Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - My Soul to Take

Matthew ignored her. “Why don’t we tell them the truth?” he suggested. “We could meet them both separately.”

“And what’s the ‘truth?’ That we suspect her of murder?” Thóra shook her head. “That won’t work.”

“The truth has many sides,” Matthew said. “You just say you’re investigating the hauntings. That’s no lie.”

Thóra pondered. “Actually, that’s true. Also, they might know something about the history of the farm and the area. That’s not such a bad idea.”

“What else have you got?” asked Matthew. “Surely you don’t have only three candidates?”

Thóra read quickly down the page. “No, of course not. I find that canoeist, Thröstur Laufeyjarson, very suspicious. We need to talk to him.”

Matthew shrugged, unconvinced. “What, just because he paddled away when he saw us on the beach?”

“Among other things, yes,” she replied. “And I thought the Japanese father and son were quite odd, although that’s probably just my imagination.” She looked back at the page. “That waiter, Jökull, was very negative about Birna as well. Then there’s the old politician, Magnús. He was definitely hiding something. Why wouldn’t he admit asking after Birna when he checked in, for example?”

“You’re kidding, right?” said Matthew. “He’s so ancient he couldn’t kill a potted plant. He may well have something to hide, but I can’t quite envisage him sending a text and then scrambling down on to the beach to kill someone. And why are you just focusing on men? The murderer could just as easily be female.”

“Like who?” Thóra asked. “Vigdís the receptionist? Or that drunken sex therapist, Stefanía?”

“Why not?” retorted Matthew. “Or Bergur’s wife, as I said earlier? I’m just pointing out that you know far too little to rule anyone out.”

Thóra sighed. “I know. Unfortunately.” She picked up the last page. “Then there are things that I want to look into even though they may have nothing to do with Birna’s murder.”

“Fire away,” said Matthew. “This is fun.”

“I’d like to know who Kristín was,” Thóra said. “Her name’s in Birna’s diary, so it’s possible that she’s linked with the murder.”

Matthew snorted with laughter, but stopped when Thóra glared at him. “Go on.”

“Also, I’d like to take a look at Birna’s studio. I’ve been in her room, and although I’m not an architect, it’s obvious that she did only a limited amount of work there. There was no computer, for example.”

“Have you asked Jónas?”

“No, I haven’t. It only occurred to me just now when I was making notes. But I will. Since someone went to the trouble of tearing her room apart, there must be something worth having in it.”

“I agree,” said Matthew. “But if her studio’s in Reykjavík, the police are practically certain to have sealed it.”

“I’m almost positive she did some work out here. Jónas seemed to think so,” said Thóra, turning the page over. “And there’s more,” she continued, reading through her last few notes. “I’d like to know where Grímur is buried.” She looked up from the sheet. “Plus I’m dying to find out what happened to that young man in the wheelchair.”

“My God,” Matthew said. “Don’t start that again.”

“I have to know,” insisted Thóra. “If only because the waiter acted so strangely when I mentioned him. It was very odd.” Looking back at the page, she added, “We also need to find out why the police asked Jónas about foxes and pins, and of course what ‘RER’ stands for. And, as I said, I’d like to know more about the second victim.”

“It’s good to know exactly what you want,” teased Matthew. “That on its own is enough for some people.”

Thóra wasn’t listening. “I also need to know a bit more about Nazi activity in Iceland,” she said as she gathered up the papers.

Matthew gave such a mighty groan that Thóra thought for a moment he was in pain. “God, the bloody Nazis,” he grumbled. “They always turn up sooner or later.”

Thóra felt as though she had been transported back in time at least half a century. She was sitting in a living room crammed with highly polished furniture.

“Jónas is very unhappy that this didn’t come up when the deeds were signed,” she said, the springs of the old sofa creaking as she leaned back. It was an imposing piece of furniture with exceptionally deep seat cushions, so when she finally touched the back of the sofa, she realized what a stupid position she had ended up in and hurriedly sat up again. She was only just tall enough to sit against the back of the sofa without her feet dangling in the air.

Börkur and his sister, Elín, had called her earlier that morning and invited her to their house in Stykkishólmur. Thóra decided to take them up on it instead of having them come to the hotel. She welcomed the chance to get away, hoping a change of scenery might clear her mind.

The house was one of the most elegant in town. It had clearly been built by a man of means, and was very well maintained. Probably their great-grandfather’s house, Thóra thought. He had made money from schooner fishing and had the sense to sell out before the trawlers took over. When they arrived, Matthew had admired the corrugated-ironclad house. It was beautifully decorated, with white-painted gables, window frames, and guttering. Because the conversation would be held in Icelandic, he had opted instead to look around the town, so Thóra was sitting by herself beneath the watchful eyes of Börkur and Elín, who sat facing her with their hands resting authoritatively on the arms of their ornate chairs.

“Those are old wives’ tales. I would never have thought them relevant in a modern business deal. Ghosts of abandoned children! I don’t know what to say,” said Börkur dismissively. “And I can’t help wondering if it would have made a difference if he had known. All that man was worried about was clinching the deal. He wasn’t interested in the salmon run in the river or anything.”

“Actually, given the nature of his business, I’m certain this would have mattered a great deal to him,” she corrected him politely. “Salmon would be a secondary consideration in this context, but the supernatural definitely wouldn’t.”

Börkur snorted derisively. “And what’s he asking for, exactly, based on this nonsense? A discount on the sale price?”

“Yes, for example,” replied Thóra. “That would be one option.”

“I’ve never heard anything like it,” he bellowed. “Do we need to hire a lawyer?” He turned to his sister, his face thunderous.

Elín, sitting impassively at his side, replied, “Shouldn’t we discuss this further? I’m sure we can resolve it.” She addressed Thóra. “Can’t we? Or is Börkur right?”

“If I thought the only solution was a discount or damages, I’d have sent you a letter to that effect,” Thóra answered. “I’ve come here to discuss the matter and see if we can’t find another way around it.”

“Damages,” muttered Börkur. “I’m the one who ought to be claiming damages. I should be at work instead of sitting here having this ridiculous conversation.”

“Oh, come on,” his sister said irritably. “I bet your staff were glad to get rid of you. They’ll probably have a collection and pay you to stay away.”

Börkur flushed beet-red, but chose not to answer. Instead he turned to Thóra again. “Here’s your answer,” he snarled. “You can tell Jónas that we don’t give a shit about this gobbledygook, and neither will anyone else. I can’t believe any court would award damages because of a ghost.” Breathing heavily, he added, “You must have been pretty hard to find—a lawyer who’s prepared to take on rubbish like this.”