My Soul to Take Page 34

  “We’re actually looking for Baldvin,” said Thóra politely. “Is he here?”

  “Who’s asking?” called another voice from inside the room.

  “It’s the lawyer and the German,” Magnús replied, his frail hand still on the doorknob.

  “Let them in,” said Baldvin. “We’ve got nothing to hide.”

  Magnús opened the door fully.

  “Have a seat,” said Baldvin, indicating two chairs. He sat in a third, while his grandfather made do with sitting on the bed. “What can we do for you?” he asked, resting his forearms on the table in front of him. Thóra was transfixed by his large, strong hands, recalling Thröstur’s remark that physical strength was needed to paddle a canoe. Baldvin would have no trouble, even in rough seas.

  “I just wanted answers to a few questions,” said Thóra, shifting in her seat. “As I expect you know, I represent Jónas, the hotel owner. He is in police custody, in my view unjustly, for the murders that have been committed here.”

  “We know all about that,” snapped Magnús. “If you’re here to try to fit one of us up for the murders, it won’t work. Neither Baldvin nor I had anything to do with them. In general the police arrest the right person, my dear. Maybe you should accept that fact, instead of pestering us.”

  “Now, now,” said Baldvin to his grandfather, darting an apologetic smile at Thóra. “We’re both a little bit annoyed because we can’t go home. The police asked us to stay here, as they want to talk to both of us. I’m not qualified to judge this Jónas’s guilt or innocence, but I can declare in good conscience, like my grandfather, that we had nothing to do with it. Just ask your questions and maybe we can convince you.”

  “What brought you here on Sunday evening?” Thóra asked bluntly. “Your car was driven though the Hvalfjördur Tunnel.”

  Baldvin leaned back in his chair and took his hands off the table. “You don’t mince words,” he said. “I didn’t come here to kill that poor man, if that’s what you mean.”

  “So what did you come for?” demanded Thóra. “Surely you didn’t drive all this way just to see your granddad?”

  “No,” said Baldvin. “I can tell you everything—I’ve decided to come clean. Although I’m not proud of what brought me here, I won’t try to conceal it.” He sat up straight. “I gather you found the photo, and I understand from the police that you’re aware of Birna’s attempt to blackmail me into ensuring she would win the competition for the new bus-station project.” Thóra nodded. “That woman was extraordinarily greedy,” he said, adding hurriedly, “I’m not saying that justified someone killing her. Not at all. She phoned me; she e-mailed me; she hounded me, basically. She did the same to Granddad, who ended up discharging himself from a rehabilitation program to come up here and try to talk her around. He was devastated that his past had come to be a threat to me.”

  “That’s very sad,” remarked Thóra sarcastically, “but you still haven’t told me what you were doing here on Sunday.”

  “I came to break into Birna’s room,” Baldvin said candidly. “I’d heard the police hadn’t finished searching the room properly and I was hoping to find the photo. It wasn’t there.”

  “And on Thursday?” asked Thóra. “The two of you left the séance just after it started and didn’t go back. What happened?”

  Baldvin smiled and gestured toward his grandfather. “Granddad felt faint. He wasn’t well, so we left the séance. We weren’t really interested in it, anyway. We only went because we were hoping to see Birna.”

  “Can anyone corroborate this?” Thóra asked.

  “Yes, absolutely,” answered Baldvin cheerfully. “I took Granddad up to his room and called a doctor. I got the phone number of a colleague of his who was on duty locally and he came here. I should think he arrived about nine and left around ten.”

  Thóra realized at once that this excluded both of them as suspects—in Birna’s murder, anyway. She didn’t need to ask for the doctor’s name; she would leave it to Thórólfur to corroborate the story. “I see,” she said, glancing at Matthew. “Well, I don’t think there’s anything else.” She stood up. “Actually, there is one more thing. I probably ought to tell you, Magnús,” she said, “that the skeleton of a child will be found here shortly. I believe the child was your daughter by Gudný Bjarnadóttir, little Kristín.”

  “What?” croaked the old man. “My daughter?”

