My Soul to Take: A Novel of Iceland Read online

  Jonas looked shocked. "It's so much more than that. You can ignore a shiver; this feeling lasts. Oppressive may be the best word for it. Almost all of us have heard crying in the middle of the night, an infant crying." Suddenly he became boastful. "And I've seen a fully fledged ghost. More than once, as it happens. Its presence has become more intense recently."

  "And where have you seen this ghost?" Thora asked skeptically.

  "Outdoors mainly. Outside here." Jonas gestured toward the window behind him without looking around. "I can't describe exactly where the ghost was; I've only seen it in the fog. Some ghosts appear in certain weather conditions and this one comes when it's foggy."

  "So presumably you can't describe it in detail?" Thora asked.

  "No, not really. Except that I know it's a girl or a woman. The being was far too slight to be a male." Jonas leaned back in his seat. "I also saw it appear in my mirror. There was no question that it was a girl. It happened quite quickly, but all the same . . ."

  "You said you recognized the girl from a photograph you found. Surely it didn't happen so quickly that you couldn't manage to commit her features to memory?"

  "Well, I don't know how to describe it. I was brushing my teeth and I heard a rustling noise. I stood upright and watched in the mirror as the being darted past the door. My subconscious obviously managed to capture the features although I can hardly describe them, but I recognized the face from one of the photos." Jonas opened a drawer in his desk and started rummaging while he continued his account. "I couldn't even hold the photo after that. I threw it back in the box and closed it. You wouldn't have any trouble examining it, but I simply can't."

  "I doubt it would have much effect on me," Thora said, smiling reassuringly. "I'd like to discuss this with some of your staff. This aura reader, Eirikur, for example."

  "No problem. He's not here at the moment, but he'll be back tomorrow, I think." At last Jonas found what he was looking for in the drawer. He handed Thora a heavy key on a large steel ring. "This is the key to the old basement. The boxes I told you about are down there. Take a look—there are some interesting things that might explain the hauntings."

  Thora took the key. "If memory serves, the old farm was called Kreppa, wasn't it?" she asked innocently.

  Jonas looked surprised. "Yes, that's right. Originally there were two farms that were merged. One was called Kreppa, the other Kirkjustett." He shrugged nonchalantly. "Birna spent a long time there on the planned development."

  "Really? Why?" Thora asked, even more curious. "Is the old farmhouse still intact?"

  "Yes, it's still there. Originally we planned to renovate there the same as we did here, but Birna was against it. She thought the two buildings were too far apart. The walk between the two properties is not all that long, but they're not connected by a direct road so the drive between them would hamper joint operation of various services, such as housekeeping. In addition she found the farmhouse at Kreppa to be too dilapidated to make rehabilitation cost effective. You can look at it tomorrow if you want. The keys are under a stone by the entrance. It's quite interesting inside, because it's still fully furnished in the old style."

  "How come?" asked Thora. "There were no tenants on the land when the sale was agreed."

  "I have no idea," Jonas replied. "Some of that old stuff might have been removed now, as it happens, because the sister...um... " Jonas racked his brains for the woman's name. He twirled one index finger in the air as he thought about it.

  "You mean Elin Thordardottir? The one who sold you the land?" suggested Thora.

  "Yes, that's her," Jonas said. His finger stopped midtwirl. "Elin, the sister! She phoned me a couple of months ago and told me they were finally going to do something about taking that stuff away. I was in the city, so I didn't talk to her myself; I just got a message through Vigdis at reception. Her daughter came a while later and was told where to find the key. It was probably a good thing that neither of them met me, because I would probably have fired off a comment or two about that ghost."

  Thora was sick of talking about ghosts. "When did it turn out that they wanted those boxes of junk?" she asked. "I don't remember any mention of that when the sale was going through."

  "Oh, it was verbal," Jonas said. "They discussed it with me and I told them just to pick it up whenever they wanted." Then he added self-importantly, "I told them they ought to get a move on, in case I either wanted to use the house or demolish it."

  Thora nodded. "I might take a look over there while I'm here. Who knows, I might even bump into Elin or her brother." She glanced at her watch. "I think I'll wait until morning before I go through the boxes. It's far too late now."

