My Soul to Take Read online

  Kata snorted. “Indisposed, my arse. They were either hungover or pissed.”

  Thóra could tell that there was little more of any use to be gained from the two women. She was generally not interested in gossip, especially about people she didn’t know from Adam, so she decided to take her leave and put her hand in her pocket for the key chain. “I have some keys here that my masseuse left behind.” Thóra handed over the bunch of keys, which were on a key ring with a small enameled Icelandic flag.

  “Sibba, you mean,” Vigdís said, stretching for the keys across the counter. “She can be incredibly absentminded.” She noticed a large plastic card dangling from the patriotic ring. “Oh, my God, she’s even got the master here. She’s a real—” Exactly what she was was to remain a mystery, because the telephone rang. Vigdís turned to answer it.

  Glancing at Kata, Thóra took the keys back. “I’ll just return them to her myself. I forgot to book another session, so I have to talk to her anyway.” She smiled innocently at the young woman. “Do you know where she might be?”

  The beautician shrugged. “Maybe in the cafeteria.” She pointed at a corridor to the right. “It’s next to the kitchen.”

  Thóra thanked her, then added, “Do you know what room Birna’s in? The architect? I wanted to say hello to her.”

  Kata shook her head, but reached over for a book behind the reception desk. Vigdís was still busy on the telephone and paid no attention to them. “Birna, Birna…” Delicate fingers with long French-manicured nails ran down the page. “Aha. Here it is.” She slammed the book shut. “She’s in room five. It’s on the way. She’s definitely here because her car’s parked outside. It’s really flash.”

  “That’s nice,” said Thóra, who was not particularly interested in cars. “Thanks very much. I might drop in to your salon tomorrow. I could do with a bit of plucking.” The young woman nodded, rather too vehemently in Thóra’s opinion.

  On her way down the corridor, various thoughts ran through Thóra’s mind. What the hell was she thinking? She couldn’t assume the dead woman was Jónas’s missing architect. In all probability it was a completely different woman. And who was this Birna anyway? There was no excuse for going into her room. Thóra thought it over on her way, but the closer she came to room 5, the more determined she became to look inside. If it turned out that Birna was the woman on the beach, this would presumably be Thóra’s only chance to examine her room. If the circumstances of death were suspicious, the police would seal it off. She tried to persuade herself that she had to take advantage of this opportunity, as Jónas’s lawyer. Perhaps he would be a suspect. Eventually she convinced herself that she was doing nothing wrong. She simply wanted to put her head around the door and take a look. Nothing else.

  Thóra stopped outside the door and looked around her. The women at reception, deep in conversation, didn’t notice her. She swiped the plastic key card, opened the door, and darted inside.

  JÓNAS TRIED TO ACT LIKE AN INNOCENT HOTELIER, BUT WAS FINDING the role increasingly difficult. He had an instinctive dislike of the police, which had always appeared to be mutual on the rare occasions when their paths crossed. Police officers also had a tendency to look deep into his eyes while they talked to him, and Jónas had the feeling they had been trained to evaluate the truthfulness of replies from the movement of the pupils. He knew he was blinking far too much, which wasn’t making a good impression.

  He cleared his throat. “As I told you, the description could fit the architect Birna, but it’s much too general to say for certain. Wasn’t the woman carrying any ID, a bag or something?” He stretched toward the window behind him. “Don’t you find it hot in here? Should I open the window?” Jónas was afraid that sweat would start pouring from his brow to complete the picture of a guilty man.

  The police officers exchanged a look. They seemed to be keeping their cool in spite of being clad in full regalia, black uniforms with gold braid. Ignoring the stifling heat in the room, they had not taken off their jackets. They were holding their caps, however. Disregarding Jónas’s inquiries about the window and the ID, they went on questioning him. “When was she last seen, this Birna?”

  “I don’t know exactly,” Jónas replied, searching through his memory. “She was here yesterday, definitely.”