  “Yes, the one Gudný wrote to you about,” said Thóra, taking a chance. “I think Grímur, Bjarni’s brother, who lived on the next farm, killed the child to ensure that he, and not you, would inherit his brother’s assets.”

  “Me? Inherit?” echoed Magnús, gray-faced. Thóra noticed that he did not deny having received a letter.

  “Actually,” she interjected, “I believe you’ve forfeited your right to the inheritance by your failure to pursue the matter. You knew about the child, and you should have put in your claim for inheritance at that point. In fact, there’s plenty more you should have done. For instance, you could have asked what had happened to the child, or acknowledged paternity at the time.” She went to the door, followed by Matthew. “Perhaps if you’d done the right thing, there’d be no skeleton in the basement.”

  “But…” said the old man, his words trailing off. Baldvin said nothing, merely regarded his grandfather inscrutably. “How can you say that?” Magnús managed to say.

  Thóra turned in the doorway. “Because if Grímur had realized that Kristín had a father who knew of her existence, he wouldn’t have been able to make her disappear.” She smiled at the two men. “Goodbye. Nice to make your acquaintance.” They left their hosts sitting as if turned to stone.

  “That only leaves Bergur,” Thóra said, once they were outside. “He’s the least likely of all, really. I can’t see him getting in a canoe unless he had to, let alone sticking pins into someone.”

  “Life is full of surprises, though,” said Matthew, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Who would have thought, for instance, that I would fall for a woman wearing dirty trainers?”

  Thóra looked down at her feet and grinned. Her trainers were rather shabby in comparison with Matthew’s freshly buffed shoes. “Maybe the same person who could imagine I would fall for a man with a shoe-shine fetish.”

  THÓRA PACED BACK AND FORTH, TRYING TO JUMP-START HER thought process, with little success. She and Matthew had returned to her room, where she hoped to find inspiration. She marched up and down past the bed, while Matthew sat serenely in the armchair by the window, sipping a beer. “It must be Bergur. There’s no one else left,” he said, setting his glass down. “Unless it’s Jónas.”

  Thóra sighed. “We’re screwed if that’s the answer.” She clutched at her hair, and continued pacing. “Is there really no other possibility?”

  “I really don’t think so—we’ve run out of men. Bergur and Jónas are the only two left.”

  “Pity the killer can’t be a woman,” said Thóra. “I liked Rósa and Jökull as Bonnie and Clyde types. That rather lost its appeal when they turned out to be siblings.” She stopped in her tracks and looked at Matthew. “Have you ever heard of a criminal brother and sister?”

  He shook his head. “No, never. Only brothers. The Kray twins, for instance. Never brother and sister.”

  “Is it completely out of the question that Rósa could have come across Birna after the rape and killed her?” wondered Thóra aloud. “No, that doesn’t make sense,” she continued.

  Someone knocked at the door. Expecting it to be one of the children, Thóra was a little surprised to open the door to Stefanía.

  “Hello,” said the sex therapist, smiling nervously. “I just wanted to bring you something. I was actually hoping you’d come to me of your own accord, but apparently that’s not going to happen.” She shifted from one foot to the other, her hands behind her back, and Thóra wondered what she was hiding there. “I can help you,” Stefanía added, still smiling.

  Thóra felt a knot form in h
er stomach. Surely the woman wasn’t here to give her and Matthew advice on sex with an impotent partner? She swallowed the saliva that suddenly flooded her mouth. It would be hard to blame language problems, or claim this was a misunderstanding. “That’s very kind of you,” was all she could say. She didn’t step back from the door, fearing that Stefanía would come in and start talking to Matthew about his imaginary impotence. He would not see the humor in it, that was certain.

  “Anyway,” said Stefanía. “I can see you’re busy, so I’ll just leave this with you.” She handed Thóra a small bag and went on. “You can call me anytime. I’ve put my business card in the bag. The appliance is self-explanatory—it’s a dildo, but the design is completely new and really innovative. Once it has been on for some minutes, it squirts gel out of the front end. It makes the experience far more realistic. It’s new on the market.” She beamed proudly.

