My Soul to Take Page 17

  Thóra raised her eyebrows. “I’m not putting down your belief in the supernatural—I’m actually preparing litigation for Jónas, which involves ghosts. That’s all there is to it. Any knowledge you might have about local ghost stories would be very useful to me.”

  “I’m sure it would,” Jökull said mutinously. “But you’ll have to get it from someone else. I’m no expert on ghost stories, although I do know a few. I think the world’s a complex place, and people from Reykjavík don’t know everything there is to know.”

  “In that case, forgetting about the ghosts, do you know anything else about the place? For example, would you know anything about the people who used to live on the farm?”

  Jökull shook his head. “No, nothing. I’m not old enough to be interested in history.”

  That was a good point, thought Thóra, making a mental note to look for older people who knew the area. “Do you still have any relatives here?”

  “One sister.”

  “Did your parents move to the city?”

  “No, they died,” Jökull answered tersely.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Thóra. She didn’t want to pry. “Forgive my obsession with local history, but do you know anything about a Nazi movement that operated around here?”

  Jökull’s eyes widened, and she believed him when he responded instantly, “No, I’ve never heard of it. Although I don’t chase around after the past, I’d definitely have remembered that. That can’t be true.”

  “You’re probably right,” Thóra replied. “But since you come from around here, there’s one thing you can definitely tell me. It’s nothing to do with the past.”

  “What?” asked Jökull suspiciously.

  “I met a young man today and I think he’s from around here. I can’t work out how old he is, but he could be your age. He was in a wheelchair and in a terrible state, probably from burns. Do you know what happened to him?”

  Jökull didn’t answer. He stood up. “I’ve got to go and work. Your five minutes were up ages ago.” He pressed his lips tightly together, as if afraid to speak.

  “So you don’t know him?” Thóra asked, standing up as well.

  “I’m late. Bye,” said Jökull.

  Thóra watched him walking away. She had clearly struck a nerve.

  “HE WAS VERY ODD,” SAID THÓRA, TAKING A SIP OF HER COFFEE. IT had long since gone cold. She swallowed and pulled a face.

  “Do you think he’s connected with the murder,” Matthew asked, “or is he just a bit weird?”

  “To tell the truth, I don’t know whether he’s involved. He clearly hated Birna, but he wouldn’t explain why. He just said he was ‘a good judge of character.’ Might he be an ex-lover? Perhaps she dumped him for the farmer.”

  “Or maybe he really is just a great judge of character.” Matthew shrugged. “I’m starving. What time is it?”

  Thóra ignored him. “No, there’s something weird going on. And he turned on me when I asked about the young man in the wheelchair.”

  Matthew was shocked. “You asked about him? What on earth did you do that for?”

  “I just did. They are both from around here and about the same age. I thought he might know what happened,” she said. “I know I can be a bit too nosy, but I didn’t expect a response like that—what reason would Jökull have to be touchy about it? At least now I know I have to find out what happened.”

  “I just think that’s really inappropriate,” Matthew said, still scandalized. “Asking personal questions about a complete stranger. And he’s disabled.”

  “So? Is it illegal to ask about disabled people?” replied Thóra. “You’re just grumpy because you’re hungry. Let’s go and have something to eat.” She stood up.

  Matthew perked up. “Why don’t we go somewhere else to eat?” he asked. “Is there anywhere nearby?”

  “Sure,” she said. “There’s Hellnar, for example. Who knows, we might meet someone who’ll tell us about the ghosts, or about Bergur the farmer.”

  Matthew groaned. “God, I hope not.”

  WITH A MIGHTY EFFORT, EIRÍKUR OPENED HIS EYES. THE AURA reader was suffering from his worst headache in years. He tried to move, but was immediately seized by such overwhelming nausea that he had to squeeze his eyes shut. When the worst had passed, he tried to get his bearings. What had happened? Had he been drinking? He didn’t think so, and there was no taste of alcohol in his mouth. He vaguely recalled laying out tarot cards in the staff cottage—had he been telling his own fortune or someone else’s? He had a feeling he’d had words with Jónas, but couldn’t remember what it was about. Would it have been something to do with his job, or the tarot reading? He couldn’t remember.

