Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - My Soul to Take

“I don’t want to spoil your fun, but what good is that to us?” he asked.

“I’m curious to know what his gravestone says. Who knows, Kristín might be lying by his side. Unfortunately you can’t search by the plot references, so I’ll have to send someone in person.”

“Who?” asked Matthew. “Hopefully not your fugitives in the trailer.”

“No,” Thóra answered. “Our very own Wonderwoman—Bella.”

“Yes, Bella, I’m asking you to go down to Fossvogur Cemetery to find a grave for me.” Thóra mimed a groan and rolled her eyes at Matthew, who grinned.

“Then I need you to tell me what the gravestone says, and whether anyone named Kristín is buried either there or close by.” She paused to listen to her secretary’s protestations, then interrupted her. “Of course I realize that you can’t be at the office at the same time as you’re in the cemetery. It won’t take long. You can forward the switchboard calls to your mobile, and before you know it you’ll be back at your desk.” Thóra clutched her forehead as she listened. “Great. And let me know what you find out.” She hung up. “Bah. Why can’t I have a normal secretary who jumps at the opportunity of getting out into the fresh air? Even if it is in a churchyard.”

Matthew smiled. “She’s okay. You just need to give her a chance.” He was lying in bed, pleased with everything and everyone, including Bella. It was thanks to her that he and Thóra had had some time to kill, and he’d made full use of it. Bella hadn’t answered when Thóra first tried to telephone her, or the second time, or the third. Thóra had then decided to give Bella half an hour before making the fourth attempt.

Wearing a dressing gown, Thóra sat sipping the coffee that she had made in the tiny machine in the hotel room. In front of her on a small side table lay Birna’s diary. She tapped one page. “This is strange.” She looked over at Matthew, who was half dozing under the duvet in the large bed.

“Are you trying to make absolutely certain that your fingerprints will be on every square inch of that book if it ever ends up in the hands of the police?” he asked drowsily.

“No, listen,” Thóra said excitedly. “On the pages before the swastika, she’d been going through the boxes that I looked at in the basement. I recognize the description of some of the things in them.” She held up the page to show Matthew. “Look, she’s listed some of the contents. Maybe she made some notes. She must have come across the same objects I did, including the Nazi flag. I opened that box first, but she didn’t necessarily open them in the same order.”

“So?” asked Matthew. “What does this brilliant discovery of yours mean?”

Thóra put down the diary. “I’m not quite sure,” she said, turning to the page with the swastika on it. “It’s obvious that it meant something important to her, considering how carefully she drew the symbol and colored it in. Look.” She held up the diary again for Matthew to inspect. It was obvious that he could not make out the drawing from where he was lying so Thóra handed the diary over with a comment about his failing eyesight.

“Just wait until you’re forty,” he said, propping himself up for a better look. He squinted at it, then returned the diary to Thóra and put his head back down on the pillow. “It’s a very carefully produced drawing, you’re quite right. What has she written around it?”

“This and that,” Thóra said. “Parts of it are illegible because she’s scrawled over it, but I can make out ‘Swastika??’ and ‘So where was he?’ This is followed by a couple of phone numbers that I can’t read properly because she’s crossed them out.”

“Maybe she crossed them off after calling them?”

“Five, eight, something …” said Thóra, her nose almost touching the page. She straightened up and slapped her thigh. “Hang on, I wrote down the numbers that Birna dialed from her hotel room. I could try calling them.”

She fished a piece of paper out of her pocket, went to the phone and dialed the first number. Eventually it was answered. “Kaupthing Bank. May I help you?” said a voice on the other end.

Thóra put the receiver down. “No luck there,” she said to Matthew and dialed the next. She put a finger to her lips to indicate to Matthew to keep silent when it answered.

“Reykjalundur Rehabilitation Clinic. Can I help you?” said a cheerful female voice.

Thóra, who had hoped it would be the private number of someone who would remember Birna, was caught unawares. She decided to get straight to the point. “Hello. My name’s Thóra.”

“Hello, how can I help you?”

“I’m looking for information about Birna Halldórsdóttir, an architect. She jotted down this number and I was wondering if you knew her, or could check who she knew at your establishment.” Thóra could have kicked herself—there was no way this approach would work.

The woman on the other end of the telephone took the inquiry in her stride. “Unfortunately we don’t keep records of visits or calls. There are so many patients here that it’s impossible.”

“It might not be a patient,” said Thóra, hoping Birna had been trying to contact an employee.

“We don’t monitor that either,” the woman said. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. Excuse me, but I have another call. Goodbye.”

“Reykjalundur,” she told Matthew, groaning. “A clinic. No way to find out who she called there.” She picked up the piece of paper again. “This is the last number. Pity I scribbled it down so badly. Is that a five or a six?” She picked up the telephone and dialed once more. On the tenth ring she was about to give up when a mechanical voice informed her that the call was being transferred. This time, the phone was answered after a single ring.

“City Hall. Can I help you?”

“Hello,” Thóra said. “Excuse me, I didn’t quite catch that. Did you say ‘City Hall?’ ”

“Yes,” said the girl at the other end. “Were you trying to reach Baldvin?” When Thóra hesitated, she added, “I saw you dialed his direct extension. He has a telephone clinic between four and six on Wednesdays. Try again then.” Cheerfully, she said goodbye.

Thóra turned to Matthew. “It was the number of Baldvin Baldvinsson’s office at City Hall. He’s a councilor, so he must have an office there.”

“And who is this Baldvin?” Matthew asked indifferently.

“The grandson of old Magnús,” she replied, reaching for the diary. She peered at the numbers that had been crossed out. “He’s considered one of the most promising politicians around, but I doubt whether Birna called him to discuss converting his grandfather’s summer house for year-round use. And I’m certain this is one of the numbers Birna wrote down in the diary.” She flicked back through it. “I think I also saw an e-mail address before, but I didn’t read it properly. That might be his.” She leafed quickly through the book until she found a page where “baldvin.baldvinsson@reykjavik.is” was written in the margin. “Here it is. It can’t be anyone else.”

“What do you think she wanted with him?” Matthew asked.

“I don’t know, but I do know we have to take another shot at the

old man,” Thóra replied. Then she picked up the diary again and flicked through it. “There’s bound to be loads of useful information here if I only knew how to sort the wheat from the chaff.”

“Can you imagine how delighted the police would be if they had that diary?” asked Matthew. “They might have the murderer behind bars by now.”

“What do you mean?” said Thóra. “Are you saying the police are cleverer than me?”

“No, no,” Matthew replied, “but you don’t have the resources to investigate a matter like this.”