  Thóra stood gazing into the bag. “Oh. Gel. I see,” she said, embarrassed. Suddenly she had a flash of inspiration. She shoved the bag back to Stefanía and hurried back into the room. “Hang on,” she said to the sex therapist, who was staring at her openmouthed. She returned with the box she’d borrowed from reception when collecting things from the basement. “Is this the same thing?” she asked, pointing out the words “Aloe Vera Action.”

  Stefanía gaped at Thóra, clearly doubting her sanity. “Um, no,” she said, watching as Thóra’s enthusiasm gave way to disappointment. “This is the older model. Yours is newer.” She regarded Thóra suspiciously. “Those sold out recently. They were hugely popular. Actually, the last one was stolen,” she added. “Only last week there was a break-in, and I’ve just done inventory and found out what’s missing. I was intending to give you the last one.” She looked at Thóra, still a little confused. “The model I gave you is just as good. The only difference is that the lubricant gel isn’t made with aloe vera.”

  “A break-in?” exclaimed Thóra. “When did this happen?”

  “Last week,” said Stefanía. “Let me see, I left on holiday on Tuesday and everything was in its usual place, but when I got back on Friday, I saw that the lock had been forced. Birna’s murder was more important, of course, and in any case I thought at first that nothing was missing. Not until just now, when I was looking for the toy for you.”

  Thóra hastily thanked the sex therapist and shut the door. She turned back into the room, still holding the box. “Guess what?” she said. “Rósa’s back on the list. Right at the top of it, in fact.”

  Matthew gazed at her, bemused by her agitated state. “How did that happen?” he inquired.

  “Birna wasn’t killed by a man; it was a woman. The rape was staged to mislead the police.” Thóra placed the box on the floor. “Who would do such a thing?” She answered her own question. “A woman, of course. A woman who didn’t know about the aloe-vera gel.”

  Matthew was still regarding Thóra quizzically. “I think you may need to explain this to me a little more clearly,” he suggested, taking another sip of beer.

  Thóra took the file of police documents, flipped through it, and passed it to Matthew. She pointed out a photocopied picture of a dildo lying in a steel tray. “It was found on the beach, with a load of other stuff, so the police may not have picked up on it.” Thóra waved a hand toward the box she had borrowed. “It’s the same model as was in there, if you’re wondering how I happen to suddenly be an expert on sex toys.”

  Matthew looked at the box, grinning. “I see,” he said, looking back at her. “But I still don’t quite get how it fits together.”

  “According to the description on the box, the thing squirts aloe-vera gel,” she said, her cheeks flushing pink. “Don’t ask me why.” She pointed to the picture again. “It’s quite possible that two men’s semen was found in Birna’s vagina, but neither came from a rape.”

  “But how can you know that?” asked Matthew. “Although two men have admitted having sex with her, it may not have been consensual.”

  “I think the murderer tried to make it look like rape,” she replied, “using the sex toy. It’s the only plausible explanation for the presence of aloe vera. A woman who’s just had sex with two men in one day is hardly going to wander down to the beach with a gadget like this.” She pointed to the picture again. “And why would anyone want to make it look like rape? To deceive the police. It can only mean that the murderer was a woman. Women don’t rape other women, so by making it look like a rape, the murderer would have diverted suspicion away from herself.”

  “Well,” said Matthew, “you have a point, but there are plenty of other women who could have killed her. It needn’t necessarily be Rósa.”

  “True,” said Thóra, “but it has to be a woman with a good motive, and Rósa certainly had that.”

  “Quite,” said Matthew, then fell silent. A knock on the door had interrupted him and he stood up to see who it was. To his surprise it was Stefanía, still standing in the same place as when Thóra had shut the door in her face.

  She smiled at him, still carrying the bag, which she handed to Matthew. In her excitement, Thóra had completely forgotten to take back the gift bag from the sex therapist.

  “Here, this for you. You may have. Believe me, it have help many men like you,” she said to Matthew in broken English, then turned and left.

  Matthew stood rooted to the spot. In one hand he held his beer glass, in the other the sex toy. He stared at it, lost for words, but as soon as he had closed the door behind Stefanía, he turned to Thóra. “Surely you didn’t tell that woman I was gay?”