  Suddenly his thoughts were sent spinning in all directions by a terrible surge of pain in his legs. At first it was so intense that Eiríkur had trouble locating it precisely. Were both his ankles broken, or had some other part of his legs been injured? Then the pain eased slightly and he realized that it was a burning pain on the soles of his feet. What had happened? Was he at the hotel?

  Eiríkur was lying on something warm but hard. He felt around himself on both sides and decided it felt like grass or hay, though that disgusting smell suggested that he wasn’t outside. He could hear a strange sound, but couldn’t place it. Was it breathing? Was someone else there? Cautiously, he opened one eye and saw that he was indeed indoors. It was quite dark, but there was a dim glow somewhere behind him. He didn’t have the strength to turn around and see where the light came from—even breathing was hard work. He inhaled and exhaled cautiously—in, out, in, out—and fought the nausea that was worsening by the minute. It seemed stupid, but he didn’t want to vomit before he found out where he was and what had happened. A vague recollection fleetingly entered his mind, reminding him not to move. It was gone before he could recall why he should stay still. Then he realized.

  The cards. The King of Pentacles, or money, and Death. His heart pounded in his chest and he turned his head as slowly as he could, hoping his memory was deceiving him, but it wasn’t. He was in the stables. There was no money in sight, but he had a feeling death was close at hand. He lost control of his breathing and vomited copiously, unable for a while to focus on anything else. The sickness soon passed, and when it did he was gripped by terror again. He heard a loud neighing, followed by the heavy clatter of hooves. Which direction had the sounds come from? Where was the horse? Eiríkur made a huge effort to prop himself up and open his eyes. That made him retch again, but the first bout of vomiting had been so powerful that almost nothing came up. When the spasms receded, he managed to get up on his elbows and take a cautious look around. He looked down at himself and, in spite of his confused state, realized where the unbearable stench was coming from. He fought to suppress the scream that rose in his throat. Then he forced himself to look away from what was tied to his chest—the bloodied fur, the gaping mouth, the dangling head—and focus instead on what stood over him. He was desperate to untie the rough cord binding the horrible thing to him, but the urge to live was stronger. He raised his head slowly.

  Legs. Four slender but powerful legs stomping up and down in an agitated manner. What had he been told? That everyone would think it had been an accident. A bizarre case of death through misadventure. That couldn’t happen. People had to know that this was murder, not a stupid accident. Over the years, Eiríkur had had to put up with enough jokes about his work. He was suddenly determined to ensure that mockery would not follow him beyond the grave. He felt an urge to communicate this, almost as strong as the desire to stay alive. Now that he knew what was happening to him, he had to find a way to make it known.

  Eiríkur tried to concentrate but it was almost impossible to keep the panic that threatened to overpower his senses at bay. He was in a confined space, so he didn’t have many options. The horse was throwing its powerful head back and forth, a white foam bubbling at the corners of its mouth. Eirikur fought off panic. He needed to get his message across. But how? He cou
ld hardly spell it out with pieces of straw, because they wouldn’t still be in place when someone finally turned up. No, he had to write it. He had to find a surface that would be safe from the animal’s hooves. His eyes darted around the stall and his gaze fell on the nearest wall. With a determination he never knew he possessed, he managed to keep sickness at bay long enough to drag himself closer to it. The mighty animal neighed and increased its stomping. There was no denying that it was preparing to attack and Eiríkur fought off the urge to cry. Instead, he prayed to God that he would manage to scratch a few letters on the wall with his ring before it was all over. The animal’s breathing quickened and Eiríkur froze. His bloodshot eyes locked with those of the animal’s. There was no kindness to be found in the depths of the dark brown pools. He had been told that the moment the stallion looked down and noticed him on the floor, it would realize what was causing its agitation and trample him to death. It was clear this was imminent. Although the animal’s breathing had suddenly slowed it was merely the calm before the storm. Muscle spasms rippled the horse’s sinewy thighs and the animal appeared to be mentally preparing itself for the attack. As if it could end but one way. Eiríkur pushed himself up against the wall in one quick movement. He was absolutely incapable of standing up; the pain in his feet was so intense it felt as though the skin had been burned off.

