My Soul to Take Page 28

  Matthew compared the times at which Thröstur left and returned. “He came back two and a half hours after he went through the tunnel.”

  “It’s out of the question, then,” Thóra said. “It would been pretty much impossible, but I still think we ought to sound him out. He may know something. What else have you got there?”

  “The staff seem to have stayed here, by and large; at least, there are only a few cars on the list belonging to them. Of course, there’s a chance that I’ve overlooked something, but as far as I can see, only two employees used the tunnel that day. Jökull drove through the tunnel and back two hours later, so he’s still a candidate. The police have ticked another car that Vigdís says belongs to the masseuse. She left around noon and didn’t come back. There was one more female employee flagged up by the police, according to Vigdís. Her name’s Sóldís and she’s a cleaner. She left just after the murder. Vigdís said she was taking her car to a garage in Reykjavík on the Sunday and got a lift back. I don’t recognize the name, but she could have come back any time, because we don’t know who drove her.”

  “Sóldís is just a girl, really. She’s very unlikely to be involved,” said Thóra. “I spoke to her briefly before you arrived and she seemed a decent kid. I don’t really think women are in the frame, anyway,” she added. “Not if we assume the same person committed both murders. Remember, Birna was raped.”

  “Quite possibly, but the police have marked the names of women as well as men,” Matthew said. “After all, we don’t know that in each case the car’s driver was its owner. The women might have lent their cars to someone; the murderer could have traveled in a car other than his own. The same goes for the men’s cars, of course. We can’t take for granted that they were driving just because they’re the registered owners.”

  “No, that’s true,” said Thóra. “So it’s not much help, then, is it?”

  “Well,” replied Matthew, “I browsed through some other names on the list, because you never know what the police are looking for.” He thumbed through the pages. “I saw that Börkur and Elín both drove through the tunnel in this direction sometime before the murder. They didn’t go back. Then there’s that Berta girl; she was on her way to Reykjavík an hour before the murder and didn’t come back that day.”

  “Do you suppose the brother and sister could be the murderers?” Thóra asked. She frowned. “I hadn’t even thought of that, but it’s hard to imagine why they’d want to kill those two.”

  “You never know,” said Matthew. “Oh, yes, I also asked Vigdís about that old guy, Magnús Baldvinsson, and she said he didn’t come in his own car—his grandson drove him here—so he couldn’t have gone anywhere all day, even if we did think him capable of murder.”

  “Then there’s Bergur’s wife,” mused Thóra. “It just seems so unlikely that all this could happen on their doorstep without them being involved. He’s Birna’s lover and stumbles across her body; then Eiríkur is murdered in their stables. She had ample reason to want Birna dead, even though I can’t figure out why she would have murdered Eiríkur.” Thóra looked at Matthew. “Don’t you think she must have killed Birna? She was in quite a state in the stables today. Could she have had an accomplice who carried out the rape?”

  Matthew shrugged. “Yes, she could, but who? Her friend Jökull, perhaps?”

  Thóra groaned and turned to the computer. “I’m famished,” she said, looking at the clock in the corner of the screen. “Shouldn’t we see if we can get something to eat? If we leave it much longer, I’m scared the kitchen will close. The computer will still be here afterward.”

  They left the office. Matthew left the list behind and Thóra took care to lock the door so no one could come in and take it. She was by no means sure that the police would give her another copy if it went missing, since she probably wasn’t supposed to have it in the first place. Even if they did, it was unlikely she’d get another copy that had been marked up so conveniently, so they’d be back to square one.

  “I hope there’s shellfish on the menu,” Thóra said, as her stomach rumbled, “or maybe meatballs.”

  “I fancy a thick sandwich and a beer,” Matthew said. “Anything but whale meat, and don’t feel you have to share your shellfish with me either.” He stopped talking when Thóra tugged gently at his sleeve. She nodded in the direction of a slender girl who was walking up to the lobby with an elderly woman.

  “That’s Sóldís,” Thóra whispered, “the one whose name you didn’t recognize on the list.” As they approached her, Thóra waved. “Hello, Sóldís,” she said.

