politician, and at the third a gloomy-looking young man. He was sunburned and looked as if he were in good shape, although his physique was hard to see under his trendy clothes. Thóra decided to concentrate on him. She nudged Matthew and murmured, “That must be the canoeist, Thröstur Laufeyjarson, who Jónas said might be connected with Birna’s death. Looks pretty moody, doesn’t he? Let’s take the table next to him.”

  They went up to the buffet and Thóra quickly threw a few pieces of food on to her plate. To her chagrin, Matthew seemed to be taking his time to explore the selection, strolling around the table. She nudged him again. “Quick. He mustn’t leave before we sit down.” Matthew looked disappointed, but grabbed a yogurt. They walked over to the table next to the canoeist’s. Thóra smiled at him as she sat down. “Hello. Lovely weather, isn’t it?”

  The man didn’t look up, and seemed unaware that she was addressing him. He yawned and took a sip of orange juice. Thóra tried again. “Excuse me,” she said, loudly enough that there could be no doubt she was talking to him. “Do you know if there’s a boat rental around here? We were thinking of renting a boat. Or a kayak.”

  The man swallowed, startled. “Sorry, were you talking to me?” he said in English. “I’m afraid I don’t speak Icelandic.”

  “Oh.” Thóra was caught a little off balance. Clearly this was not Thröstur Laufeyjarson. She smiled apologetically. “Sorry,” she said, also in English. “I thought you were someone else.” She changed the subject to keep him talking. “Have you just arrived?”

  He shook his head. “No, I’ve been here a while on and off, because I’ve been traveling.”

  Thóra nonchalantly feigned interest in his travels. “Where have you been? There’s so much to see.”

  The young man didn’t seem to mind having company. He swung around in his seat to face Thóra and Matthew. “Mainly in the West Fjords. I work for a travel magazine and we feature unusual destinations.”

  “That sounds like an interesting job,” said Thóra, taking her first sip of coffee. She couldn’t remember the man’s name, but he must be the photographer Jónas recognized on th
e guest list.

  The young man laughed. “Well, it can be tiring, like any other job. I’m a photographer, which can sometimes mean working long, grueling hours.”

  Thóra stuck out her hand. “How rude of me not to introduce myself. My name’s Thóra.” She nodded at Matthew. “And this is Matthew, from Germany.”

  The young man stood and stretched over the table to shake their hands. “Hi. I’m Robin, Robin Kohman, from the States.”

  Thóra tried to look as if a thought had just occurred to her. “Wait a minute…didn’t I see you with Birna?”

  Robin looked blank. “Birna?”

  “Yes, Birna, the architect who was here…” She trailed off expectantly.

  “Ah, yes, the architect, Birna,” exclaimed Robin cheerfully. He pronounced the name completely differently from Thóra. “Yes, I know her; I just didn’t recognize her name the way you said it. I haven’t quite mastered the pronunciation. All your words sound the same.” He finished his juice and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Yes, I got to know her a little. I took a few shots for her and she told me about places around here where I could find interesting subjects to photograph.”

  “Do you remember when you last saw her?” asked Matthew. He had not bothered to open his container of yogurt.

  Robin thought for a moment. “No, I think it’s been a few days. Is anything wrong?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” fibbed Thóra. “We just wanted to meet her.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Magnús Baldvinsson stand up and leave.

  “If you bump into her, perhaps you could let her know I still have her photographs.” Robin stood up.

  “In the unlikely event that we see her, we certainly will,” said Matthew, smiling cryptically. When Robin had left, he picked up the container of yogurt and waved it in Thóra’s face. “Can I get something decent to eat now?”

  MAGNÚS BALDVINSSON WALKED AROUND THE HOTEL SITE, TRYING to find a signal for his mobile. His room had no reception and he didn’t want to talk surrounded by people in the corridor or in the dining room, where he knew all he could get was a weak signal. Twice he stumbled on loose rocks. It was difficult to keep an eye on the display on his mobile and watch where he was going. Breathing a sigh of relief as a few bars of signal appeared on the screen, he hurriedly dialed his home number. He was in the car park, and people would probably start coming outside soon. He waited impatiently as it rang. Eventually it was answered.