Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - My Soul to Take

“Do you remember when you last saw her?” asked Matthew. He had not bothered to open his container of yogurt.

Robin thought for a moment. “No, I think it’s been a few days. Is anything wrong?”

“No, I don’t think so,” fibbed Thóra. “We just wanted to meet her.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Magnús Baldvinsson stand up and leave.

“If you bump into her, perhaps you could let her know I still have her photographs.” Robin stood up.

“In the unlikely event that we see her, we certainly will,” said Matthew, smiling cryptically. When Robin had left, he picked up the container of yogurt and waved it in Thóra’s face. “Can I get something decent to eat now?”

Magnús Baldvinsson walked around the hotel site, trying to find a signal for his mobile. His room had no reception and he didn’t want to talk surrounded by people in the corridor or in the dining room, where he knew all he could get was a weak signal. Twice he stumbled on loose rocks. It was difficult to keep an eye on the display on his mobile and watch where he was going. Breathing a sigh of relief as a few bars of signal appeared on the screen, he hurriedly dialed his home number. He was in the car park, and people would probably start coming outside soon. He waited impatiently as it rang. Eventually it was answered.

“Frída, darling, did I wake you?”

“Magnús? What time is it?” His wife yawned noisily.

“Just past eight,” he snapped.

“Is something wrong?” Frída asked anxiously, the sleepiness gone from her voice.

“No, nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to tell you I’ll be staying a bit longer.” Magnús watched the hotel door open. A young man in a tracksuit came out. He was relieved when the man headed for the beach, not the car park. “There are some people here asking questions about Birna.”

“Questions? What kind of questions? Have they spoken to you?” Frída would have continued firing questions at him had he not interrupted her. The terror in her voice was audible.

“Frída, stay calm.” He took a deep breath and tried to control his temper. Frída’s nerves grew worse each year, and it didn’t take a murder to unbalance her. When he thought about it, she was actually holding up okay, now that the pressure was really on. “I don’t know why these people are nosing around. And no, they haven’t approached me yet. I just called to say I’ll be a few days longer. It would look suspicious if I rushed off. The police have already been to the hotel twice, and I’m hoping they’ll talk to me while I’m still here.” He sighed. “Surely they’ll want to talk to everyone who was at the scene.”

Frída said nothing for a short while, then murmured, “Baldvin phoned.”

“What did he say?” asked Magnús warily, although he couldn’t help swelling with pride at the mention of his grandson in spite of Baldvin’s recent tribulations. The lad was an up-and-coming politician, just as his grandfather had been at that age. They even looked strikingly similar, and one newspaper had included a photograph of the young Magnús alongside an interview with Baldvin to show the resemblance. Magnús smiled to himself; surely no one would mix them up in real life, him so old and Baldvin so young and handsome.

“He was asking after you. When you’d be home,” Frída replied. “I think he plans to come up there.”

“No!” barked Magnús. “Under no circumstances is he to come here. That would make things even worse. Imagine if he’d stayed at home the other day instead of trying to help me.”

“He means well,” said his wife. “Maybe it won’t make any difference. If that Birna had spoken to anyone, you’d know by now. Perhaps it all died with her.” She sighed. “Shouldn’t we just hope so and call it a day?”

Magnús groaned. “We can’t be sure, Frída. I’ve risked too much to give up at the last hurdle. Not to mention Baldvin. I’ll stay here and see how it all unfolds. Things will become clearer in the next couple of days, I’m sure of it.”

“Should I come? Are you taking your medication?” Frída sounded on the verge of hysteria.

“No. Don’t come. And for God’s sake, stop Baldvin from doing anything stupid like heading up here again.” Magnús took a deep breath. “Frída, the signal’s so weak here that you probably won’t get through to my mobile, but don’t call the hotel either. You never know who’s on the line. I’ll keep phoning you.”

He hung up, stood for a moment surveying the beautiful coastline, then turned to admire the mountains to the north. He waited to be filled with peace and well-being, but nothing happened. He suddenly felt furious. With her devious plotting, Birna had ruined what was most dear to him: his childhood haunts. Now the only feeling they aroused in him was apprehension, and he was too old to deal with fear. He had no self-confidence left. This would end badly, for him and for Baldvin. His rage had died down a little, but it was replaced by melancholy. Perhaps Birna had been the root of the problem, and her murder would put an end to it. But when all was said and done, it was his fault.

He had read somewhere that past sins haunted you forever, and no one could hide from them. He should have thought of that at the time.

Sitting behind the reception desk, Vigdís watched Thóra and Matthew heading for Jónas’s office. She wondered whether to tell them Jónas was out, but decided not to. They’d find out soon enough. She turned back to the online news site she was reading. You couldn’t really describe the articles she liked to read as “news,” but Vigdís had long ago lost interest in the Middle East, politics, the economy, and all the other stuff journalists were constantly going on about. That kind of news went around in never-ending circles, but the stories Vigdís read were easy to follow and had a beginning, a middle, and an ending. It was always obvious who were the good guys and the bad guys, and they were always illustrated with glamorous photographs. This was celebrity gossip—stories of the rich and famous. She scrolled down excitedly—she now had irrefutable proof that both Nicole Ritchie and Keira Knightley were anorexic. She scrutinized a close-up of the latter’s ribs, protruding through a slash in the side of her dress. Vigdís shook her head sadly.

“Excuse me,” a voice said, momentarily distracting her from her concern for the young actress’s well-being. Vigdís looked up. “Do you know where Jónas is?” asked Thóra.

Vigdís closed the window on her computer so that the reservations screen showed. “Jónas popped down to Reykjavík. He’ll be back this afternoon.” She smiled professionally. “Can I help?”

Thóra looked at Matthew, then back at Vigdís. “We were just wondering which guests were in. We’d like to meet anyone who may have known Birna. The canoeist, for example.”

“Thröstur Laufeyjarson?” said Vigdís, who was good with names— a talent that had proved useful in her job; in fact, it was one of the main reasons Jónas employed her. Vigdís also had such a command of the computer system that he completely ignored any other skills she might have.

“Yes, that’s him,” Thóra replied. “Is he in?”

“No, he’s always out training at the crack of dawn. Actually, I saw his canoe on the beach yesterday evening. Maybe he’s out in it. If it isn’t at the little jetty down below, then he’ll be at sea. He always leaves it there.”

Thóra interpreted this into German for Matthew and they decided to go down to the shore in the hope of seeing Thröstur. Before they left, Thóra turned back to Vigdís. “What about Magnús Baldvinsson? Is he in?”

Vigdís shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him today. He’s probably still sleeping or on one of his walks. I take extended breaks during the quiet periods of the day, which includes both the time between breakfast and lunch and then the early afternoon, so he could well have slipped by me. If he’s not in his room then he could be wandering around outside. Generally he doesn’t go far, just short excursions, never for more than an hour. He’s pretty old.”