My Soul to Take Read online

  Thóra almost choked on her coffee. She leaned closer. “Are you telling me that you’ve heard crying babies who were left out here to die hundreds of years ago?” she asked.

  Sóldís gave Thóra a scornful look. “I’m not the only one who’s heard it, if that’s what you think. Most people here have heard the crying. It’s been getting worse recently, actually. No one ever heard it when I first started working here.”

  “Why would that be?” wondered Thóra aloud.

  “I don’t know. Granny told me it comes and goes. She remembers stories about awful crying that was heard here around 1945. One of the farmers came looking for it because he thought it was a real child, and he heard a weak voice crying right beside him but couldn’t find a child anywhere. He rushed off home and never came near the farm again. Granny said that the war came to an end soon after and the abandoned children might have sensed that and been letting people know they were happy. Or annoyed. Maybe there’s something bad in the offing now. Or something good.”

  Talk about covering all bases, thought Thóra. Things were always happening, so obviously there was always something in the offing. Regardless of whether the news was good or bad, it could always be used to explain why the dead babies started crying again. It was hardly surprising that the story about the ghost had spread among the staff like wild-fire, if it could be used to explain pretty much anything that happened.

  “Have you seen one of these abandoned children?” Thóra asked. “Or has anyone else at the hotel?”

  “Christ, no,” Sóldís said. “Thank God. They’re horrible, apparently. I reckon it would drive me nuts, you know?”

  “I doubt it,” Thóra said reassuringly. “This story about babies being left to die in the lava field—does everyone know it?”

  “Totally,” Sóldís replied. “They say no one can raise a child to adulthood here. Everyone around here knows that.” She could see that Thóra was skeptical. “Look in the cemetery. Read the gravestones. You’ll see it’s not bullshit.”

  Thóra’s thoughts turned to the photograph of the little dead girl, Edda Grímsdóttir. “Let’s say the hotel’s haunted by the dead children,” she said. “How do you explain the ghost that Jónas has seen, and apparently other people too? That ghost wasn’t a baby.”

  “That ghost isn’t an abandoned child,” Sóldís said. “It might be the mother of one of the children, condemned to look for it forever.”

  “I see,” Thóra said. She pondered for a moment. “But is there no story about a local ghost that was a child? A young girl?”

  Sóldís considered the question, her brow furrowed. “You mean the ghost that the hotel staff are talking about?”

  “That’s the one,” Thóra said hopefully. “What do you reckon about that ghost? Has your grandmother told you anything about it?”

  “Well, I asked her and she didn’t know anything about it, but I heard from another woman that it might be the daughter of the farmer who lived here before. His name was Bjarni, I think.” Sóldís paused before continuing. “That woman said it was common knowledge that Bjarni abused his daughter. Incest.”

  “Ugh,” said Thóra. She conjured up mental images of the people from the photograph album, in particular Gudný and her father, Bjarni. Nothing like that had crossed her mind.

  The girl shrugged. “They both died, apparently. TB.”

  Thóra nodded slowly. “Well, I never. But what do you think? Do you believe this ghost is the girl from the farm?”

  Sóldís stared into Thóra’s eyes. “I’ve seen the ghost, but I’ve never seen her, so how would I know?”

  “You’ve seen the ghost?” Thóra asked, astonished.

  “Sure I have,” came the scornful reply. There was a provocative look in Sóldís’s eyes, as if she were daring Thóra to doubt her.

  “I see,” Thóra said carefully. “Where did you see the ghost, may I ask?”

  “Outside here. In the fog. I didn’t see it in any detail, but it was definitely a girl.”

  Thóra nodded. “It wasn’t just one of the kids from around here?” she ventured.

  Sóldís laughed sarcastically. “Around here? Where around here? It’s five kilometers to the nearest kid and he’s a boy, see. Why would he drag himself all the way over here to roam around in the fog?”

  Thóra had to admit it seemed unlikely. She was wondering what to ask next when her mobile rang.

