Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - My Soul to Take

“How many times do I have to tell you? I did not send that message. End of story.” He’d switched to English, clearly hoping to enlist Matthew’s support.

“Did you let the phone out of your sight that evening?” Matthew asked. “If you didn’t send the message, someone presumably used your mobile, either to cast suspicion on you or to trick this Birna woman down to the beach. It might be someone she wouldn’t have wanted to meet otherwise.”

“In either case we’re dealing with a very cold-blooded murderer, someone who intended to murder Birna and had a plan,” Thóra said. “I must say that’s unusual for Iceland. Murders here are generally committed in the kitchen, when two drunks start fighting and one of them grabs a carving knife. I can’t imagine what Birna must have got herself into for this to happen.”

Thóra and Matthew both turned to Jónas. “It’s vital that you remember where you were when the text message was sent,” she said. “Are you in the habit of leaving your mobile lying around?”

“That’s the point,” said Jónas. “The mobile connection here is very erratic, so there’s no reason to lug it around with me.”

“But where were you? Do you remember?” Matthew asked.

Jónas scratched his head. “I don’t recall right now. If I had some peace and quiet, I might remember. I can’t force myself; my mind is a total blank. I’m not used to having to come up with alibis—it doesn’t usually matter where I was.”

“Hash screws up your short-term memory, Jónas,” Thóra said. “You ought to be able to remember where you were: it’s only two days ago. Wasn’t that the evening of the séance? I saw it advertised in reception.”

Jónas tapped his forehead. “Yes, yes. Of course. Thursday night.” He still looked blank. “But I can’t quite remember what I was doing. I wasn’t at the séance, that’s for certain.”

“Great,” Thóra said. “But keep trying to remember. It’s important.” She took the mobile out of his hands and browsed through the messages once more. “One thing strikes me as odd,” she mused after reading them all again. “Why should Birna obey the message? If I received a message from you telling me to meet you by a cave, I’d call you back to ask why.”

“She wouldn’t have wondered about that. She’d suggested I build a little restaurant on the beach by that cave, but I wasn’t terribly excited at the prospect. She would have rushed straight there if she thought I’d changed my mind,” said Jónas.

“And was this common knowledge?” Matthew asked.

“More or less,” Jónas replied. “She talked a lot, Birna did. Discretion wasn’t exactly her middle name.”

Thóra stared at Jónas, deep in thought. “Tell me one thing. Since you didn’t kill her, who could have done it? You described her as a wonderful person, someone nobody disliked. I can’t imagine many people would have a motive for killing a fairly run-of-the-mill architect.”

Jónas looked from her to Matthew. “Ahem. Maybe I didn’t quite tell the whole truth. She was actually a total bitch. None of my staff could stand her. She talked down to them, took the piss out of them for the hotel’s philosophy … So there’s a long list of people who hated her. But I don’t know how many would have gone so far as to kill her. Who would? It’s crazy.”

“I hope for your sake that you’re overlooking a very obvious lead,” said Matthew, “otherwise the police will make you the prime suspect.”

“Go off and try to remember where you were on Thursday evening,” Thóra said. “In the meantime Matthew and I will try to find out some more about Birna. Be prepared to have to hand over your mobile. Don’t resist. They’ve probably seen the message on Birna’s mobile and just want yours to confirm it. Under no circumstances delete it. That would just look even more suspicious.”

“Oh. Would it?” said Jónas glumly.

“And give me back my SIM card. There’s no need for the police to get hold of that.”

“Somehow I’m convinced the murder is connected with this house or the area,” said Thóra, plucking a blade of grass absentmindedly.

“What makes you think that?” Matthew asked, sipping his coffee. They were sitting in loungers on the lawn behind the hotel, enjoying the view across Faxaflói Bay. “The motive is much more likely to be in the present than the past: love, money, madness. The murderer could even have been a complete stranger; maybe he saw a woman on her own and lost control of himself.”

Thóra chewed on the stalk. “The text message suggests otherwise.” Twirling the piece of grass between her teeth, she added, “I just have a feeling that it’s connected with the hotel in some way. There’s something about this building. And her diary too. It doesn’t contain a word about love or money. It gives the impression Birna was a workaholic.”

“Couldn’t it be just her work diary? Maybe she kept another one about her private life.” Matthew watched the blade of grass flicking up and down in the corner of Thóra’s mouth. “I didn’t know Icelandic women chewed the cud.” He grimaced. “Does that taste good?”

“Try it. It focuses the mind,” Thóra said, plucking another piece. She handed it to him and smiled when he pulled a face but forced himself to try. “There’s bound to be something in that diary to help us discover the murderer.” She watched Matthew chewing the grass. “Don’t you like it? You just need a pair of rubber boots and you’ll make the perfect Icelandic farmer.”

“Rubber belongs in tires, elastic bands, and tennis balls, not footwear.” Matthew removed the blade of grass from his mouth. “Shouldn’t we take a look at the diary?”

Thóra sat up in her sunlounger. “Maybe we should do one thing first. The diary contained a plan of the other farmhouse on this land. It included all kinds of remarks that we might be able to puzzle out if we go there.”

Matthew sat up as well. “It’s up to you. I’ll follow and play bodyguard.” He winked at her. “I have the feeling that this investigation will lead you into all kinds of dubious territory. You’ve already burgled a dead woman, stolen her belongings, and hindered the course of justice by allowing Jónas to erase suspicious information from his mobile. I can’t wait to see where this ends.”

“The name Kristín is written here, followed by a question mark. Maybe we should start there.” Thóra pointed at the pages showing the plan of the farmhouse. They were standing in a room leading from the hallway of the old farmhouse and faced the choice of going upstairs or inspecting the ground floor, which according to the drawing ought to consist of two living rooms, a kitchen, storeroom, toilet, and study.

“Isn’t that upstairs? Shouldn’t we check down here first?” Matthew said, peering through a doorway to his left.

“Sure,” Thóra said, slamming the diary shut. She had given up trying not to leave her fingerprints on it, as she didn’t intend to return it unless she was forced to. “Ugh, what a stink.” A strange smell that Thóra couldn’t place permeated the house. It was a mixture of rising mildew, dry dust, and mothballs. One thing was certain—the place had not been aired properly for decades. “Yuck,” she said, putting her hand over her nose and mouth.

Matthew took a deep breath. “You should try and get used to it as quickly as possible. You stop noticing it after a while.” Bold words, but he pulled a face as soon as he had spoken them. “Oof, can’t we open a window in here?”

They entered the room on the left, which according to Birna’s plan was a study. The door handle was antique, made of thick wood, and needed a good tug to open. The door seemed to be warped, and Thóra was struck by how much thicker modern doors were. She went in behind Matthew and they looked around in silence.