  Sóldís and the other woman stopped, and the girl forced out an approximation of a smile. “Oh, hello.”

  Thóra introduced herself to the elderly woman and shook her hand. “I’m a lawyer,” she explained, “working for the owner of this hotel. Sóldís has been very helpful with various matters.” The woman introduced herself as Lára. Thóra smiled at her young companion. “I just wanted to ask you one more question, if you’re not in a rush.”

  “Not on my account,” the old woman said. “I only came to pick her up, and we’re in no hurry. You go ahead, Sóldís.”

  “Sure. Whatever,” said Sóldís with impeccable teenage nonchalance. She was chewing a wad of bubble gum that was obviously too large, because she was slurring slightly. “What do you want to know?”

  “It’s no big deal,” Thóra replied. “We were looking at a list of cars that drove through the Hvalfjördur Tunnel on Sunday, and it seems that you took yours to Reykjavík to be repaired.”

  “That’s right,” replied the girl. She jerked her thumb at the elderly lady beside her. “I don’t get it back until Wednesday, so my grandma’s picking me up.”

  “Okay,” said Thóra. “My question is, who gave you a lift back from Reykjavík? We’re trying to work out everyone’s movements for that day.”

  Judging from her expression, Sóldís thought it was an odd question. “I came back with Thröstur,” she said.

  “The canoeist?” said Thóra, taken aback.

  “Yes, I heard him saying he was popping over to Reykjavík, and I was a bit stuck, so I asked if he’d give me a lift back. He said that was fine.”

  She blew a large bubble and popped it. Then she sucked the strands of gum back into her mouth with great panache. “Steini let me down, so I was lucky Thröstur could help me out.”

  “Steini?” Thóra asked. “Who’s Steini?” Surely she didn’t mean the young man in the wheelchair.

  “My friend,” the girl answered. “Sort of. He was going to fetch me, but he blew me off at the last minute. He’s a bit weird. He never used to be, but then he had that accident and…” She twirled her index finger at her temple.

  “You mean the lad in the wheelchair, with all the burns?” Thóra asked in astonishment. “He can drive?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Sóldís. “It’s only his right side that’s burned, and the other hand is fine. Both his legs are messed up, but he has a device in his car to help him use the pedals and he drives an automatic.”

  “That must make a big difference for him,” Thóra said, trying to conceal her surprise. It had never occurred to her that he would be able to drive. She’d assumed he was completely dependent on others because he was confined to a wheelchair. “How do you know him?” she asked.

  “We were in the same class since we were six,” said Sóldís. “There was only one class for each year group, you know, and we were born in the same year. He moved into a house near here after the accident and I started visiting him—at first because I felt sorry for him and then just to chat.”

  “So he’s a good friend of yours?” Thóra asked, still struggling to understand. By way of explanation she added, “He seemed very…reserved on the two occasions I’ve met him.”

  “Yeah, he’s cool. He’s not good with strangers, though,” said Sóldís, snapping her gum. “I think he gets uncomfortable when people stare at him. There are really only two of us who hang out with hi
m, me and his cousin Berta.”

  “I’ve met her,” Thóra said. “Are you friends too?”

  “Sure, I guess,” Sóldís replied. “I didn’t know her before, because she’s from Reykjavík. I’ve only met her at Steini’s, you know. She’s really nice to him; she seems pretty cool.”

  “That was a terrible business,” Sóldís’s grandmother Lára suddenly interjected. “Not many people live around here, so you remember an accident in which two people are killed and one is badly hurt.”

  “I understand it was a middle-aged couple from a farm close by here,” said Thóra.

  “Yes, it was awful,” the old woman replied. “Probably the worst thing about it was that Gudmundur was drunk. It wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t been driving drunk. It’s been a great strain on their daughter, Rósa. She’s become rather isolated since then. She wasn’t that sociable to start with, but she withdrew into her shell completely after it happened, which is ridiculous, because no one’s blaming her for it.”