  “Hello, Thóra,” said Matthew’s familiar voice. “Have you decided to tell me where you are, or should I send out a search party? I’m at Keflavík Airport. I’ve just landed.”

  CHAPTER 8

  I’M TELLING YOU, my stockroom’s been broken into,” Stefanía said, piqued, her hands on her hips. She tried not to be annoyed by Vigdís’s malicious sniggering from the reception desk. She had enough on her plate. Someone had forced the lock on the little stockroom where she kept her merchandise, and the fact that nothing seemed to be missing didn’t make it any less serious.

  Stefanía was long accustomed to being shown limited understanding by women. She wasn’t sure if it was her good looks or her field of work, sex counseling. More often than not she had the feeling that other women thought she had chosen that particular discipline simply to seduce married men, which was absurd. It wasn’t her fault if they made the occasional pass at her.

  She scowled. “It’s not funny. The lock’s buggered. Take a look if you don’t believe me.”

  Vigdís raised an eyebrow. “There’s no need to get worked up about it. Why make a song and dance about a burglary in which nothing’s been stolen?” She went back to her computer. She hated Stefanía with her “sex-counseling” nonsense. That woman thought the world revolved around her, and this burglary business was probably just a ploy to get attention. She wasn’t likely to succeed this time, given that she had to compete with the discovery of a dead body. Vigdís looked up from the computer screen and glared at Stefanía. “I don’t know what you expect me to do about it, anyway.”

  What Stefanía most wanted that bitch Vigdís to do was throw herself into the tank at a piranha farm, but she decided to keep that to herself. “Do? I don’t know. Shouldn’t we at least let Jónas know that someone’s broken into a locked stockroom? What if it was a junkie looking for dope? He might come back.”

  “Dope?” laughed Vigdís. “Who’d go looking for dope in your little cubbyhole? This happens to be a hotel that specializes in homeopathy and spiritual welfare. You’d have to look a long way to find a less likely place on Snæfellsnes for keeping dope or drugs.”

  Stefanía took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, but hardened drug users might not be too well informed about hotel specialization. Besides which, it could have been one of the guests. Or one of the staff,” she added with a mean smile.

  Vigdís glared at her. “One of the staff? Are you crazy?”

  “I just mentioned it. If it wasn’t a junkie, it was presumably an ordinary person. Maybe someone really wanted what I’m selling but was too shy to approach it through the regular channels. Who knows?” Stefanía widened her eyes in affected innocence.

  Vigdís was determined not to get drawn into a discussion of stimulatory ointments and sex aids. Stefanía knew that she found the topic uncomfortable and Vigdís did not want to give her the pleasure of seeing her blush. “So why was nothing stolen?”

  Stefanía hesitated. “Well, I don’t know. Of course, I haven’t checked every box and every item. They might have taken something.” She got no further with her speculations.

  “There’s too much going on around here to worry about a burglary in which something ‘might’ have been stolen.” Vigdís made sarcastic quotation marks with her fingers.

  “Oh?” said Stefanía, curious. “What’s happened?” She was irritated—something always happened when she was away. She went home to the nearby village of Hellnar in the evenings and rarely worked weekends. That may have been one reason why she didn’t get on with the other employees, most of whom stayed in smal
l chalets that Jónas had had built next to the hotel.

  “A body was found on the beach. Down in the bay, right by the cave.” Vigdís paused dramatically before continuing. “They think it was Birna, the architect.” Again she paused. “She was probably murdered.” She glowed smugly as Stefanía turned pale and clutched her chest.

  “Are you making this up?” gasped Stefanía.

  “Nope, I swear. Dead, probably murdered.” Vigdís turned back to her computer and changed the subject just to annoy her colleague. “Do you have an empty box to give to the lawyer? She needs a large one to put some stuff in.”

  “What? Oh, sure,” Stefanía said distractedly. What on earth had happened? She thought about the counseling she had recently given to the poor woman. Had her advice led to the woman’s death? Dazed, Stefanía mumbled a farewell and started to hurry away, but she needed to know one more thing. She turned back. “Was sex anything to do with it? Do you know if she was raped by any chance?”

