Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - My Soul to Take

“By a horse?” asked Thóra. The cause of death hadn’t been given when the police spoke to Jónas.

“She didn’t say. I was so shocked that it didn’t even occur to me to ask.” Vigdís looked suddenly terrified. “Do you think it’s safe to stay here? What’s going on?”

“That’s up to everyone to decide for themselves,” Thóra said, adding reassuringly, “I don’t think there’s a serial killer on the loose, if that’s what you mean. We don’t even know yet that this man didn’t die accidentally. It may just be a coincidence.” Thóra thought for a moment. “Did his sister mention whether the police were treating it as suspicious?”

“No, she didn’t.” Vigdís hesitated. “But there was something odd about her,” she said. “When she said goodbye, she told me to be careful. It was as if she were suggesting that there was something wrong.” Vigdís’s eyes narrowed inquisitively. “But who would have wanted to kill Eiríkur?” she asked. “He wasn’t exactly a barrel of laughs, but he wasn’t a bad person. Oh, the poor man.” She blinked and Thóra had the feeling that she was trying to squeeze out tears. “Maybe I should’ve treated him more decently. He was so weird, though, and he had a habit of coming over for a chat just when I was busiest.”

Thóra didn’t want to witness any histrionics, or waste time consoling Vigdís. “Was he a horse lover, do you know?” she asked.

“God, no, I don’t think so,” Vigdís replied. “He was so pale that I doubt he ever went outdoors except for a smoke.” Then she added firmly, “He was definitely not horsey.”

“Was he … interested in foxes?” Thóra asked, trying not to think about how stupid she sounded.

“Foxes?” said Vigdís, astonished. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing,” Thóra replied. She threw in another fox question, since she had already made herself sound like an idiot. “His sister didn’t mention foxes, did she?”

“No,” Vigdís said, and looked at Thóra with the cautious expression of someone who doubts the mental health of the person they are talking to. “I’ve told you everything she told me.”

“Do you think Eiríkur had any business going to the stables?” Thóra asked, determined not to discuss foxes any further. “Were he and Bergur, the farmer there, friends?”

Vigdís lifted one eyebrow. “He wasn’t Bergur’s friend,” she said, adding in a seductively gossipy tone, “But Birna … Birna and Bergur were intimate friends.”

“Yes, I gathered that,” Thóra said, and watched Vigdís’s relish at delivering gossip evaporate. “Did Eiríkur talk to Birna much, or mention her? Were they friends at all?”

“Definitely not,” Vigdís said confidently. “There couldn’t be two more different types than those two. He was a bit, well, I mean …” She faltered.

“You may as well tell the truth,” said Thóra. “There’s no need to pretend he was a saint just because he’s dead.”

This appeared to cheer Vigdís up. “You’re right,” she said. “The truth is, Eiríkur was a slob. He was dirty. He hardly ever shaved. He dressed like a tramp. He was Bolshie, frankly, and a bit of a miser.” Vigdís clearly didn’t need to be told twice to take off her rose-tinted glasses. “Birna, she looked after herself, always nicely turned out. Deep down, though, she was completely different. Sweet enough if she needed something, but if she didn’t, forget it. She had Jónas wrapped right around her finger.” She finally stopped to draw breath. “Actually, there is one thing she and Eiríkur had in common: they were both obsessed with money. Apart from that, they were chalk and cheese.”

Thóra nodded gravely, taking care not to show her alarm at this flood of vitriol. “So they never spent any time together?” she asked. “Eiríkur wouldn’t have known what she was up to any more than anyone else?”

“No, absolutely not,” said Vigdís with authority. “Birna wouldn’t have talked to Eiríkur if they were the last two people on earth.”

“I see,” said Thóra. “Tell me, did Eiríkur or Birna behave at all differently just before they died? Do you remember them doing or saying anything unusual?”

Vigdís thought it over, then shook her head. “No, I don’t recall that. I don’t actually remember the last time I saw Birna, but if she’d been acting strangely, I’m sure I’d remember. The last time I spoke to Eiríkur was when he came by looking for Jónas.” She put her hand over her mouth. “Oh, that was probably just before he died.”

Thóra took a deep breath. “And did he find Jónas?” she asked calmly.

“Well, I don’t know,” the girl replied. “I told him to try his office, but I didn’t see if they met up.”

Thóra didn’t know what else to ask about Eiríkur, so she returned to her original question. “Why is it,” she said, “that the west side of the lawn seems to have been mown, but not the east side?”

Vigdís looked startled by Thóra’s change of direction. “I have no idea.” She narrowed her eyes. “Why do you ask?”

“I just wondered,” Thóra answered. “I thought it was a bit odd.” She added quickly, “Do you know whether Jónas had any little holes dug to test that patch of land? Or Birna perhaps?”

Vigdís gave her a blank look. “Holes to test the land? Do you mean just ordinary holes, dug in the ground?”

Thóra nodded. “Just little holes, more like scratches in the earth, really. They don’t appear to have been made by earth-moving equipment, certainly.”

Vigdís shook her head emphatically. “Definitely not. If anyone had been asked to go out there to dig it up, I would have known. I keep an eye on everything here. Jónas is so absentminded sometimes that I have to be the eyes and ears around here.”

“Did Birna have an office or studio nearby?” Matthew interrupted. “Apart from her hotel room?”

“I don’t know, but it wouldn’t surprise me,” replied Vigdís. “She was often away from the hotel, both mornings and afternoons. She didn’t hang around outside, so she must have had somewhere to go.” She glanced slyly at Thóra. “Maybe she went to see Bergur.”

“Who knows?” Thóra said, smiling conspiratorially at her. She looked at her watch. “One final question and we’ll stop bothering you: who mows the lawn?”

Vigdís looked uncertainly at her, then shrugged and answered, “Jökull. He’s a waiter here too.”

“Are you joking? ” Jökull asked, looking around as if he expected to see a hidden camera. “You want to know why that lawn hasn’t been mown?”

“Yes.” Thóra smiled. “I’m told it’s your job.”

Jökull pulled a sulky face, which clashed with his smart black-and-white waiter’s uniform. “Yes, I’m doing it to earn some extra money. There’s nothing to do except at mealtimes, so I have time to do both.”

“Smart thinking,” Thóra said. “But why isn’t that area’s grass cut? Is it that big rock?”

“No, that doesn’t get in the way,” muttered Jökull. “There’s some other thing under the grass that plays hell with the mower. Something lumpy. The mower’s always cutting out and I have trouble moving it around, so I just decided not to mow it. No one’s complained. Did Jónas say something?”

“No, not at all,” Thóra reassured him. She went to leave, then turned back. “Could you lend us a spade?”

“Honestly,” Matthew said, emptying a shovelful of dirt behind him. “I have to admit you are unique among women. I wouldn’t pick up a spade for anyone else.”

“Shh,” said Thóra. “Less chat. More digging.” They were back out in the meadow where Thóra had fumbled her way until she found a hillock that she ordered Matthew to dig up. “This is bound to be something.”