Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - My Soul to Take

“I’m sure you will,” said Thóra. “Just ask the police. They should be here tomorrow. Do you live locally?”

“No, not really. We have a house in Stykkishólmur where I can stay. I try to come as often as I can.” Staring intently at Thóra, she whispered, “Because of Steini. He doesn’t want to live in Reykjavík.”

Thóra nodded. “Are you related?” she asked. She and the girl had dropped back, but they weren’t far enough away for Thóra to risk asking what had happened to the young man. She didn’t want him to hear her asking about his appearance.

“Yes, he’s my cousin on my father’s side.”

In front of them, Matthew stopped and turned, clearly out of breath. They had reached the top of the slope. Thóra hurriedly changed the subject back to the murder. “Do you have any idea who could have killed Birna? Was she in a relationship with anyone, or had she made enemies?”

The girl shook her head. “She didn’t have any enemies, I don’t think. At least, she never mentioned it. We met quite a few times—I’m clearing up some family stuff in the old farm at Kreppa and she often used to go there. It was great, chatting to her. I don’t know if it’s relevant, but she said she had a boyfriend.”

“A boyfriend?” Thóra asked eagerly. “Do you know anything about him?”

Berta thought hard before replying. “Well, I don’t know whether I ought to tell you. He’s married, so they kept it a secret. She confided in me, so she obviously wanted to talk to someone about it. I don’t want to break Birna’s trust, even if she is dead.”

Thóra thought Birna must have been very lonely if she confided her secrets to such a young girl. Berta couldn’t be older than twenty. “I think you’ll have to tell us. Silly as it may seem, it’s usually love affairs that lead to situations like this. You don’t want the person who did it to get away with it, do you?”

Berta shook her head vehemently. “God, no.” She dithered, standing with Thóra beside Matthew and Steini.

“Can we go now?” said a hoarse voice from beneath the hood. “I

want to leave.”

Berta took hold of the handles of the wheelchair. “Okay, Steini,” she said, and thanked Matthew for his help. Then she turned to Thóra. “See you around, maybe. Do you have a vacation home here?”

“No, we’re at the hotel,” Thóra said, annoyed that she hadn’t learned the boyfriend’s name. She watched as the girl waved goodbye and set off slowly, pushing the wheelchair.

Berta had only gone a few steps when she suddenly turned. “His name’s Bergur. He’s the farmer from Tunga.” Then she continued on her way without another word.

Thóra and Matthew stood and watched the young girl plodding away over the bumpy track. When they were out of earshot, Matthew turned to Thóra. “What on earth happened to that poor boy?”

Vigdís stuck her head over the reception desk and peered around. No one. Looking at the clock, she decided that no guests would be back just yet. In spite of their diverse nationalities and interests, most seemed to fall into a fixed pattern after checking in—getting up between eight and nine, and going out for a stroll after breakfast. As a rule they didn’t come back until the afternoon. She knew this worried Jónas, because his original plan was for people to spend more time—and money—within the walls of the hotel. The masseuses, healers, sex therapist, aura reader, and all those other experts were equally annoyed, because they were paid for performing actual treatments. They were mainly busy in the evenings and on weekends, and most of them had been forced to dream up special offers in order to make a living. Jónas expected that the specialists would have more to do when winter set in and the weather became less appealing for outdoor activities. Guests would probably spend more time within the hotel grounds during the colder season and as a result be more likely to purchase the services on offer. But the summer was only just beginning, and it seemed obvious that some staff members would fall by the wayside if demand for their services did not pick up.

Vigdís didn’t care about those charlatans’ employment prospects; the current situation suited her just fine. She was dying of curiosity. After the police made her and Jónas promise that Birna’s room was offlimits to everyone, she was seized by an overwhelming urge to disobey. Jónas had taken a quick peek inside when he opened the room for the detectives, but said there was nothing much to see. Even so, Vigdís had to see it for herself. Maybe there was blood—or worse—that Jónas had missed from where he was standing, or perhaps he’d seen something that he couldn’t or wouldn’t talk about.

Vigdís stood up, taking the master key with her. After checking there was no one down the corridor, she marched to the door of Birna’s room and stuck the key in without a moment’s hesitation. Swiftly she pushed the door open, slid inside, and closed it behind her. The instant she heard the lock click shut she realized she’d made a terrible mistake. It was a total mess. There was no blood, but clothes were spread everywhere, torn papers mixed in with them. Vigdís realized that she would have to tell the police that someone had broken into the room, but what was she supposed to say she had been doing inside? Dusting? Perhaps she could lie and say she had heard a noise inside, but that would confuse the investigation—they might think it had just happened. With a groan, Vigdís fumbled behind her for the door handle. As she slipped back out, she desperately tried to think up a credible excuse for having sneaked inside.

“Is this meant to be a joke? Who was in charge of the crime scene?” Thórólfur glared at his subordinate. He gestured at a heap of steel trays containing the objects retrieved from the area around the body on Snæfellsnes. “Shells and dead crabs!” He closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed his temple. A major headache was on its way.

“Um, it was Gudmundur. He’s new,” Lárus mumbled.

“It looks like a ten-year-old’s been on a school beachcombing trip. What did this Gudmundur think he was supposed to do? Vacuum the bloody beach? Maybe I should be glad I haven’t got an in-box full of sand.” He walked around the desk and examined the trays.

“Pebbles,” Lárus muttered, regretting it immediately when Thórólfur spun around and glared at him. “The … the beach is pebbly, not sandy.”

“Pebbles, sand, what’s the difference?” Thórólfur snarled. “This Gudmundur of yours appears to have had no idea what he was doing. Firstly, he seems to have combed an enormous area, and secondly, it looks like he took everything that wasn’t nailed down.” Thórólfur stuck a pencil in an old, dented beer can and lifted it up. “Like this,” he said, wielding the can. “Anyone with an ounce of sense can see this has been outside for months. And this …” Thórólfur moved to the next tray and threw his hands up in the air. “A dead catfish!” He turned to Lárus. “Have you seen the photos of the body? How could a dead catfish be connected with this woman’s death? Does this Gudmundur think she slipped on a dead fish, perhaps, and hit her head on a rock? In your opinion, is that what happened?”

Lárus said nothing, just shook his head. Thórólfur had started shouting, never a good sign. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and opened his mouth to speak, but before anything intelligent occurred to him, his boss remarked, in a much calmer tone of voice, “What’s that? Some kind of sex toy?” Lárus walked over to get a better look. He was right. Poking out from under the catfish’s gaping mouth was a battered plastic object that looked very much like a dildo.