Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - My Soul to Take

“Not necessarily,” said Thóra, who didn’t believe murderers were any more reserved or secretive than the rest of us. “What about these foreigners?” She pointed at the next names. “Mr. Takahashi and his son.” Jónas looked up at Thóra and smiled. “Far, far too polite to kill anyone. Both very quiet, and the father’s recovering from cancer treatment to boot. His son never leaves his side. You can rule them out.” He looked at the next line. “I don’t know who these two are, Björn Einarsson and Gudný Sveinbjörnsdóttir—I can’t place them. But you ought to recognize this one, Thóra: Magnús Baldvinsson, an old left-wing politician.”

When Thóra heard the name, it clicked with the face of the man she had seen in the dining room at lunchtime. “Yes, of course. I saw him at lunch. I read an article about him in the paper the other day. He’s the grandfather of that city councilor Baldvin Baldvinsson, quite a rising star in politics. What’s he doing here?”

“Just relaxing, I think. He’s not exactly chatty, but he did tell me he was brought up in the countryside around here. I suppose the heart and mind return to childhood haunts when people grow older,” Jónas said. He carried on down the list. “I don’t recall this Thórdís Róbertsdóttir, no idea who she is. I remember this one, though, Robin Kohman—he’s a photographer shooting for an article in a travel magazine about western Iceland and the West Fjords. There was a journalist with him for a while, but he’s just left. On Tuesday or Wednesday, I think. This Teitur Jakobsson is a stockbroker who’s been here for a few days; he seems pleasant enough in a slightly snooty way. He was injured in a riding accident after he arrived and I was certain he’d leave, but he’s still here. The rest of the names, I don’t recognize. No one arrived on Friday, and no one canceled.” He put the papers down on the table, and Thóra picked them up.

“Is it okay if I try talking to these people?” Thóra asked.

“Of course,” Jónas said. “But try to treat the guests with consideration. Don’t offend them.” With a sideways glance at Matthew, he whispered in Icelandic, “Don’t let him interrogate anyone. Just make it look like a chat.” He straightened up and slapped his thigh. “I’ll go and check on the cops. They’re examining Birna’s room now; I don’t know what they think is hidden there.”

Matthew winked and grinned at Thóra. “Nope, they definitely won’t find anything there,” he said, deadpan.

“And they’ve got my mobile-phone handset now,” Jónas said, “so at least they can keep themselves busy writing down everything on it.” Steini sat and brooded, staring out at the driveway through the window. For all the traffic that passed, he could have been alone in the world. No cars, no people. He had already watched enough TV to last a lifetime, and he was only twenty-three. If his life had unfolded properly, things would have been different. It wasn’t supposed to turn out like this; in fact, he was still waiting for someone to come and tell him that it was all a misunderstanding, that it hadn’t happened to him, but to someone else. Anyone, he didn’t care who, as long as it was someone else. “Sorry we put you through all this unnecessarily, mate, but these things happen sometimes. You can stand up. Go on. It was all a misunderstanding. Your car isn’t in the scrapyard; someone else’s is. And you weren’t in it.” A harsh, bitter laugh escaped him. Fat chance.

As he shifted in his seat, the reflection of his face appeared in the window. He flinched and pulled his hood farther over his head, leaving as little of his face visible as possible. He would never get used to this. Never. With practiced hands, Steini grasped the wheels of his wheelchair and rolled away from the window.

Where was Berta? She had promised to come, and she always kept her word. Dear, wonderful Berta. Without her, he did not know how he’d manage. Therapists, doctors, psychiatrists, whoever, they never stopped nagging him to go to Reykjavík, enroll at the university and do something with his life. It wasn’t over just because he was in bad shape. With proper therapy he might be able to get along okay without the wheelchair most of the time, although it would be a slow and painful process. Those people didn’t understand him. He had to stay here. He belonged here; this area was his home. There weren’t too many people, and most of them knew him. No one recoiled in shock at the terrible mask where his face should have been. In Reykjavík that would happen to him a hundred times a day. He would wither and die in no time. He was infinitely grateful to Berta. She was largely responsible for enabling him to stay here in such a helpless condition.

Had Berta abandoned him? Had she had enough? Helped him for the last time? Steini wheeled himself over to the television and picked up the remote. He would rather watch trash than follow that thought through to its logical conclusion. He turned up the sound and focused his attention on the screen. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Thóra and Matthew clinked their glasses. “I do hope this isn’t organically cultivated,” he said before tasting it.

Thóra laughed. “No, hopefully it’s grown using gallons of insecticide and preferably mercury fertilizer.” She took a sip. “Whatever the vintner used, the end result is delicious.” She put her glass down and picked up a canapé to nibble. “I’m starving, absolutely starving.”

“Uh-huh,” Matthew said. “I’m glad that hasn’t changed. And you haven’t changed.” He winked at her. “Even your taste in clothes is still so … what’s the word … ?”

Thóra looked down at her plain sweater and then stuck her tongue out at him. “What was I meant to do—bring an evening gown and stilettos in the hope that someone would invite me out to dinner?”

“I doubt whether you’d have turned up in an evening gown even if you had been invited out.” He adjusted his tie theatrically.

“Ha, ha,” said Thóra. “I’m too hungry to defend myself against your hilarious jokes. Where’s the food?” She looked at the clock. “Damn. I have to phone home before Sóley goes to sleep.” She picked up her bag, then remembered that her mobile was in police custody. “Sorry, can I borrow your phone?”

“Sure,” said Matthew, handing her his mobile. “Are your kids all right? I hardly dare ask—are you a grandmother yet?”

Thóra took the phone. “You can relax—you’re still dining with a young woman.” It was a clamshell phone and she flicked it open. On the display was a photograph of a little black girl with cornrows. “Who’s this?” she asked, turning the mobile to face Matthew. Was he a father? Did he live with someone? He’d never mentioned it.

He smiled. “That’s my daughter.”

“Really?” replied Thóra. “She doesn’t exactly take after you.” She looked at the picture again. “Apart from the hair, perhaps.” She wasn’t sure what else to say.

Matthew laughed and ran his hand over his short hair. “No, we’re not related. I’m her foster parent through a charity.”

“Oh, how sweet.” Thóra took a sip of wine to conceal her relief. “I thought for a moment that you had a wife or girlfriend. I don’t go in much for married men. On a scale of attractiveness from one to ten, they rank minus two.”

“Women are strange,” Matthew said. “I find you attractive, and still would if you were married.”

“Then you’re lucky that I’m divorced,” she replied, looking back at the photograph. “She doesn’t live with you, does she?” She absolutely couldn’t imagine Matthew washing children’s clothes, let alone producing such neat plaits on that little head.