My Soul to Take Page 19

  Thórólfur smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I wasn’t asking for a lecture on the natural sciences.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Tell me another thing. Do the letters ‘RER’ mean anything to you?”

  The hotelier shook his head. “No. I can’t say they do.” He looked at Thóra. “How about you?”

  “I haven’t the faintest,” she answered, and turned to Thórólfur. “What does it mean?”

  “It’s not important,” he said firmly, then changed the subject. “Do you have a sewing room in the hotel here?”

  “No,” replied Jónas. “Do you have a loose button or a hem that needs mending?” he asked, in apparent sincerity.

  Thórólfur did not answer Jónas, but continued, “Do you offer acupuncture?”

  “I don’t personally, but we have discussed calling in an acupuncturist temporarily,” Jónas answered, startled. “It’s an ancient practice, but you can achieve incredible results with all sorts of ailments. I know of a man who smoked a pack a day of unfiltered Camels for thirty years—” He got no further.

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re not making small talk here,” Thórólfur growled. “I ask; you answer. Preferably yes or no, as appropriate.” He had been rubbing one of his shoulders as he talked, and Thóra prayed that Jónas would not offer him a hot-stone massage.

  “What I want to know is this: is there a sewing room here? Is acupuncture practiced? If not, do you offer any kind of service that requires pins or needles?”

  Jónas thought for a moment, then answered in accordance with Thórólfur’s instructions. “Yes,” he said.

  The policeman sighed. “Yes, and…? What kind of service?”

  Thóra indicated that Jónas should answer. “In each room is a little sewing kit, the size of a matchbox. It’s for guests who need to make minor repairs to their clothes. I can fetch one of those sets if you want. There are several colors of thread, one needle, two or three buttons, and a safety pin, if memory serves. There’s nothing else in it.”

  “No other pins?” Thórólfur asked.

  “No,” said Jónas, shaking his head. “I’m fairly sure of it.”

  “I’d like to see one of those sets before I leave,” Thórólfur said. “And take a look at where you keep the stock.” He paused, glowering at Jónas. “One last question. I’ve been notified that Birna’s room was broken into.”

  “What?” exclaimed Jónas. “I didn’t know that. Who told you that?”

  “That’s none of your business, unless you know who did it and when it happened.” Thórólfur’s glare didn’t waver.

  “I don’t know anything about it. I haven’t been in there since you had the room cordoned off on Friday evening and banned everybody from entering. I swear it wasn’t me.” Jónas was gabbling now. “I have no reason to go in there.”

  “That’s what you say,” Thórólfur said, finally looking down at his notebook. “Somebody felt they had a reason. If not you, then who?” He looked back up at Jónas.

  “Well, I don’t know. The murderer, I suppose,” said Jónas, flustered.

  “Is that everything?” interrupted Thóra. “You said, ‘One last question,’ and Jónas has answered it now. Can we go?”

  Thórólfur flapped his hand dismissively. “Please do. But I definitely need to talk to you again tomorrow,” he said to Jónas. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  Jónas’s eyes widened, and Thóra spoke before he could. “No, of course. We won’t. I should remind you that I wish to be present any time Jónas is questioned. I assume that won’t be a problem.”

  “No, no,” replied Thórólfur. “Why would it be?”

  Thóra and Jónas left the office that he had lent to the police officers—if you could call it an office. It was used as a storeroom for cleaning supplies, but happened to also contain a desk that wouldn’t fit anywhere else. Chairs had been fetched and arranged as comfortably as the limited floor space allowed, but the result was a little unconventional. As soon as they had entered the room, Thóra had been struck by how unthreatening it was. She wondered if that would put the police at a disadvantage during their preliminary interviews. After being inside for a while, however, she had realized that the smell of disinfectant was so overpowering that it more than made up for the unimpressive atmosphere. She was indescribably relieved to walk out of there, and her mind was buzzing. Foxes? Pins? RER?