  Jonas agreed. "It's not the sort of stuff you want to look at before bedtime, I can tell you." He grinned mischievously. "Whether you believe in ghosts or not."

  The bed was the comfiest Thora had ever slept in. She yawned and stretched, determined to enjoy her sleep to the utmost. The thick feather pillow supported her neck perfectly, and she made a mental note to ask Jonas where he bought his bedding. Reaching over for the remote on her bedside table, she switched off the television. She felt sleep descending upon her the moment she closed her eyes, and soon her breathing had become regular as she drifted into a dream. She did not even stir when an infant's soft crying wafted in through the open window.

  Chapter 6

  Saturday 10 June 2006

  DAD'S No fun. He's asleep. So's Gylfi. I want to be with you."

  Thora rubbed the sleep from her eyes and propped herself up in bed. She had grabbed her mobile from the bedside table and answered it before actually managing to wake up, then cleared her throat and spoke to her daughter. She had a vague recollection of a dream about ghosts and crying babies, but it slipped away before she could remember it fully. "Hello, Soley. Are you awake already?" Looking at the clock, she saw that it was a few minutes to eight. "Oof, it's so early. It's Saturday today. Your dad and Gylfi just want to sleep a bit longer so they can be more fun later."

  "Huh." Her little girl's high, clear voice was full of reproach. "They won't be any fun. I only like being with you. You're fun." The reception was terrible and Soley sounded as though she were talking from the bottom of a barrel.

  Enjoy it while it lasts, thought Thora, who had learned from raising Gylfi that this unconditional adoration would not go on forever. Soley was only six, and although she would soon be seven, there were still a few years left in which Thora would play the lead role in her life.

  "I'll be back home tomorrow evening. Then we'll do something fun. I'll bring you some shells from the beach, if you want."

  "Beach! Is there a beach out there?" Soley sighed. "Why can't I be with you? I really want to go to the beach."

  Thora kicked herself for mentioning the beach. Since they lived on the coast, it had simply not occurred to her that a beach would arouse the girl's interest. "Oh, sweetie, you know you're supposed to spend the weekend with your dad. Maybe we can come back here later in the summer."

  "And take the trailer?" Soley asked excitedly.

  Thora stifled a groan. "Maybe. We'll see." If there was one thing she could not stand it was driving with that contraption behind her, and she had still not learned to reverse with it. The few trips they had made with the trailer had been carefully planned so that Thora hadn't needed to reverse once. "Go and turn on the television—the cartoons have started. Dad and Gylfi will be up soon. Okay?"

  "Okay," muttered Soley crossly. "Bye," she added.

  "Bye-bye. I miss you," said Thora, and hung up.

  She stared at the telephone for a while, wondering how things had ended up like this. Her marriage had fallen apart pretty quickly, and she had never given herself the time to deal with it. For eleven years they had got on fine; then things went rapidly downhill. She and Hannes were divorced a year and a half later. Her conscience nagged her a little about shuttling the children back and forth between their two homes, but there was not much to be done about it now
, as she wouldn't take Hannes back even if he were the world champion at trailer-reversing. She got up, shook off these depressing thoughts, and took a shower. Then she put on a pair of jeans, running shoes, and a hoodie, and felt ready to clamber around in the dusty basement. In the large mirror she saw that all she needed was a balaclava to make a convincing bank robber.

  A lavish buffet awaited her in the dining room. Thora was generally not one for large breakfasts, but the food was so tastefully arranged and looked so tempting that she gave in and took a large plate, which she filled with poached egg, bacon, and toast. She threw some fruit on top, for appearances' sake, but soon after sitting down she abandoned the idea of health food. Half the tables in the dining room were occupied. Thora was curious to know what kind of people stayed at such a hotel, which was exorbitantly expensive but based on a hippyish philosophy. She could not identify any common characteristics among the guests, who—although of all ages and various nationalities—seemed to be mainly Icelanders.

