Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - My Soul to Take

One thing was certain, he had heard a child crying and he was equally sure that the child had not been a ghost.

The Japanese father and son were so overwhelmingly polite that Thóra felt like a drunken oaf in their presence. She tried her best to talk calmly, move slowly, and avoid all unnecessary facial expressions, but to no avail. Matthew was faring much better. Thóra, suspecting that he’d learned from his experience working for a German bank, kept her head down and let him do the talking. They had waited in the lobby for the Japanese to return from the short walk that, according to Vigdís from reception, they always took in the mornings. Now they were all sitting in wooden chairs at the front of the hotel, enjoying the rare sunshine.

“So you didn’t know her?” Matthew asked in a low, clear voice. He was still a little annoyed at Thóra, who had teased him about the crying child he’d heard in the night. She thought he’d dreamed it.

The son translated Matthew’s words into Japanese for his father. Then he turned back to them. “No, sorry. We don’t know who you are referring to.”

“She was an architect, working for the owner of this hotel. A young woman, dark-haired,” Matthew explained.

The old man put a skinny hand on his son’s shoulder and said something. The son listened intently, then nodded. He addressed Matthew. “It is possible that my father saw that woman. She was out in the front here, talking to a man in a wheelchair and a young girl. He says she was holding some drawings and writing on them. Could that be her?”

Matthew looked quizzically at Thóra. “Was she connected with anyone in a wheelchair?”

She shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

Matthew asked if the elder man knew who these people were. Again the two men exchanged words that the son translated into English for Matthew and Thóra. “No, my father didn’t know them, but he had seen them before—the woman at the hotel, and the young people nearby.” He bowed his head slightly before continuing. “My father says he noticed the young couple because of how especially caring the girl seemed to be toward the crippled boy, but he doesn’t know anything else about them, or about the architect. I don’t remember the woman myself, so I am of no help.”

Matthew and Thóra exchanged a glance. It was pointless to disturb the men any further, so they stood. “Mr. Takahashi, thank you very much,” Matthew said with a bow. Thóra followed suit. “We hope you have a nice stay.”

“Thank you,” the son said, also rising. He helped his frail father to stand. “This is a good place to stay. My father has been ill, but the fresh air makes him feel better.”

“I hope he gets well soon,” said Thóra, smiling warmly at the old man. He smiled back and they exchanged farewells.

When they were inside the lobby, she turned to Matthew. “Not much joy there, I’m afraid.”

He shrugged. “You can’t have expected them to know who the murderer is.” Then he frowned. “But I do think it’s odd that the son had no idea who Birna was, although his father had almost certainly seen her. You remember what Vigdís said about those two? The son follows his father everywhere, like a shadow. So where was the son when the father saw Birna with the young couple?”

“Maybe the father saw them through the window,” suggested Thóra. “The son would have told us if he remembered. Why wouldn’t he?”

“I don’t know,” Matthew said pensively. “But it’s strange how long they talked to each other when you think how short the answers were when the son translated them. It’s also weird that they didn’t ask why we were inquiring about Birna.”

“Isn’t it something to do with Japanese politeness? Curiosity might be considered as bad as theft in their country.” Thóra was hungry. She stole a glance at the clock above their heads. “Come on, let’s get something to eat before they clear breakfast away.”

Matthew looked at her in surprise, then consulted his own watch. “They don’t close the dining room at eight, do they?”

“Come on,” she said again, hopping impatiently from foot to foot. “I’ll die if I don’t have some coffee. There should be other guests in there who we can talk to as well.”

“Well, I don’t want you dying on me,” Matthew said, following her. “Even if you didn’t believe me about that crying I heard.”

“Whooo,” Thóra chanted. “We’re the ghoooost children—whooo.” She chuckled at Matthew’s petulant expression. “Don’t be so silly,” she said. “Some coffee will perk us up.”

Only three tables were occupied in the dining room. An elderly couple Thóra had not seen before were sitting at one, at another sat Magnús Baldvinsson, the old politician, and at the third a gloomy-looking young man. He was sunburned and looked as if he were in good shape, although his physique was hard to see under his trendy clothes. Thóra decided to concentrate on him. She nudged Matthew and murmured, “That must be the canoeist, Thröstur Laufeyjarson, who Jónas said might be connected with Birna’s death. Looks pretty moody, doesn’t he? Let’s take the table next to him.”

They went up to the buffet and Thóra quickly threw a few pieces of food on to her plate. To her chagrin, Matthew seemed to be taking his time to explore the selection, strolling around the table. She nudged him again. “Quick. He mustn’t leave before we sit down.” Matthew looked disappointed, but grabbed a yogurt. They walked over to the table next to the canoeist’s. Thóra smiled at him as she sat down. “Hello. Lovely weather, isn’t it?”

The man didn’t look up, and seemed unaware that she was addressing him. He yawned and took a sip of orange juice. Thóra tried again. “Excuse me,” she said, loudly enough that there could be no doubt she was talking to him. “Do you know if there’s a boat rental around here? We were thinking of renting a boat. Or a kayak.”

The man swallowed, startled. “Sorry, were you talking to me?” he said in English. “I’m afraid I don’t speak Icelandic.”

“Oh.” Thóra was caught a little off balance. Clearly this was not Thröstur Laufeyjarson. She smiled apologetically. “Sorry,” she said, also in English. “I thought you were someone else.” She changed the subject to keep him talking. “Have you just arrived?”

He shook his head. “No, I’ve been here a while on and off, because I’ve been traveling.”

Thóra nonchalantly feigned interest in his travels. “Where have you been? There’s so much to see.”

The young man didn’t seem to mind having company. He swung around in his seat to face Thóra and Matthew. “Mainly in the West Fjords. I work for a travel magazine and we feature unusual destinations.”

“That sounds like an interesting job,” said Thóra, taking her first sip of coffee. She couldn’t remember the man’s name, but he must be the photographer Jónas recognized on the guest list.

The young man laughed. “Well, it can be tiring, like any other job. I’m a photographer, which can sometimes mean working long, grueling hours.”

Thóra stuck out her hand. “How rude of me not to introduce myself. My name’s Thóra.” She nodded at Matthew. “And this is Matthew, from Germany.”

The young man stood and stretched over the table to shake their hands. “Hi. I’m Robin, Robin Kohman, from the States.”

Thóra tried to look as if a thought had just occurred to her. “Wait a minute … didn’t I see you with Birna?”

Robin looked blank. “Birna?”

“Yes, Birna, the architect who was here …” She trailed off expectantly.

“Ah, yes, the architect, Birna,” exclaimed Robin cheerfully. He pronounced the name completely differently from Thóra. “Yes, I know her; I just didn’t recognize her name the way you said it. I haven’t quite mastered the pronunciation. All your words sound the same.” He finished his juice and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Yes, I got to know her a little. I took a few shots for her and she told me about places around here where I could find interesting subjects to photograph.”