  “So you saw her yesterday?” asked the younger officer. He looked like a tough guy, and Jónas preferred the older one, who appeared to be a softer type in all respects.

  “What?” Jónas asked rather idiotically, then hurried to add, “What, yes. I met up with her. Several times in fact. She was struggling to complete the plans for the annex that’s to be built here and came to me throughout the day to consult me on various points.”

  The officers nodded in unison. After biting the inside of his cheek for a few moments, the older one asked, “What about today? Did she come and see you today?”

  Jónas shook his head fervently. “No. Definitely not. We were supposed to meet this morning only she didn’t turn up. I’ve been keeping an eye out for her but haven’t bumped into her or seen her. I kept calling her mobile, but it was switched off. I just got her voice mail.”

  “What kind of mobile did she have? Can you describe it?” the younger man asked.

  Jónas did not need to think about that question. Birna’s mobile was very distinctive. He had seen her with it many times. “It’s bright red, a clamshell phone. Shiny. Quite small. I don’t know the make, though. There was a big silver peace sign on the front, but I don’t think it was a brand logo, just a decoration.” The police officers darted glances at each other, then stood up together. Jónas stayed seated. He was feeling more confident after finally being able to answer one of their questions. “This woman who was found…did she die in an accident?”

  Neither of the officers answered him. “Would you please show us to Birna Halldórsdóttir’s room?”

  THÓRA TOOK A LAST LOOK AROUND THE ROOM. SHE HAD NOT found anything significant. Admittedly it was different from other hotel rooms, because the architect had clearly moved in for longer than most people. She had fixed sketches of buildings—which Thóra presumed to be proposals for the annex that Jónas had said he was planning to build—to the walls. Notes had been scrawled on several of the drawings, some of them comprehensible to a layman, others not. Calculations had been made in some of the margins, and the sums were underlined in red ink. The figures were large ones, and Thóra hoped for Jónas’s sake that they were not cost estimates.

  Thóra had opened the closet mostly out of curiosity, as she’d never expected to find anything important there. She had stuck a pencil through the handle to open the door, so as not to leave fingerprints. She needn’t have bothered, because all the contents told her was that Birna was an exceptionally tidy person. There weren’t many items of clothing: blouses, smarter trousers, and jackets were on clothes hangers, and the other garments were neatly arranged on the shelves. The woman must have worked in a boutique at some point, as they were all folded perfectly. Birna had good taste; her clothes were unpretentious but stylish and looked expensive. Thóra tried to peek at the label on a sweater at the top of the stack, but couldn’t read it without disturbing the pile. Closing the closet, she went over to the telephone on one of the bedside tables. She used her fingernail to press the recall button and see the last numbers she had dialed, then took a blank sheet of paper from the hotel notepad beside the telephone and wrote down the three numbers. She folded the sheet of paper and put it in her pocket.

  Looking around, she saw nothing that merited closer examination except the desk drawer. She had already gingerly shuffled the papers on the desk, but was none the wiser for it. They all seemed to be connected with the design of the annex, mainly brochures from manufacturers of construction materials. Thóra nudged the desk chair to one side with her foot to reach the drawer. Now she faced a problem, because there was no handle on it. Pulling her sleeve over her right hand, she opened the drawer by tugging it from underneath. It contai
ned two books: the New Testament and a leather-bound diary with Birna’s name on it. At last she had found something useful. Still using her sleeve, Thóra fished the book up out of the drawer. She flipped it open. Bingo. The pages were filled with neat handwriting. Thóra grinned, but then her smile vanished. She could hear noises in the corridor, just outside the door.

  In desperation she looked around. She had to get out. She couldn’t possibly explain what she was doing there—she didn’t even know herself. She ran over to the floor-length curtains and prayed that all the rooms were the same. Fortunately for her, they were, and with trembling hands she unlocked the French window and stepped out on to the deck. Then she pushed the door closed as carefully as she could and hurried away.