  At three tables were single guests like Thora: two men, one old and the other young, and a middle-aged woman. Thora guessed that they were Icelandic. In some indefinable way, the older man seemed out of place. Thora guessed his profession as lawyer or accountant. The woman appeared out of sorts too, sitting in melancholy silence with her eyes glued to her coffee cup. On her plate was a pile of food that looked untouched. The woman was such a picture of misery that Thora instinctively felt sorry for her. The young man, on the other hand, fitted right in, and Thora allowed her gaze to linger on him. It helped that he was extremely good-looking—dark-haired, tanned, and well muscled, but not a steroid-popping bodybuilder. Thora smiled wryly, but her face froze when the young man looked over and smiled back. Embarrassed, she drained her coffee and stood up. The young man did the same. One of his legs was bandaged, and he picked up a crutch from the chair beside him. He followed her, hobbling, toward the exit.

  "Are you Icelandic?" Thora heard him say from behind her.

  Turning around, Thora saw that he was no less handsome close up. "Me? Yes, I am, actually," she said, wishing that she were not dressed like a burglar. "And you?" she asked.

  He returned her smile and held out his hand. "No, I'm a Chinese Icelandophile. My name's Teitur."

  "Thora." She shook his outstretched hand.

  "You must have just arrived," he said, looking her straight in the eye. "I'd definitely have noticed you."

  Here we go, Thora thought to herself, but played it cool. "I arrived yesterday. What about you? Have you been here long?"

  The young man showed his sparkling teeth again. "A week."

  "And you like it?" Thora asked stupidly. As a rule she was very awkward in her dealings with the opposite sex if there was the slightest hint of flirtation.

  He looked amused. "Oh, yes. It's fine. I'm here combining business and pleasure, and I've managed both pretty well. Apart from this." Supporting himself on the crutch, he lifted his bandaged leg. "Oh," said Thora. "What happened?"

  "I fell off a horse, like an idiot," he said. "I can recommend everything here except the horse rides. I didn't fall really: the horse got startled and threw me off. I sprained my ankle, but I thank my lucky stars that someone witnessed the incident and managed to pull me away before anything worse happened. So stay away from the horse rental."

  Thora grinned. "Don't worry. I'm highly unlikely to try it." Thora would sooner climb on a dog sled than go around on horseback. "You said you're working here? What kind of work can that be?" she asked curiously. She considered it unlikely that there was much work one could do here, unless the man was a writer.

  "I'm a stockbroker. A pretty stressful job, but it has the advantage that I can do it almost anywhere—all you need is a computer and an Internet connection. What about you? What do you do?"

  "I'm a lawyer," Thora said, nodding eagerly as if he might not believe her. God, she was pathetic sometimes, she thought.

  "Oh, right," said Teitur. "Hey, why don't I show you around the place? I know it like the back of my hand after a week here."

  Thora smiled at him. She doubted whether he could have become a local expert in the space of a week. Especially on just one leg. "Who knows? We'll see."

  "I'm free and easy." Teitur grinned. "Just give me a shout."

  Thora thanked him and said goodbye. That would be something else, strolling around the locality with an attractive man instead of crouching in a dusty basement looking at old photographs. Even if he couldn't move very quickly . . . Oh, well.

  Most of the internal organs from the deceased were lying in steel trays. The brain was in one, the lungs in a larger one, the liver in a third, and so on. After working fifteen years as a police detective this gruesome buffet had long since ceased to bother Thorolfur, but he did have to think back several years to recall a body in worse condition. His eyes drifted over to the hollowed-out body of the unidentified woman who was found dead on the beach on Snafellsnes. She was lying serenely on the autopsy table, her facial features beyond recognition due to extensive injuries and what the doctor had said appeared to be postmortem animal predation. Thorolfur felt saddened. He hoped the woman had either died quickly or lost consciousness before the end. If not, finding her murderer would become even more pressing as a sadistic bastard capable of such torture could not be incarcerated quickly enough.