  Thóra nodded. “So you’re a local?” she asked Lára.

  “Yes, born and bred.” She smiled back. Thóra noticed how much Sóldís looked like her. Although there were sixty years between them, they had the same facial features. “I moved to Reykjavík for a few years when I was young, but soon realized it suited me better here. There’s nothing to be gained by living anywhere else. I believe that more and more.”

  Thóra smiled. “I’ve come across all manner of intriguing things since I’ve been here. I don’t suppose you knew the people who lived on the two farms belonging to this estate?”

  “Kreppa and Kirkjustétt? I most certainly did,” Lára said proudly. “We were the best of friends, me and Gudný, the girl from Kirkjustétt. That’s why I so enjoy coming over here, even if it is difficult to see where the past stops and the present begins.”

  “So you remember those times well?” Thóra said as she tried to think what she most wanted to ask.

  “I do. Of course, my memory’s starting to go, like everything else, but the funny thing is that the oldest memories seem to last longest. Please don’t hesitate to ask anything you want. Grímur and his brother, Bjarni, weren’t quite like normal people, so you’d probably find your own questions stranger than I would! Life on the farm here was pretty peculiar, so you won’t shock me.”

  Thóra could have kissed her. “Oh, I’m so relieved to hear that. I’ve had trouble getting people to discuss it; either they know nothing or don’t want to talk about it.” She took a breath and then fired away. “Do you recall whether the farm had any connection with Nazism? I found a flag and other articles that seem completely out of context and I must say I’m surprised that they should be in the basement of a farm in rural Iceland. Do you know anything about that?”

  Lára sighed heavily. “Yes, I’m afraid I do. Bjarni became obsessed with it. You should realize that after his wife, Adalheidur, died, in about 1930, he was never the same. She meant everything to him, and you could say that when she died his mind went with her.” The old woman grinned impishly. “Actually, it was a stroke of luck in some ways, because he literally made money from being weird. He invested in all manner of wild projects that you’d expect to have bankrupted him, but they ended up making him a fortune because of the times we were living in. The war broke out just as he started investing, and luck was on his side. It was pure coincidence that the economy was transformed practically overnight, what with the military occupation and population growth. But poor Grímur, the voice of reason, wasn’t so lucky.”

  “Did he go bankrupt?” asked Thóra.

  “No, it wasn’t quite that bad, but I think he came close. He was a doctor, but since there was already a doctor here, he didn’t have enough to do, so he increasingly devoted himself to farming. In the end he gave up his medical practice and put everything into building up his farm, but he couldn’t get anyone to work for him. Everyone had gone to Reykjavík, where the Allied forces were paying better wages. Ultimately Bjarni rescued his brother from bankruptcy. He bought all Grímur’s property but still let him treat it as his own—even though the two of them were barely speaking, so it must have been difficult for Grímur to accept his help.

  “To cap it all, Grímur’s wife, Kristrún, died around then, leaving him alone to raise their little girl. Kristrún was mentally ill. I hardly knew her, and she didn’t socialize much,” the old woman said. She paused, then continued, “As for this business with the Nazis, Bjarni was visited by people from Reykjavík who wanted to make him into a kind of nationalist leader for western Iceland. He was supposed to enroll young men to create a political presence in this part of the country. There was one in the south and I think in the north too, although they never made much headway.”

  “And did he?” asked Thóra. “Did he join the party and enlist people?”

  “He started to, and he even made some progress.” Lára smiled again. “But it wasn’t the manifesto, the party, or the swastika that appealed to the young men who came here. It was Bjarni’s daughter, Gudný.”

  “And you say she was a friend of yours?” said Thóra.

  “Yes, she was. Friendship was very different back then, of course. We didn’t meet up as often as girls do these days. Even so, it was a genuine friendship; we couldn’t have been closer.” The old woman stared into the air, dreamy-eyed. “She was so beautiful—a beautiful little girl who turned into a beautiful young woman, just like her mother. As soon as she hit puberty, the local lads worshipped her, so they jumped at the chance to go around to her house, even if they had to pretend to be nationalists for the evening. I doubt they had a clue what Nazism was about. They just wanted to be near Gudný.”