  Eiríkur’s shoulder bumped against the wall and the horse shook its head and neighed. Preparation was obviously over. Frantically, Eiríkur stretched out his hand and began scratching his ring against the paneling, but the stallion snorted angrily as soon as it heard the ring scrape against the wall. To his horror, Eiríkur saw its mad brown eyes roll toward him. It whinnied angrily and took a step forward. Eiríkur tried to scratch letters into the wall as fast as he could, but dared not take his eyes off the beast. He was transfixed; the last thing he really wanted to see was his death approaching but he was powerless to look away. The animal’s eyes told him that the wait was over and death would soon replace life. Instinctively Eiríkur covered his head, as if that could save him. The horse pawed at the ground, then turned and kicked at him with its back hooves. While Eiríkur let out a scream unlike any that he had so far made in his sorry life, all he could think about was whether his scrawlings would be enough to expose his murderer. He kept screaming while the relentless animal slowly battered his bones and flesh to a bloody pulp. The agony was so overbearing that his thoughts were those of a basic life-form; no words were formed in his brain nor were images. His gray matter was too overflooded with pangs of agony to allow for anything other than primordial cognitions.

  When his spine broke and the pain disappeared as if by magic, Eiríkur’s mind snapped back. This did him no favor as he spent the brief interval before consciousness left his body for good in disappointment. If only he had had a little more time—no one would understand his writing. A fearsome sound came from the horse and Eiríkur pleaded pitifully with the frenzied beast to spare his life, hoping to evoke its sympathy.

  But that was as futile as believing that the creature could read what was written on the wall: “R E R.”

  CHAPTER 18

  THE STALLION BELONGS to my wife. I’m not fond of horses,” said Bergur, staring at the floor.

  Thórólfur leaned across the old kitchen table, taking care to keep his sleeves out of the coffee Bergur had spilled when he filled his cup with shaking hands. “So what were you doing in there, since you claim you’re not much of an equestrian?”

  “The horses have to be fed every night. That’s my job,” Bergur replied without looking up. “You don’t have to be a horsey person for that.”

  In his many years in the police force, one thing Thórólfur had learned was that he could trust his intuition in interrogations. He had a very strong feeling that the man hunched in front of him had something to hide. God alone knew what it was, but Thórólfur was determined to find out. “No, I suppose you don’t,” he agreed, then continued. “How come you still have your horses stabled? I understand from my people that they’re normally put out to pasture in June.”

  “We hire out horses,” replied the farmer. “Well, my wife does, actually, but I help out when needed. I handle the feeding and so on.” He gnawed at a cuticle on his left hand. “We’re going to put the stallion out in the paddock; we just haven’t got around to it yet.”

  Thórólfur scribbled in a notepad, then looked up. “When did you realize something was wrong?”

  Bergur shrugged. “I don’t know the exact time, if that’s what you mean. I don’t wear a watch or carry one of those around”—he pointed to Thórólfur’s mobile, which lay on the table between them—“but obviously it was very soon after I went into the stable block.” Bergur stopped talking and swallowed audibly.

  “Yes, of course,” said Thórólfur impatiently. “But how come you noticed it immediately? The stall is at the far end of the stables. Was there any particular reason you went straight there?”

  Bergur swallowed again. “I always feed the stallion first. He’s not broken in yet and he gets agitated. He’s hard work—he’s incredibly wary of people, so he becomes really worked up when I’m in the stables. If he’s fed first, he leaves me in peace to feed the other horses.”

  “I see,” said Thórólfur. “He’s in the biggest stall with the highest partitions, is that right?” Bergur nodded silently. “Why is that? Is it because of his temperament?”

  “No, not just that. Stallions are always fenced off more securely. It stops them getting in with the other horses, which could end in disaster.”