  The doctor in charge of the autopsy walked over to the sink, slipping off his gloves. "So. The woman was brutally raped, but the cause of death was repeated blows to the front of the head. The facial features are unrecognizable as a result of this and of postmortem mutilation by animals, presumably scavengers. It cannot be determined whether the woman was conscious for the duration of the rape, but there are no visible injuries on the body to suggest that she resisted. Thus it seems likely that she had already sustained some cranial injury before the rape began, but was dead when it finished. The deceased may even be assumed to have been beaten during the act."

  "Lovely," muttered Thorolfur.

  "Quite. Anyway, semen, presumably from the assailant, was present in the vagina, and an analysis of that together with the hairs collected by combing her pubic area may identify the assailant. This seems the only likely method of identification. In fact, the exceptional volume of semen gives grounds for investigating the possibility of more than one assailant." He addressed his words to Thorolfur without ever looking the police detective in the eyes. They had worked together before so Thorolfur knew the man and did not take this as a slight. He had often wondered if the unsociable doctor had become this way from dealing with unresponsive corpses for all of his working life. "And the pins will be carefully described in the autopsy report. It's not every day that a body is found with such objects in the soles of the feet. I have a suspicion that the murderer attached some significance to that act. The most immediate inference is that he is seriously deranged or sadistic. At least, I can think of no logical explanation for this." He pointed to ten bloodstained pins that he had extracted from the soles of the woman's feet and placed in a transparent plastic jar.

  He took off his gore-spattered surgical gown and ran his fingers through his hair. "I'll send everything off for immediate analysis. I know you need the findings quickly."

  "Yeah." Thorolfur thanked the man and left. Snaefellsnes was a two-hour drive away and his men were waiting. They had a murderer to catch.

  Thora stared at the stack of boxes in the poorly lit basement. Light shone feebly from a bare bulb in the middle of the room and through a tiny window so dirty that it glowed almost brown. The smell of damp crept into her nostrils. Ugh. She should have asked Jonas to have the boxes moved up to her room. To make matters worse, all the timber struts supporting the ceiling above her looked pretty rotten. Thora grimaced at the thought of the insects that undoubtedly thrived there, but braced herself and went over to the lowest stack. As far as she could tell, there were about twelve large, ancient crates, but the way that they were arranged made it difficult to determine their exact nu
mber. Carefully she lifted the lid from the top box, leaning back in case something jumped out. When nothing happened, she peered cautiously inside.

  Her eyes widened. She had been expecting almost anything. But not this.

  Chapter 7

  ON The top of the box lay a folded Nazi flag. The white field around the black swastika had turned slightly yellow, and the material was rough to the touch. Thora frowned as she carefully removed it and put it to one side. Perhaps the swastika in Birna's diary had not been a mindless doodle after all. Beneath the flag was a pile of magazines, the uppermost one even more faded than the flag. The magazine was called Iceland, and a Nazi emblem was centered under the title. Jonas had not mentioned this in his cryptic account of ghosts and the house's murky history. Thora picked up the magazine and saw that the others in the pile were the same. They were published by the Icelandic Nationalist Party. Thora shook her head. She knew there had been a small Nazi movement in Iceland before the war, but couldn't remember much about it. It had clearly been involved in publishing, although the magazines were thin and not big on content, judging from the headlines.

  Leafing through the pile, she also noticed several issues of a student newspaper called Mjolnir, whose publisher, according to the masthead, was the Nationalist Students' Association. Thora removed the pile of magazines from the box to see what was concealed underneath and found a folded shirt, a swastika armband, and what appeared to be a military belt with a shoulder strap attached. How could anybody be into this?

  By now Thora was close to the bottom of the box and she noticed a brass object, which when she picked it up turned out to be yet another swastika. Its base was a kind of socket, whose purpose, if any, was unclear. There were also various scraps of paper advertising dances, camping trips, and meetings that the nationalists had apparently organized, along with items of no political significance, such as an old wallet, shoes, and photographs of people who did not seem to be wearing swastikas. There were no children in the photographs, but they shared a common theme: smartly dressed people in the prime of life, either sitting on blankets as if picnicking or posing against the wall of a house. Although the same wall featured in more than one of the photographs, not enough of it was visible for Thora to make out whether it belonged to the old farmhouse upstairs. Judging from the outfits, the photographs were taken during the war and just afterward.