Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - My Soul to Take

“Is he a widower?” asked Thóra. “Jónas said he was here on his own.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Vigdís replied. “His wife has phoned him here several times.”

“Strange that she isn’t with him.”

“Maybe she’s ill,” suggested Vigdís. “Housebound or something.”

“Perhaps we’ll have a look for him later,” said Thóra.

Vigdís nodded emphatically. “Yes, you really should.”

“Should we?” said Thóra. “Why?”

“Well, because he knew Birna,” Vigdís answered. She paused, then added, “At least, I think he did. He made a point of asking after her when he checked in.”

“Really?” Thóra was surprised. Jónas had not mentioned any connection between Magnús and Birna. “Do you know how they knew each other?”

Vigdís shook her head. “No idea. I don’t really know any more than that. He asked after her and I answered his question. I never saw them together. He didn’t ask where he could find her, and she never mentioned him.”

Thröstur Laufeyjarson laid the paddle across his canoe and looked at the stopwatch on his wrist. In spite of all his training, he seemed to be doing worse than before. The canoe rocked gently in the sea as he pondered how to improve his training schedule, which seemed to be making no difference. He took a deep breath and exhaled with a groan. The problem was obvious, really: it must be because he wasn’t working out enough. The small gym at the hotel was not well equipped, making it difficult to maintain a reasonable muscle mass, let alone increase it. Thröstur rotated his shoulders three times to release the tension and felt a drop of sweat drip down his spine inside his wet suit. The prospect of a hot shower, perhaps followed by a massage, incited him to turn the canoe slowly landward. That was enough for the time being. He would go out again after lunch, and paddle harder.

When the prow of the boat was pointing toward the hotel, he hesitated, eased his tight grip on the paddle, and squinted at the shoreline. Who were those people on the beach? It looked like they were waving at him. He groaned. Was there anything more boring than tourists and their stupid questions? “Do you hunt whales in that thing?” “Have you ever paddled to Greenland?” He considered his options. Should he resign himself to meeting these idiots or paddle away and go ashore elsewhere? That way, he would be left in peace, but he’d end up much farther from the hotel. Licking his dry lips, he tasted the tang of salt. The people were waving even harder now, and Thröstur thought he recognized the woman as a recent arrival at the hotel. It looked like that woman who was asking about the architect when he walked through reception the day before. He had no intention of talking to her. Who knew what she might ask? Calmly, he turned the canoe back around. Before setting off, he looked instinctively at the paddle, half expecting still to see blood on it. Of course it was gone. He had washed it off himself, and whatever he did, he was always thorough. He paddled away.

“What’s going on? ” shouted Thóra when the canoe started moving away from them. She had been waving madly to attract the canoeist’s attention, but now lowered her arms. “He definitely saw us. What’s wrong with him?”

Matthew put one hand to his forehead as he watched the man paddle determinedly westward, away from the beach. “Yes, he definitely saw us. Either he’s busy or he’s avoiding us.” The boat moved out of sight behind some rocks. “I think he didn’t want to talk to us. Maybe he’s shy.”

“Shouldn’t we wait here a while?” asked Thóra, who was eager to meet the unfriendly canoeist as soon as possible. Whatever might be said of Jónas, he was pretty canny, and he’d been suspicious of Thröstur. “I think it’s obvious that he’s hiding something, otherwise he’d talk to us.”

“Not necessarily,” argued Matthew. “Perhaps he’s just tired and can’t be bothered to talk. He doesn’t know what we want to ask him. Why don’t we just go back inside? We’re bound to run into him later. Come on, we can talk to that old Magnús guy instead.”

Thóra had to admit that this was a much more sensible plan than standing on the beach on the off chance Thröstur might return, so they went back inside, where Vigdís told them that she still hadn’t seen Magnús that morning, so he was probably still in his room. They went to the top floor.

“Leave the talking to me,” Thóra whispered as she knocked firmly on the door. They heard movement inside. “He’s so old that I’m not sure he speaks any language except Icelandic, and possibly Danish.”

A crack appeared in the door and Baldvinsson peered out. “Hello, Mr. Baldvinsson. My name’s Thóra. This is Matthew. Could we have a few words with you?”

“Why?” he growled. “Who are you?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m a lawyer working for Jónas, the owner of this hotel, and this is my assistant.” Thóra suppressed the urge to stick her foot in the door and force it open. “This won’t take a moment. I’m hoping you can help us.”

The gap in the door narrowed slightly. Then Magnús opened it all the way. “Please, come in.”

“Thank you,” said Thóra as she took a seat. “We promise not to keep you for long.”

Magnús glared at her. “I’m not busy, so you needn’t worry about that. I’ve learned from experience that time is only precious when you’re young. You’ll find that out one day.”

“I’m not sure I agree,” said Thóra politely. “But we’d like to talk to you about Birna, the architect who was found dead on the beach.” She observed Magnús’s reactions closely.

“Yes, I heard about that. Terrible business,” he said, displaying little emotion. “I heard they think it was murder, which makes it sadder still.”

“That’s what they’re saying,” she agreed, smiling at him. “We’re trying to find out who might conceivably have wanted her dead.”

“And you include me in that category?” Magnús asked dryly.

“No, not at all,” Thóra replied hastily. “We understand that you knew her and we were hoping you might know something useful.”

“Knew her?” he snapped, startled and unable to conceal his irritation. “Who said I knew her? That’s simply not true.”

“ ‘Knew’ may be an overstatement,” she said. “I heard you were asking after her at reception, so I just assumed you must have been acquainted with her.”

The old man hesitated. “I don’t remember that, but my memory’s not so good these days. If I did inquire about her, I must have seen her name somewhere, maybe on a list on the desk. My wife and I are looking for an architect, and her name may well have rung a bell. I seem to recall something of the sort, but I can’t be sure. Are you sure that the receptionist meant me?”

Thóra could tell he was lying. She wondered how old he actually was—he didn’t look a day younger than eighty. Why would a couple in their eighties need an architect? Her parents had just turned sixty and they balked at the idea of buying a new car, let alone major construction work. “Are you having a house built?” she asked.

“What? Oh, no,” Magnús said slowly. “We have an old summer house by Lake Thingvallavatn that we want to convert for year-round habitation. We need to consult an architect about the plans.” His face was blank and guileless. “It’s been impossible to find one. The economy’s booming at the moment and despite signs on the horizon, the construction industry shows no sign of slowing down.”

“Surely you didn’t come here in the hope of finding an architect?” she asked, determined not to let the old man off the hook so easily.

Magnús glowered at her. “No, of course I didn’t. The reason I came here is none of your business, and I would prefer to end this conversation here and now.” He stopped, waiting for them to react. They both sat in silence, Matthew because he couldn’t understand a word and Thóra because she didn’t want to anger him further. When it became obvious that they didn’t intend to say anything, the old man resumed talking. He seemed less angry now. “I suppose I can tell you why I’m here. Maybe then you’ll leave me in peace. You seem to think I have something to hide, but nothing could be further from the truth.”