Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - My Soul to Take

“Well,” said Thórólfur, “I would like to know whether there are many foxes in the vicinity. But if you keep foxes, it would also be good to know that.”

Jónas leaned back in his chair and frowned. “I don’t keep any foxes. Why would I keep foxes? This isn’t a fur farm.” He was addressing his words to Thóra, who shrugged but motioned him to continue. Jónas did, although he clearly found it uncomfortable. “But there are wild foxes around here. I know because they attack the eider ducks and the farmers complain about it. To tell the truth, that’s all I know about foxes.” He fell silent for a while before adding, “Well, except that they are the only mammal that was native to Iceland at the time of the settlement.”

Thórólfur smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I wasn’t asking for a lecture on the natural sciences.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Tell me another thing. Do the letters ‘RER’ mean anything to you?”

The hotelier shook his head. “No. I can’t say they do.” He looked at Thóra. “How about you?”

“I haven’t the faintest,” she answered, and turned to Thórólfur. “What does it mean?”

“It’s not important,” he said firmly, then changed the subject. “Do you have a sewing room in the hotel here?”

“No,” replied Jónas. “Do you have a loose button or a hem that needs mending?” he asked, in apparent sincerity.

Thórólfur did not answer Jónas, but continued, “Do you offer acupuncture?”

“I don’t personally, but we have discussed calling in an acupuncturist temporarily,” Jónas answered, startled. “It’s an ancient practice, but you can achieve incredible results with all sorts of ailments. I know of a man who smoked a pack a day of unfiltered Camels for thirty years—” He got no further.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re not making small talk here,” Thórólfur growled. “I ask; you answer. Preferably yes or no, as appropriate.” He had been rubbing one of his shoulders as he talked, and Thóra prayed that Jónas would not offer him a hot-stone massage.

“What I want to know is this: is there a sewing room here? Is acupuncture practiced? If not, do you offer any kind of service that requires pins or needles?”

Jónas thought for a moment, then answered in accordance with Thórólfur’s instructions. “Yes,” he said.

The policeman sighed. “Yes, and … ? What kind of service?”

Thóra indicated that Jónas should answer. “In each room is a little sewing kit, the size of a matchbox. It’s for guests who need to make minor repairs to their clothes. I can fetch one of those sets if you want. There are several colors of thread, one needle, two or three buttons, and a safety pin, if memory serves. There’s nothing else in it.”

“No other pins?” Thórólfur asked.

“No,” said Jónas, shaking his head. “I’m fairly sure of it.”

“I’d like to see one of those sets before I leave,” Thórólfur said. “And take a look at where you keep the stock.” He paused, glowering at Jónas. “One last question. I’ve been notified that Birna’s room was broken into.”

“What?” exclaimed Jónas. “I didn’t know that. Who told you that?”

“That’s none of your business, unless you know who did it and when it happened.” Thórólfur’s glare didn’t waver.

“I don’t know anything about it. I haven’t been in there since you had the room cordoned off on Friday evening and banned everybody from entering. I swear it wasn’t me.” Jónas was gabbling now. “I have no reason to go in there.”

“That’s what you say,” Thórólfur said, finally looking down at his notebook. “Somebody felt they had a reason. If not you, then who?” He looked back up at Jónas.

“Well, I don’t know. The murderer, I suppose,” said Jónas, flustered.

“Is that everything?” interrupted Thóra. “You said, ‘One last question,’ and Jónas has answered it now. Can we go?”

Thórólfur flapped his hand dismissively. “Please do. But I definitely need to talk to you again tomorrow,” he said to Jónas. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Jónas’s eyes widened, and Thóra spoke before he could. “No, of course. We won’t. I should remind you that I wish to be present any time Jónas is questioned. I assume that won’t be a problem.”

“No, no,” replied Thórólfur. “Why would it be?”

Thóra and Jónas left the office that he had lent to the police officers—if you could call it an office. It was used as a storeroom for cleaning supplies, but happened to also contain a desk that wouldn’t fit anywhere else. Chairs had been fetched and arranged as comfortably as the limited floor space allowed, but the result was a little unconventional. As soon as they had entered the room, Thóra had been struck by how unthreatening it was. She wondered if that would put the police at a disadvantage during their preliminary interviews. After being inside for a while, however, she had realized that the smell of disinfectant was so overpowering that it more than made up for the unimpressive atmosphere. She was indescribably relieved to walk out of there, and her mind was buzzing. Foxes? Pins? RER?

Jónas was knocking back brandy. He had invited Thóra and Matthew into his flat, as she needed to talk to him after the interrogation. Small but cozy, the flat was part of the hotel building. Thóra was sitting beside Matthew on a soft leather sofa, a glass of water in her hand, and she had a magnificent view of the glacier to the west. Jónas sat in a chair beside them.

“They think I killed Birna and that man,” he complained, taking another gulp of his cognac. “Are you sure you don’t want any of this? It really calms you down.”

“Do you know more than you told the police just now?” asked Thóra. “What was that about foxes and needles? And the letters?”

“I don’t have a clue, I swear,” he replied. “I know nothing about that man and even less about foxes, needles, and letters. I was freaking out. I thought it was a trap.”

“That’s highly unlikely,” Thóra reassured him. “But it was certainly very odd.” She waited as Jónas finished his drink and reached over to refresh it. “Tell me one thing, Jónas.” He looked around. “Did you know that Birna was involved with a farmer from around here? A married man?”

Jónas blushed. “Well, I suspected she was, yes,” he said, a strange look on his face.

“And you are presumably aware that the very same farmer owns those stables?” she persisted.

“Yes, I realized that,” he said, “but I didn’t want to say anything.”

“Why not?” she asked.

“I just didn’t,” Jónas replied, taking another swig.

“Could it be because you were having a relationship with her yourself, and didn’t want to risk being implicated further?” she said.

“Maybe,” answered Jónas sulkily.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you were together?” shouted Thóra, frustrated.

“It was nothing, nothing,” he replied. “I had no reason to hurt her.”

“So you split up amicably?” she asked. She looked sideways at Matthew, who was smothering a yawn. She was conducting the conversation in Icelandic so that Jónas’s responses would be as natural as possible. Poor Matthew had to sit there like a gooseberry, looking out of the window at the glacier. She admired his composure; her ex-husband would already have nudged her several times to ask if they could leave.

“Yes, pretty much,” Jónas replied. His eyes were a little glassy, but Thóra couldn’t tell whether through tiredness—it was past midnight—or alcohol. “I wouldn’t have minded it going on a bit longer, but she wanted to move on. Said I was too old.”