  “No, are you crazy?” answered Thóra innocently. “I would never make up stuff about your sex life. Come on, let’s go and find Thórólfur. He may not have figured it out yet.”

  “Unless that weird woman is distributing her kinky toys to all and sundry,” said Matthew. He put the box down and stood up.

  IN RECEPTION, VIGDÍS TOLD THEM THAT THÓRÓLFUR AND ANOTHER police officer had gone out with Thröstur to find and remove the canoe. Thóra assumed they would send it for tests, in case Thröstur had not succeeded in obliterating all the evidence, but she didn’t hold out much hope, based on what Thröstur had said.

  While she and Matthew stood with Vigdís, deciding whether to wait for him or try to contact another police officer, she noticed the injured stockbroker limping toward reception. He was pulling a suitcase behind him with some difficulty. “I’m going to give him a hand,” she said to Matthew, and hurried over to Teitur. “Hey, I’ll do that,” she called, and was rewarded with a smile.

  “Thank you,” he said with relief, allowing Thóra to take the case. “I’m still not a hundred percent better, but I’ve got to get home.”

  “Is someone picking you up?” she asked. She didn’t think he should be driving in his condition.

  “Yes, my brother,” puffed Teitur. “I’ll have someone collect my car later. You don’t need a car to get to town, do you?”

  Thóra laughed. “No, actually,” she replied, thinking of the SUV and how she would get it back to the city. Gylfi wouldn’t be driving it, that was certain.

  Teitur stumbled and winced. “That bloody mare,” he said. “I don’t think anyone will ever get me on horseback again.”

  “You’re lucky it wasn’t worse,” said Thóra. “I don’t understand why the place you rented it from didn’t give you a safer horse. Which riding stables did you go to?”

  “Oh, it was the farm just up above here—Tunga, I think—but it wasn’t their fault,” said Teitur. “The woman was terribly upset. Not a good start to a new business.”

  “Tunga?” asked Thóra. “You hired a horse from there? Was it a wild stallion, by any chance?”

  Teitur laughed. “No, I’m not that daft. It was just an ordinary horse. I was incredibly unlucky, though. I mean, what are the chances of coming across a dead fox? The horse was still panicking long after I had fallen off.”

  Thóra stopped in her tracks. “Was it near here? Was the dead fox near the path to
the old farmhouse?”

  Teitur nodded. “Yup. I had no idea horses hated them so much.”

  “Did you tell the horse-rental people about this?” Thóra was struggling to stay calm.

  “Yes, of course,” said Teitur, surprised that Thóra was so interested. “I had to go back and let them know their horse had run off into the wild blue yonder.”

  “And you told them what happened and where?” asked Thóra. “You told them about the fox and how the horse reacted?”

  “Yes,” said Teitur. “The woman was in shock, of course, because the horse was gone, and also because I was injured.”

  “This woman,” said Thóra. “Was her name Rósa?” Teitur nodded. “Was there anyone with her who could have heard the story about the fox?” she asked. “Her husband, maybe?”

  “No,” answered Teitur. “She was home alone. I wouldn’t know if she told him, but I’d imagine she probably did.” He looked searchingly at her. “Why do you ask?”

  “No special reason,” said Thóra vaguely. “Well, I hope you get home safely and make a swift recovery,” she said, and set the case down by the reception desk.

  “I will,” said Teitur. He reached into his jacket pocket for his wallet. For a moment Thóra thought he was going to tip her for her assistance, but he handed her a business card. “Do get in touch if you’re ever wondering what to do with your money,” he said with a smile. “I get good returns on my clients’ investments.”

  Thóra took the card, politely read it, and put it in her pocket. Something major would have to happen in her life for her to ever scrape together enough money to make an investment. “Thank you,” she said. “You never know.”

  “THERE’S ONE THING THAT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE,” SAID MATTHEW. “We don’t know if Rósa came here the evening of the séance. And how does this fit in with Jónas’s phone and the canoe?”

  Thóra watched the front door open, hoping it would be Thórólfur at last. It was not. A young couple entered pulling a suitcase behind them: new guests, heading for reception. She turned to Matthew. “Maybe Jökull pinched the phone for her and sent the text message.”