Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - My Soul to Take

“Oh, dear,” said Thóra. “I can see why you feel bad.”

The sex therapist nodded slowly. When she looked up at Thóra, she spotted Matthew behind her. Until now she had been so absorbed in her own misery that she hadn’t really noticed him. She smiled, a little unpleasantly. “Who’s that? A friend of yours?” she asked coquettishly. Thóra decided to use the language barrier to her advantage. “He’s a foreigner. He’s here to relax.” She leaned over to Stefanía and lowered her voice. “He’s impotent. Result of an accident.” Then she nodded conspiratorially and sat up straight again. “So sad.” Although Thóra felt a bit bad about having lied about Matthew’s sexual prowess she was certain that this sex therapist minx would leave him be as a result. The end in this case would have to justify the means.

Stefanía’s eyes widened. “What a shame,” she said, crestfallen. “If you want, I know a few techniques that could help you. You can have a lot of fun without actual penetration.”

“No, thank you.” Thóra smiled politely. “But thanks for the offer.” She turned to Matthew. “Come on,” she said in German, “the food should be on its way.”

Stefanía smiled at Matthew. “It’s very important that you eat well and don’t miss any meals,” she said sympathetically.

“Okay, thanks,” said Matthew, bemused.

Thóra put her hand on Stefanía’s shoulder. “Thank you very much. I’ll definitely see you soon, because I’ll still be working on this project for Jónas.”

Stefanía looked at her in astonishment. “Don’t you want to know who the other one is?”

“Which other one?” she asked, confused.

“The other man who wanted to harm Birna,” replied Stefanía with a hint of irritation.

Thóra nodded quickly. “Oh, yes, definitely.”

Stefanía leaned over to whisper in her ear. When she was so close that Thóra was certain her ear had been smeared with lipstick, Stefanía said in a low voice, “Jónas.”

Thóra watched the police cars pull up. Three cars—clearly something was going on. They drove slowly onto the graveled space outside the hotel and parked side by side in one corner. The slamming of car doors broke the silence as six officers got out, including one woman.

“What now?” Thóra wondered aloud. “They said they weren’t coming back until tomorrow.”

They watched the group stride toward the hotel entrance, outside which she and Matthew were lounging in the trendy patio furniture probably provided for smokers, enjoying the evening sun with a glass of wine each. She was still hungry, because Matthew had repaid her indifference to the menu by ordering her just a green salad. He had hardly fared better with his vegetable lasagne, which was barely a mouthful. As a result, they had twice had to order extra bread, and even that had not sufficed.

She knew two of the officers by sight; the pair who had questioned Jónas and confiscated his mobile. The elder one was named Thórólfur, she thought.

“Good evening,” she said, addressing him.

“Hello,” he said dryly.

“You weren’t expected until tomorrow,” Thóra said. “Is something wrong?”

Without stopping or looking at them, Thórólfur answered as he passed their table, “Things change.” Then the group of officers vanished into the building.

Thóra cleared her throat. “There’s one thing I don’t understand.” She looked at Jónas, who was sitting beside her, his face ashen. “Why do you want to talk to my client? He doesn’t own the stables, and I can’t imagine that anything has emerged in your initial investigation to suggest that he was involved in this.” She regarded Thórólfur steadily. “Has it?”

Now it was Thórólfur’s turn to clear his throat. “I would have thought it was obvious. The last time a body was found here in the neighborhood, it turned out to be a woman who worked for your client, and since that was only a few days ago, our first question must be whether anyone is missing from here. We have reason to believe that the same person was responsible.”

Jónas leaned forward in his chair. “Would you please use my name? I don’t exactly feel comfortable at being called ‘a client.’ ”

Thóra suppressed a groan but looked at Jónas and nodded. Then she turned back to Thórólfur. “In other words, you’re only here to ask Jónas whether the deceased could be a guest or employee of the hotel? Not because you consider him connected in any other way?”

Thórólfur clenched his fists. “I didn’t say that. The investigation is only in its early stages, as I indicated. However, it should be clear that at this point in time we are only trying to discover the identity of the deceased. What happens after that is completely undecided.”

“These stables,” said Thóra, “am I allowed to ask who owns them?”

“Ask what you like,” Thórólfur answered moodily. “I may answer.” He cracked his knuckles. “But it’s no secret that the stables in question belong to the farm of Tunga.”

Thóra gave a start, and hoped that Thórólfur hadn’t noticed. “Is it close to here?” she asked casually.

“It’s the next farm along, just west of here,” Jónas chipped in, relieved to be able to contribute.

“I see,” Thóra said. “Then it must be very close to the beach where Birna’s body was found, right?” She addressed the question to Thórólfur. Since he didn’t seem about to answer, she added, “Oughtn’t you to be talking to the people who live there, rather than those at the hotel?” She had decided not to tell the police about the farmer’s relationship with Birna until she had met him herself. She resolved to contact Bergur first thing in the morning, since the truth was bound to come out. Once that happened, she might not get the opportunity to speak to him.

“Let’s get back to the subject,” Thórólfur said tetchily, turning to Jónas. “I presume you know the stables in question?”

“Yes, sort of,” Jónas answered. “I know where they are and I have been inside.”

“Do you ride?” asked Thórólfur.

“No, not at all,” Jónas answered. “Just interested. I hope to go into that line of business in the future. At the moment the hotel operation is keeping me busy.”

“So what were you doing in the stables, that time you went inside?” said the detective.

“Rósa was kind enough to show me the horses,” Jónas said, adding hurriedly, “Rósa is the lady of the house, Bergur’s wife. We’ve discussed horses on the few occasions that we’ve met, and she wanted to show me a young stallion they had just bought. That was quite a while ago, at least six months.”

“Do you remember the name of this stallion?” Thórólfur asked.

“Yes,” Jónas said. “I think it was called Snowy.” He smiled. “It ought to have been called Fire, really—I’ve never seen a horse with such a temper.”

Thórólfur took his time formulating his next question, scribbling something on a notepad. Thóra was ill at ease. There was something about these questions about the horse that suggested that this was more than a fact-finding mission. She decided to wait and see what happened.

Eventually Thórólfur looked up from his notepad and glared at Jónas. “In other words, for six months you have known that in these particular stables is a horse that is rather bad-tempered—indeed, uncontrollable? Is that correct?”

“Yes,” said Jónas, looking surprised. “Why do you ask?”

“No particular reason,” the detective said, jotting something down. “And what about foxes?” he asked. “Can you tell me anything about foxes around here?”

Astonished, Jónas looked from Thórólfur to Thóra. “Am I meant to answer that?” he asked, perplexed. Thóra nodded. She was dying to know where all this was heading. Jónas turned back to Thórólfur. “I don’t quite understand the question. Do you want to know about foxes in general, or whether I have any?”