  “Was she at these meetings?”

  “Oh, no, dear, but she did make the coffee and serve the refreshments. I used to help her sometimes. We’d make eyes at the boys and fall about laughing.” Lára’s eyes clouded and she shook her head sadly. “I don’t know how it would all have turned out, but fate intervened and what happened happened.”

  “Do you mean tuberculosis?” asked Thóra.

  “Among other things, yes,” she said. “Bjarni fell ill and locked himself away—and that meant Gudný did too.” She sighed. “I moved to Reykjavík with my aunt around that time, so I lost contact with her, apart from the occasional letter. The Nazi business fizzled out.”

  “What do you think about the rumors that Bjarni abused Gudný?”

  Lára looked directly at her. She exhaled briefly, then closed her eyes. “Goodness, that was a long time ago. Actually, I’ve been thinking about Gudný a lot recently.” She pointed at Sóldís, who was still beside her, rolling her gum around her mouth. “When Sóldís started working here, it brought it all back to me.” She hesitated for a moment, then looked firmly at Thóra. “I don’t believe Bjarni ever laid a finger on his daughter, either in anger or any other sin. For all his strange ways he was a good man, and I could tell from her letters that she loved him very much, so I simply can’t believe it.” She looked down. “Something did happen, though. Gudný’s letters became less frequent, but in her last one she confided to me that she’d had a baby. The letter was written just after her father had died, and the child was four years old. She said she hadn’t had the courage to tell me before. In those days that sort of thing was a great scandal. She would only have been sixteen when the baby was born. She never said a word about the father, but said she’d tell me the whole story later. She never got the chance, though, because the next thing I heard was that she’d died.”

  “Who could have been the father,” Thóra asked, “if not her own father?”

  “There weren’t many other candidates, that’s for sure,” Lára replied. “People were worried about TB, because it was so infectious and there was no cure at the time. The two of them were completely isolated after her father decided to stay at home instead of going to Reykjavík. She didn’t want to leave him, so that was that. The only person I know who called on them was Bjarni’s
brother, Grímur. I’ve always suspected him of abusing Gudný, although I shouldn’t say such a thing when I have no real grounds except for the fact that he wasn’t a good man.”

  “What happened to the child?” said Thóra. “Was it a boy or a girl?”

  “A girl. I don’t know what happened to her, because no one seemed to know anything about her when I came back out here. The vicar who must have baptised her had just died, and the people I asked hadn’t noticed a little girl. A few of them had heard that Gudný ordered certain items that could only be explained by there being a baby at the farm. Rumor said the baby had died of exposure, or of TB like its mother. The incest story started circulating after Gudný and Bjarni were both dead. My efforts to locate the child might even have started the rumors.”

  “Did you discuss this with Grímur?” asked Thóra.

  “I tried, but he wouldn’t talk about it. He moved to Reykjavík not long after I came back here. No one wanted to help me get to the bottom of the matter because incest was such a taboo—there was so much shame attached to it.”

  “Do you know the child’s name?”

  “Kristín. She talked about little Kristín in her letter. I’ve searched everywhere for a gravestone with that name on it, but never found one, so I have no idea what became of her.”

  “Kristín,” mused Thóra. “So she did exist.”

  “Did?” said Lára. “I still cherish the hope that she’s alive. I’ve always believed that Gudný found a good home for her but kept it secret. She wouldn’t have wanted anyone to worry about catching TB from the child. That may have been what she had in mind from the time the child was born, and she could have asked Grímur not to send the birth certificate to the authorities, or to forge it somehow. I presume that Grímur delivered the baby, because it was born after everyone stopped calling on Gudný and her father.” Lára set her jaw. “My friend Gudný was a God-fearing girl. She wouldn’t have entertained the idea of the child not being buried in hallowed ground, if she had died. She would have been buried in the churchyard here, so I choose to believe that she lived.”