  JÓNAS WAS KNOCKING BACK BRANDY. HE HAD INVITED THÓRA and Matthew into his flat, as she needed to talk to him after the interrogation. Small but cozy, the flat was part of the hotel building. Thóra was sitting beside Matthew on a soft leather sofa, a glass of water in her hand, and she had a magnificent view of the glacier to the west. Jónas sat in a chair beside them.

  “They think I killed Birna and that man,” he complained, taking another gulp of his cognac. “Are you sure you don’t want any of this? It really calms you down.”

  “Do you know more than you told the police just now?” asked Thóra. “What was that about foxes and needles? And the letters?”

  “I don’t have a clue, I swear,” he replied. “I know nothing about that man and even less about foxes, needles, and letters. I was freaking out. I thought it was a trap.”

  “That’s highly unlikely,” Thóra reassured him. “But it was certainly very odd.” She waited as Jónas finished his drink and reached over to refresh it. “Tell me one thing, Jónas.” He looked around. “Did you know that Birna was involved with a farmer from around here? A married man?”

  Jónas blushed. “Well, I suspected she was, yes,” he said, a strange look on his face.

  “And you are presumably aware that the very same farmer owns those stables?” she persisted.

  “Yes, I realized that,” he said, “but I didn’t want to say anything.”

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “I just didn’t,” Jónas replied, taking another swig.

  “Could it be because you were having a relationship with her yourself, and didn’t want to risk being implicated further?” she said.

  “Maybe,” answered Jónas sulkily.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that you were together?” shouted Thóra, frustrated.

  “It was nothing, nothing,” he replied. “I had no reason to hurt her.”

  “So you split up amicably?” she asked. She looked sideways at Matthew, who was smothering a yawn. She was conducting the conversation in Icelandic so that Jónas’s responses would be as natural as possible. Poor Matthew had to sit there like a gooseberry, looking out of the window at the glacier. She admired his composure; her ex-husband would already have nudged her several times to ask if they could leave.

  “Yes, pretty much,” Jónas replied. His eyes were a little glassy, but Thóra couldn’t tell whether through tiredness—it was past midnight—or alcohol. “I wouldn’t have minded it going on a bit longer, but she wanted to move on. Said I was too old.”

  “It sounds as though you weren’t too pleased about it,” Thóra said. “Did she go straight from you to Bergur?”

  “Yes.” Jónas scowled. “I suppose she did.”

  “You seem quite angry,” Thóra said. “Maybe I’m missing something, but I find it strange that you wanted her to continue working here under the circumstances, even if the split was amicable.”

  “It was. I’m not lying,” he said. “What could I do? She didn’t want me anymore. Life’s like that sometimes. She was a good architect, and she understood my plans for developing the area. I’m man enough to be able to keep business and pleasure separate.”

  “Good for you,” said Thóra. “Let’s just hope that the other witnesses back you up when they’re questioned.” She looked at him sternly. “If not, it won’t look good.”

  “Why not?” Jónas asked, affronted. “Aren’t I allowed to have girlfriends?”

  “Of course you are,” said Thóra, slightly annoyed. “But you know what I mean. And another thing—who’s the man in the stables? Maybe it’s Bergur. What then?�
��

  He turned pale. “I…I don’t know.”

  Thóra started to get up. “I shouldn’t be painting too dark a picture. We don’t even know yet if it was an accident or something worse.”

  Jónas looked at her. “Do you think the police would ask me about foxes and cryptic letters if a farmhand had fallen out of the hayloft? No, there’s some connection with what happened here.”

  MATTHEW’S ARM RESTED LIGHTLY ON THÓRA’S SHOULDERS AS they stood on the beach watching the surf. She had asked him to take a short walk with her before they went to sleep, because the smell of disinfectant was still in her nostrils and would give her a migraine if she wasn’t careful. She closed her eyes and was about to say something romantic when her mobile rang.

  “Anyone would think the hotel was the only place around here where there’s no mobile reception,” sighed Matthew.

  Thóra answered it quickly.

  “Hi, Thóra. Sorry to call you so late,” said a female voice. “It’s Dísa from next door.”

  “Oh, hello,” Thóra said, surprised. Had her house caught fire?