  “Yes, I think she was,” Vigdís replied, although she hadn’t the faintest idea. Something told her this answer would get a reaction.

  Stefanía turned and walked off toward her office, blushing furiously. This was all she needed.

  THÓRA PUT THE HEAVY CARDBOARD BOX ON THE NEWLY MADE bed in her hotel room. She grimaced at the labeling on its side. When she had collected the box, she had initially thought it was a joke, some kind of candid-camera stunt. The box was labeled in English on all sides with large black letters, VIBRATING DILDO. GENUINE RUBBER. NEW ALOE VERA ACTION! For customers with limited English, a drawing of the contents had helpfully been provided. Thóra had blushed to the roots of her hair when she took the box from Vigdís at reception, who said, “I didn’t think this was as bad as the artificial-vagina box.” She smiled sweetly and added, “The only person with any spare boxes was the sex therapist. Sorry.”

  It had taken Thóra most of the morning to go through the remaining items in the basement and gather together the ones that interested her. She was only concerned with old documents, letters, and photographs, and left the rest behind: cups, clocks, candlesticks, and other ornaments. She put papers that were clearly irrelevant back into the old boxes, but took all the photographs regardless of what they showed, since she couldn’t tell what she might find when she took a look at them in a better light.

  There weren’t many, but one in particular aroused her interest—it was in a beautiful old frame and showed a teenage girl whom Thóra was fairly certain was Gudný Bjarnadóttir from the old farm. The girl was sitting on a hillside with her legs folded under her, smiling prettily into the camera. She was wearing a low-cut white blouse with a large bow at the front. The blouse somehow emphasized that this was a young girl and not a woman, but Thóra was fairly sure the girl had intended it to have the opposite effect. She put the photograph on her bedside table. It was hard to make it balance, because the stand had been damaged in storage. Taking a long look at the picture, Thóra prayed that Sóldís’s story about incest on the farm was pure fiction. If not, she was almost certainly looking at the victim.

  Thóra’s stomach rumbled. A glance at the clock told her that it was well past twelve. She phoned reception and found out that the kitchen was open until half past one. She’d have to be quick. She hastily washed her hands and combed her tangled hair. Being in the basement hadn’t made her look her best, but she wasn’t about to let dirty clothes stop her from reaching the dining room before it closed. She could always turn up dressed to the nines that evening to make up for being scruffy now.

  There was only one other guest in the dining room when Thóra entered. It was the elderly man whom she had taken for an accountant or lawyer at breakfast. He didn’t look up or make any attempt to greet her, just stared sadly out through the window, oblivious to the fact that the number of diners had doubled. Where had she seen him before? Thóra chose a table a good distance from him.

  She was barely seated when a young man with a professional smile came over and handed her the menu. After thanking him, Thóra ordered a glass of sparkling water to begin with. While the waiter fetched it, she read the lunch menu and chose an omelette with salad. According to the description, the salad was supposed to contain dandelion and sorrel, and she selected it more from curiosity than any other motive. The waiter appeared with her drink at the very moment she put the menu down and he praised her for her choice when she ordered. Thóra suspected he would have done just the same had she ordered raw pork, if it had been available. He did not give an impression of great sincerity.

  “Is there any news about the body that was found?” she asked as he filled her glass with water.

  Startled by her question, he splashed a little water on the cloth. “Oh, sorry. I’m so clumsy,” he said as he took a linen napkin from the next table.

  “That’s okay.” Thóra smiled. “It’s only water.” She waited for him to finish mopping it up. “So is there any news?”

  The waiter wrung the damp napkin between his hands and prevaricated. “Um, it’s all a bit embarrassing. I really don’t know what I’m allowed to say. The owner’s holding a meeting with us later to outline what we should tell the guests. We don’t want to start rumors that could cause you unnecessary stress. People come here to rest.”

  “I’m not a regular guest. You can tell me anything. I’m working for Jónas. I’m his lawyer, so I’m not just being nosy.”