  As Thóra rounded the corner of the building, she took a deep breath. Her heart was pounding. What had she been thinking? She must be insane. It had been a close call; she was certain she had heard the room door open just as she had closed the balcony door behind her. She inhaled deeply again. Her heartbeat slowed down, then leaped once more. The desk drawer! She had left it open. She tried to calm herself. So what? Everyone would assume Birna had left it like that. She sagged in relief, then jumped again—in her hands she was still holding a diary marked “Birna Halldórsdóttir, Association of Icelandic Architects.”

  CHAPTER 5

  AS THE POLICE car pulled slowly out of the drive, Jónas felt that the officers had done all they could to prolong their visit. They must have known that the sooner they left, the fewer visitors would have noticed them. He heaved a sigh of relief when the car finally disappeared from sight, praying they would not need to come back. He knew his prayers wouldn’t be answered. They had sealed off Birna’s room, after a quick look inside to check she wasn’t there, and ordered Jónas to make sure that no one went in until it had been searched. Clearly Jónas had not seen the last of them.

  His only hope was that the dead woman would turn out not to be Birna, but that was wishful thinking. Before leaving the scene, the police officers had asked Jónas to point out her car in the car park. It was a dark blue Audi Sport, which she had recently bought, and was parked at the very end of the car park. Birna always parked as far away from other cars as possible, to reduce the likelihood of careless drivers opening their doors and scratching her pride and joy. The policemen had walked up to the car, and one of them had produced a little plastic bag from his pocket. Without opening the bag, he had pointed it at the car and squeezed its contents. The sports car had beeped and flashed. The police officers exchanged meaningful looks.

  Jónas sighed. It was a very uncomfortable situation. Should he allow himself to grieve? He had liked Birna despite her flaws, and if he was honest with himself, he had been rather more than fond of her, although his affection had not been reciprocated. Should he feel aggrieved? This was a major setback for his plans to expand the hotel. Should he tell the staff or act as though nothing had happened? The police hadn’t advised him either way. He had to be careful, because many people would undoubtedly scrutinize his reaction and interpret it to fit whatever stories were circulating. It was a small place and his staff were not known for their discretion. He sighed again. Perhaps the police would rule it an accident, but nothing in their behavior suggested that.

  Jónas turned and went inside. He hurried past reception to avoid being stopped by anyone. His ploy worked, but it was obvious just looking at Kata, propped up against the reception desk, that she was burning to know what the police had said. The beautician opened her mouth as soon as Jónas entered the building, but when he looked down and quickened his pace, she closed it again. She and Vigdís, the receptionist, watched despondently as he rushed past without saying a word. It wouldn’t last long—in the end curiosity would get the better of them, even if they had to chase him down the corridor—but so far so good, Jónas thought, as he hurried into his office and closed the door behind him. He sat down, brooding. Maybe some good would come of this. Was there a chance that this tragedy could be spun in favor of the hotel, and Jónas himself? He picked up the telephone and dialed a number.

  THÓRA SAT SHEEPISHLY ON THE EDGE OF HER BED. BIRNA’S DIARY rested in her lap. She had not decided what to do with it, whether to sneak it back into Birna’s room or whether she could plant it somewhere without arousing suspicion. Should she get rid of the book immediately or wait until she had read it? Her cheeks burned when she thought that Birna might well still be alive. What had she been thinking? Was she so bored by her postbox-obsessed clients and all the other nitpickers that she was starting to make more exciting cases out of nothing? She had come here to dissuade a half-crazy hotel owner from pointless litigation, not to become embroiled in a police investigation that was none of her business. The telephone rang and she reached for it, welcoming the distraction.

  “Could you pop in and see me?” Jónas said cryptically. “Something unexpected has cropped up and it might be connected with the hauntings.”

  “What is it?” asked Thóra, intrigued.

  “I’ll explain when you come, but I think Birna, the architect, is dead and—”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Thóra interrupted him, and hung up.