  “I did try to call earlier, but your phone must have been switched off,” said Dísa apologetically.

  “No, I’m on Snæfellsnes and the signal’s patchy,” Thóra said, hoping her neighbor would get to the point. “It comes and goes.”

  “Yes, I knew you were out of town. That’s why I called you. I saw somebody driving away in your SUV with the trailer, at about eleven. I thought it was rather strange. Did you lend it to anyone?”

  “No,” said Thóra, perplexed. “Thanks, Dísa. I’ll check whether anyone borrowed it, and if not, I’ll call the police. Thanks again.”

  She hung up and saw that six text messages were waiting for her. She opened the most recent one. It said, “call me asap—gylfi left and took sóley with him.”

  Thóra let out a laugh that turned into a groan. She looked at Matthew and said wearily, “Never have children. Stick with that little girl in Africa.”

  CHAPTER 20

  MONDAY, 12 JUNE 2006

  THÓRA WAS PACING in circles around the parking lot, trying to get a mobile signal. Matthew watched her in bemusement. “Why don’t you use the phone in your room?” he asked, hopping up and down to keep warm. The weather was horrible—Thóra couldn’t tell if they were in the middle of a bank of fog or if it was just low clouds.

  She had made a fruitless attempt to contact her son the previous evening, and wanted to start the day by locating both him and her trailer. The boy did not have a valid driver’s license, but he was taking lessons. Thóra was petrified that something bad had happened. The sequence of texts on her mobile had painted a clear picture of the scenario as it unfolded. The first three were from Gylfi. In the first he expressed displeasure at not being able to go home as planned, in the second he said his dad was driving him mad, and the third merely stated, “eye of the tiger—im out of here.” Several texts from her ex followed, declaring Gylfi impossible to live with and blaming her for that. Thóra erased those messages. Gylfi was generally fairly soft-spoken, a keen student, and far from the thug his father described. He was only young, though, and sometimes had trouble holding his tongue, especially on the subject of his father’s dreadful attempts at karaoke. “Eye of the Tiger” had clearly been the straw that broke the camel’s back. Thóra could not recall Gylfi ever being excited about going to stay with his father, even without his sister’s PlayStation SingStar. After their divorce, Hannes had met a woman who was a passionate horse lover and he had been bitten by the same bug. Neither Gylfi nor Sóley shared his interest—in fact, Gylfi was frightened of horses, a fear he had picked up from his mother. He always felt uncomfortable at his father’s house, with the threat of a horse ride hanging over his head. In spite of all Thóra’s efforts to explain, Hannes refused to understand. He always said their son “just hadn’t got the hang of it yet.”

  Thóra sighed deeply, waiting for Gylfi to pick up. She wondered whether she should call his girlfriend’s parents, but quailed at the thought. Gylfi had obviously taken her with him on his impromptu trailer journey, because Thóra had received a text from the girl’s mother and didn’t care to recollect the language she had used. As a mother, Thóra could well understand the woman’s fury; she would not be best pleased if it were her daughter, Sóley, on the verge of giving birth in her sixteenth year, absconding with a boy hardly any older in an SUV pulling a trailer. She thanked her lucky stars that Sigga’s parents had not realized that Gylfi was driving without a license.

  Eventually her call was answered and Gylfi’s sleepy voice came over the line. “Hello.”

  “Where are you?” shouted Thóra, who had intended to remain calm.

  “What? Me?” Gylfi asked foolishly.

  “Yes, you, of course. Where are you?”

  Gylfi yawned. “Somewhere near Hveragerdi, I think. We drove past it yesterday.”

  Thóra cursed herself for not having made more effort to travel around the country with the kids. From previous experience she knew that the whole of southern Iceland was “near Hveragerdi” to Gylfi’s mind, just as the whole of north Iceland was “near Akureyri.”

  “Are you in the trailer?” she asked, adding in the next breath, “And who’s this ‘we’?”

  “‘We’ are me and Sigga,” Gylfi said, then muttered, “Oh, and Sóley too.”