  The waiter looked dubious. “Oh. I understand.” He clearly didn’t, because he said nothing else.

  “So you don’t know any more about it? Has the victim been formally identified?”

  “No, not officially. Everyone agrees that it’s Birna, the architect.” He shrugged. “But it may turn out to be someone completely different.”

  “Did you know her?” asked Thóra.

  “Slightly,” replied the waiter. Thóra found his face hard to read. “She was here a lot, so I couldn’t help having dealings with her.”

  “You don’t sound as though you thought much of her.” Thóra sipped her fizzy drink and felt the dust from the basement washing away down her throat.

  The waiter had clearly had enough of this conversation. “I’d better take your order to the kitchen. The chef sulks if he has to stay later than half past one.” Then he smiled. “To tell you the truth, I couldn’t stand her. She was a total bitch and her being dead doesn’t alter that. She’s still a bitch.” He walked away.

  Thóra watched him until he disappeared inside the kitchen with her order. So not everyone agreed with Jónas that Birna had been a lovely person. If the corpse even was Birna.

  AFTER LUNCH, THÓRA WENT BACK TO HER ROOM. SHE HAD NOT managed to wheedle any more information out of the waiter, apart from the fact that his name was Jökull. In the end she had been alone in the dining room, because soon after the waiter had taken her order to the kitchen, the elderly man had stood up and left without so much as a glance at her. Thóra had watched him walk past and again had the feeling that there was something familiar about his face, but she couldn’t place him. It could have been anyone, a bus driver from her childhood, perhaps, but she still thought that she ought to recognize him.

  Thóra looked at the dreaded box and sighed. She was well aware that the most sensible thing to do would be to get started going through its contents, or sneak a look at Birna’s diary, but the thought of a quick shower was far too tempting. She could get rid of the dust from the basement and have a lie-down. Siestas were a luxury she could rarely allow herself; there were always chores to do at home, and her own bed was nowhere near as appealing, soft, clean, or elegant. She treated herself to both.

  THÓRA WOKE WITH A START. SHE HAD SET THE ALARM CLOCK TO wake her up after an hour, but it hadn’t gone off. She looked around the room, perplexed, until a knock on the door made her realize where she was. She reached for the dressing gown she had put on after her shower and called out hoarsely, “Who is it?” There was no reply, just another knock. She put on the gown, ran over to the door, and
opened it enough just to put her head outside. “Hello?”

  “Hello, yourself,” said Matthew. “Aren’t you going to let me in?”

  Thóra cursed herself for her lack of makeup and for her damp hair, which she had been sleeping on. She ran her hand over it in a vain attempt to tame the wild mop. “Well, hello. So you found it.”

  Matthew came in, grinning. “Of course. It wasn’t complicated.” He looked all around. “Nice room.” His eyes came to rest on the box from the sex therapist.

  Thóra hadn’t thought to push the box out of sight. She smiled awkwardly.

  “Looks like I came just in the nick of time,” he said.

  CHAPTER 9

  THÓRA HAD NEVER tried anything like the box’s former contents, but she was quite convinced that such devices paled in comparison with the real thing, just like all other surrogates. Smiling to herself, she sat up in bed. Her dressing gown lay crumpled on the floor and she stretched out lazily to pick it up. She should do this sort of thing more often, she thought as she wrapped it around herself and looked for her clothes. Although she had been completely uninhibited before, she wanted to be wearing something when Matthew came back. He had popped out to his rental car to fetch his luggage and throw it into the room he had booked. Thóra couldn’t see what use he had for a room of his own, but she appreciated the courtesy he had shown her by not assuming that he could jump straight into bed with her—even though he had. She smiled again at how terribly pleased she was to see him, glad that he had come in spite of her objections. The problem was, their relationship was already doomed. He was a foreigner and unlikely to thrive in Iceland. When he arrived, she had awkwardly tried to find a topic of conversation and asked him what he thought of the Eurovision Song Contest winner. He had given her a blank look and asked if she was joking. Anyone who was not interested in Eurovision would hardly last a week in Iceland. She dressed hurriedly.