  Well, well. She turned from the telephone to look back at the diary. In a way she was relieved: at least she had not stolen the diary from a living person. She opened the book with her sleeve and flicked through the pages using the edge of her thumb. It was certainly an unusual diary. Instead of containing a few notes, each page was densely packed with small, tight handwriting. There were a lot of sketches of houses, buildings, and design details. Some of the sketches seemed to be rough doodles from Birna’s imagination; others looked more likely to be real-life projects. One page per day had clearly not been enough for Birna, because she had filled the pages well into September—four months ahead.

  Thóra looked at the last entries, hoping to find something along the lines of “Met X on the beach—must be careful,” but no such luck. The final two-page spread said, “Bergur’s birthday—mustn’t forget. Transfer money for April,” and listed a welter of names of companies that Thóra didn’t recognize. Beside each name was a telephone number with measurements in millimeters followed by prices in krónur. At the very end of each line was a string of different abbreviations that she couldn’t fathom: “B., W., R., G., S., etc.” At the top of the page, she had written “Cladding,” underlined. Birna had apparently been seeking information about different types of cladding and had marked a cross against the line showing one of the lowest prices. Since the cladding could not be connected with the woman’s death, a rather frustrated Thóra flicked back to the preceding pages. There was a plan showing, as far as Thóra could tell, the area surrounding the hotel and the location of the new building. The main measurements and distances had been written in, and an ornate arrow pointed north. Around the drawing were comments by Birna, mainly concerning the slope of the land and light conditions, but one aroused Thóra’s interest in particular: “What’s wrong with this spot??? Old plans???” Just beneath, written with another pen, it said, “Keens,” also followed by three question marks. She was none the wiser. A detailed sketch of a swastika amid a list of everyday objects on the following page did not help. If the notebook was anything to go by, Birna had definitely not been your average woman.

  Although Thóra would have liked to read the diary from cover to cover, she had to go to see Jónas. He knew she had nothing better to do, so it would be hard to explain being late. All the same, she flicked back until she found another, similar drawing. This showed the floor plan of a house, two adjacent rectangles divided up into rooms. A staircase was shown in the same place on both, so it must be a two-story house. The rooms were clearly marked: two living rooms, kitchen, study, bedroom, toilet, and so on. Various comments filled the margins, such as “Built in 1920? Rising damp in SW wall. Foundations?” Birna had also written down a question that must have been plaguing her, because she had drawn a crosshatched box around it: “Who was Krist�
�n?” Thóra looked at the floor plan. One of the rooms on the upper floor was marked “Bedroom” like the other two, but beneath it was written in smaller letters, “Kristín?” Thóra scanned the two pages in search of any indication that the drawing showed one of the local houses, and saw that the top of the left-hand page was marked “Kreppa,” the name of one of the farms. She closed the diary and slid it inside her suitcase. The cleaners would hardly start rummaging around in there.

  JÓNAS SEEMED WORRIED, AND NOT HIS USUAL EXPANSIVE SELF. HE offered Thóra one of the two uncomfortable seats in front of his desk, then threw himself down in an upholstered leather chair behind it. No herbal tea was offered, much to Thóra’s relief.

  “What did the police want, Jónas?” Thóra asked, to break the ice.

  Jónas groaned. “Does everyone know they were here?”

  “Well, I can’t answer for everybody, but a lot of people know besides me. Most people know a policeman when they see one,” replied Thóra. “What did they want?”

  Jónas groaned again, louder than before. From under his sleeve he pulled down a steel bracelet set with a large brown stone, which he rubbed absentmindedly as he answered her question. “They found a body on the beach, the body of a woman they believe to be Birna, the architect I told you about yesterday.” He closed his eyes, still slowly rubbing the bracelet.

  “Ah,” said Thóra. “Did they mention the cause of death? There can be many reasons for people being found dead on a beach. More often than not it’s suicide.”

  “I don’t think she committed suicide,” Jónas said morosely. “She wasn’t the type.”

  Thóra didn’t like to point out that there was no particular type that took their own lives. “What did the police say? That’s the most important thing. Presumably they’ve visited the scene?”