  “So this stallion wasn’t particularly bad, perhaps?” asked the detective. “I mean, are they all like that? Do they pose a special threat to other horses?”

  “Well, stallions are more aggressive than geldings and mares,” answered Bergur quietly, “but this stallion is exceptionally wild. I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure of that.”

  “Fine,” said Thórólfur, although it wasn’t clear to the farmer what he meant. “So you say you went straight over to that pen—”

  “Stall,” the farmer corrected him.

  “Stall, then,” he said crossly. “And you immediately saw a man lying there?”

  “Yes, pretty much,” Bergur replied. “It was all so surreal I have trouble describing it in detail.”

  “Why don’t you give it a go?” suggested Thórólfur.

  “I think I noticed the fox first, then the man. I remember seeing blood in the sawdust and thinking the horse had injured himself. Then I saw the fox and thought the blood must have come from that, and then…” Bergur was breathing heavily now, trying to stay calm. “It was awful. He was just lying there. I wondered at first if he was still alive, but when I leaned over for a better look I could tell he was dead.” He inhaled deeply and repeated, “It was awful. And his feet. God help me—”

  “So you haven’t got used to it?” interrupted Thórólfur, drumming his fingers on the table.

  Bergur looked up, surprised and anxious. “What do you mean?”

  “This is the second body you’ve chanced upon in a couple of days. I thought it might not be so bad the second time,” said the detective. “Come to think of it, it’s a hell of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say,” Bergur whispered. “I couldn’t bear to go through that again, and I wish it had never happened to me. Neither time.” He sat up and looked Thórólfur in the eye. “I had no part in this, if that’s what you think.”

  “No, no, I’m sure you didn’t, but it’s interesting all the same,” said the other man, meeting Bergur’s glare with a quizzical look.

  “It was an accident,” said the farmer mulishly. “Surely no one doubts that?”

  “How would you explain such an accident?” asked Thórólfur.

  “Well, I don’t know,” replied Bergur, then paused. “A hunter who followed a fox into the stable? Or something…weirder.”

  “What do you mean, ‘weirder’?” i
nquired Thórólfur.

  “There are cases of men who go into livestock enclosures to…satisfy their needs. Maybe he was one of them,” said the farmer, flushing slightly.

  “Then he would have taken a stool or box to stand on, wouldn’t he? And how does the fox come into it? And what about the pins?” snapped Thórólfur, stone-faced. “Both your explanations are pretty implausible.”

  Bergur sat back in his chair. “I’m not investigating this; you are. I have no idea how the man ended up in there. You asked me and I answered. All I know is, I wasn’t involved.”

  “Fine, but it’s still your shed, and—”

  “It’s a stable. Sheds are for cattle,” said Bergur peevishly. His anger subsided immediately and he added in a much calmer voice, “I’m not sure I feel up to discussing this anymore. I still haven’t recovered from the shock.” He bowed his head and returned his gaze to the table.

  “It’s almost over,” replied Thórólfur, who had little sympathy for the man opposite him. “I noticed a rifle on the wall inside. Is it yours?”

  “Yes,” Bergur said. “It’s mine. I very much doubt that you’ll find a farmer in these parts who doesn’t own a rifle.” He looked up, annoyed. “The man wasn’t shot. What’s wrong with you?”

  The detective smiled coldly. “No, but the fox was, if I’m not mistaken. Did you shoot that fox?”

  Bergur picked awkwardly at the faded oilcloth on the table. “No. Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “Oh, really?” said Thórólfur with an exaggerated air of bafflement. “Could you explain that a little better? I’m not sure I understood. You don’t know whether you shot that fox?”

  Bergur stopped fiddling with the cloth and looked up. “I shoot foxes if and when I notice them. There’s an eider colony here, and we can’t have a predator loose around them, but I haven’t shot a fox for months, apart from one the other day that got away. I know I hit it because I found blood and some scraps of fur, but I never saw its corpse. I thought it had escaped, but who knows? It might be the same fox.”