Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - My Soul to Take

“We hire out horses,” replied the farmer. “Well, my wife does, actually, but I help out when needed. I handle the feeding and so on.” He gnawed at a cuticle on his left hand. “We’re going to put the stallion out in the paddock; we just haven’t got around to it yet.”

Thórólfur scribbled in a notepad, then looked up. “When did you realize something was wrong?”

Bergur shrugged. “I don’t know the exact time, if that’s what you mean. I don’t wear a watch or carry one of those around”—he pointed to Thórólfur’s mobile, which lay on the table between them—“but obviously it was very soon after I went into the stable block.” Bergur stopped talking and swallowed audibly.

“Yes, of course,” said Thórólfur impatiently. “But how come you noticed it immediately? The stall is at the far end of the stables. Was there any particular reason you went straight there?”

Bergur swallowed again. “I always feed the stallion first. He’s not broken in yet and he gets agitated. He’s hard work—he’s incredibly wary of people, so he becomes really worked up when I’m in the stables. If he’s fed first, he leaves me in peace to feed the other horses.”

“I see,” said Thórólfur. “He’s in the biggest stall with the highest partitions, is that right?” Bergur nodded silently. “Why is that? Is it because of his temperament?”

“No, not just that. Stallions are always fenced off more securely. It stops them getting in with the other horses, which could end in disaster.”

“So this stallion wasn’t particularly bad, perhaps?” asked the detective. “I mean, are they all like that? Do they pose a special threat to other horses?”

“Well, stallions are more aggressive than geldings and mares,” answered Bergur quietly, “but this stallion is exceptionally wild. I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure of that.”

“Fine,” said Thórólfur, although it wasn’t clear to the farmer what he meant. “So you say you went straight over to that pen—”

“Stall,” the farmer corrected him.

“Stall, then,” he said crossly. “And you immediately saw a man lying there?”

“Yes, pretty much,” Bergur replied. “It was all so surreal I have trouble describing it in detail.”

“Why don’t you give it a go?” suggested Thórólfur.

“I think I noticed the fox first, then the man. I remember seeing blood in the sawdust and thinking the horse had injured himself. Then I saw the fox and thought the blood must have come from that, and then …” Bergur was breathing heavily now, trying to stay calm. “It was awful. He was just lying there. I wondered at first if he was still alive, but when I leaned over for a better look I could tell he was dead.” He inhaled deeply and repeated, “It was awful. And his feet. God help me—”

“So you haven’t got used to it?” interrupted Thórólfur, drumming his fingers on the table.

Bergur looked up, surprised and anxious. “What do you mean?”

“This is the second body you’ve chanced upon in a couple of days. I thought it might not be so bad the second time,” said the detective. “Come to think of it, it’s a hell of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say,” Bergur whispered. “I couldn’t bear to go through that again, and I wish it had never happened to me. Neither time.” He sat up and looked Thórólfur in the eye. “I had no part in this, if that’s what you think.”

“No, no, I’m sure you didn’t, but it’s interesting all the same,” said the other man, meeting Bergur’s glare with a quizzical look.

“It was an accident,” said the farmer mulishly. “Surely no one doubts that?”

“How would you explain such an accident?” asked Thórólfur.

“Well, I don’t know,” replied Bergur, then paused. “A hunter who followed a fox into the stable? Or something … weirder.”

“What do you mean, ‘weirder’?” inquired Thórólfur.

“There are cases of men who go into livestock enclosures to … satisfy their needs. Maybe he was one of them,” said the farmer, flushing slightly.

“Then he would have taken a stool or box to stand on, wouldn’t he? And how does the fox come into it? And what about the pins?” snapped Thórólfur, stone-faced. “Both your explanations are pretty implausible.”

Bergur sat back in his chair. “I’m not investigating this; you are. I have no idea how the man ended up in there. You asked me and I answered. All I know is, I wasn’t involved.”

“Fine, but it’s still your shed, and—”

“It’s a stable. Sheds are for cattle,” said Bergur peevishly. His anger subsided immediately and he added in a much calmer voice, “I’m not sure I feel up to discussing this anymore. I still haven’t recovered from the shock.” He bowed his head and returned his gaze to the table.

“It’s almost over,” replied Thórólfur, who had little sympathy for the man opposite him. “I noticed a rifle on the wall inside. Is it yours?”

“Yes,” Bergur said. “It’s mine. I very much doubt that you’ll find a farmer in these parts who doesn’t own a rifle.” He looked up, annoyed. “The man wasn’t shot. What’s wrong with you?”

The detective smiled coldly. “No, but the fox was, if I’m not mistaken. Did you shoot that fox?”

Bergur picked awkwardly at the faded oilcloth on the table. “No. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Oh, really?” said Thórólfur with an exaggerated air of bafflement. “Could you explain that a little better? I’m not sure I understood. You don’t know whether you shot that fox?”

Bergur stopped fiddling with the cloth and looked up. “I shoot foxes if and when I notice them. There’s an eider colony here, and we can’t have a predator loose around them, but I haven’t shot a fox for months, apart from one the other day that got away. I know I hit it because I found blood and some scraps of fur, but I never saw its corpse. I thought it had escaped, but who knows? It might be the same fox.”

“Indeed, who knows?” echoed Thórólfur. “Maybe you can describe to us exactly where this was, and of course there are plenty of other things we need to go over more closely.”

“Not right now,” moaned Bergur, who was clearly exhausted. “I simply can’t.”

“No problem,” said Thórólfur jovially. “Just two final points and we’ll discuss it later. Firstly, are the stables normally open or locked? And secondly, did you know or recognize the deceased?”

Bergur did not look up. “The stables are never locked. Until now it hasn’t been considered necessary.” Then he raised his head and looked wearily at Thórólfur. “I have no idea whether I knew the man. It could be anyone—you saw the state he was in.”

“Fair enough,” said the detective, getting to his feet. “Oh, sorry, one final question.”

Bergur looked resigned. “What?”

“We found some writing on one wall of the stall, or rather scratchings. It was just a few letters, but we were wondering whether they were there before.”

“Letters?” repeated Bergur, surprised. “I don’t remember any letters there. What did they say?”

“It looked to me like ‘RER.’ Does that mean anything to you?”

Bergur shook his head. “Nothing. I’ve never seen that and don’t know what it means.” Nothing in his face suggested dishonesty, but Thórólfur couldn’t shake the feeling that Bergur had something to hide. The question was, what?

“If I weren’t so hungry, I’d suggest we look somewhere else,” Matthew said as he opened the door for Thóra. The restaurant specialized in vegetarian dishes, and in spite of Thóra’s rough translation of an assortment of framed press clippings in the window singing its praises, Matthew was far from excited.