  “Sóley’s still with you?” yelled Thóra. “Why haven’t you dropped her off at your grandmother’s? You don’t even have a driver’s license yet, and even if you did, you wouldn’t be allowed to tow a trailer. To say nothing of your pregnant girlfriend and six-year-old sister.”

  “Driving’s a cinch,” Gylfi said with masculine self-confidence. “And just so you know, Sóley’s here because she refused to tell me where you hid the keys to the SUV unless I took her along. Even she’d had enough of Dad’s caterwauling. She couldn’t use her PlayStation since he wouldn’t get off bloody SingStar.”

  Thóra groaned. “Gylfi,” she said as calmly as she could manage, “don’t move the trailer another inch. I’ll come and collect you tonight. Are you at a campsite?”

  “Uh, no,” Gylfi replied. “I don’t think so. We’re just somewhere I stopped.”

  “I see,” Thóra said. She closed her eyes and shook her head to ward off a scream. “Find out exactly where you are and let me know. Send me a text; the connection’s dismal here. Don’t go any farther. You don’t want to end up injuring yourself or someone else in the traffic.”

  After Gylfi had agreed, she ended the call. Thóra could only hope that he would do as he was told. As a rule he was obedient, but if they had parked at the roadside or somewhere equally random, they would surely get hungry and need to move soon. She put her mobile in her pocket and turned to Matthew. “I said it last night and I’ll say it again. Never have children.”

  THÓRA DRUMMED AGAINST THE EDGE OF THE DESK WITH THE PEN she was holding between finger and thumb.

  “Does that help you to think?” asked Matthew. “I hope so, because I can’t keep a thought in my head with that racket.”

  She put down the pen and turned glumly to Matthew. “This is important. I’m trying to keep my mind on this, but I can’t stop thinking about my children in that trailer.” She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “Why on earth did I buy that contraption?”

  “Because you’re rubbish with money?” He smiled.

  They were sitting in the hotel room, Thóra at the desk and Matthew on the bed. He was reclining comfortably against the headboard. She was sitting on a modern-looking chair that valued appearance over practicality or comfort.

  “Start by writing down what you know for certain,” he said, making himself even more comfortable. “The rest will follow.”

  Thóra picked up her pen and thought for a while. At her suggestion, she and Matthew were going through the details of the case in preparation for meeting Börkur and Elín, the brother and sister who had sold Jónas the land. She had a feeling this
would be her only chance to ask them detailed questions, so she wanted to have everything straight. “Okay,” she said, and started writing.

  When she looked up, she had filled three pages of A4 paper. Admittedly they were widely spaced, so there was not that much text—she wanted to keep the details she remembered clear. She looked over to the bed, feeling pleased with herself. “Wake up,” she said, seeing that Matthew had dozed off.

  Matthew woke with a grunt. “I wasn’t asleep,” he responded. “Have you finished?”

  “Yes,” Thóra said, picking up the sheets of paper. “At least, this is all I can remember right now.”

  “Tell me,” Matthew said, propping himself back up. His body had slid down from the head of the bed when he fell asleep.

  “Firstly, there’s the ghost. I’ve talked to quite a few people and they all agree this place is haunted. Although most of the locals are fairly gullible, I’m inclined to believe something happened here—”

  Matthew interrupted her. “Are you kidding?” he asked. “You think there’s some truth in the ghost story?”

  “No, of course not,” Thóra said tetchily. “You didn’t let me finish. I was going to say that presumably there’s a natural explanation. Most people here believe in the supernatural and might interpret strange goings-on in those terms—incidents for which there might be other, more normal explanations. I think we ought to try to find out what they are. Ghosts on the lawn, the sound of children crying in the middle of the night, apparitions in the bedrooms.”

  “The ghost only appeared in Jónas’s room,” Matthew said, pedantic as ever. “But that might not matter. How can you explain all that? Maybe it’s aliens?”

  “Ha, ha,” said Thóra humorlessly. “The thought struck me that it might just have been Birna and Bergur having sex outside. The counselor said they went in for rough sex. Who knows, the wailing sound might have come from them and the ‘ghosts’ could have been them, looking for somewhere to go?”