Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - My Soul to Take

She forced herself to keep smiling. “I know,” she said cheerfully, “let’s go over to Kreppa. I’m way behind with the packing, and we might find something interesting too. You remember how much fun we had last time.”

Steini laughed coldly. “Fun, you say?” he said. He sighed. “Oh, I don’t care. Let’s just go.”

“Great,” she said. “I promise you won’t regret it.” She was relieved. As soon as they set off he would cheer up—he always did. Suddenly his hand darted out and clutched her wrist, startling her.

“Can you forgive me?” he asked weakly.

“Forgive you?” she said. “Forgive you for what?”

“If the worst happens, can you forgive me?”

Berta shook her head, perplexed. This was the longest sentence she’d heard from him in months. “What are you talking about?” She gently loosened his grip on her wrist and moved behind the wheel-chair. “The things you say. Me forgiving you?” she said, starting to push. “Silly boy, what have you ever done to me?”

“Hopefully nothing,” Steini said, pulling up his hood as Berta wheeled him outside.

Thórólfur frowned and leaned against the door to the makeshift office at the hotel. “We’ve made considerable progress. That’s all I can say for now.”

Thóra stood in the corridor facing him, her arms folded. She whispered to avoid being overheard by Jónas, who was waiting for them inside. He had asked Thóra to be present when Thórólfur called him in, but no sooner had they sat down than Thórólfur read him his rights, adding that as a suspect he did not have to answer the accusations against him. Now she was arguing with the officer in the corridor.

“You haven’t answered my question. Why is Jónas suddenly being treated as a suspect?” she asked. “What’s changed?”

Mirroring her stance, Thórólfur folded his arms, his face stern. “We have spoken to several witnesses, both yesterday and today. The picture they have painted doesn’t look good for your client.”

Thóra inhaled sharply. “Meaning what? Are you going to arrest him?”

“That depends on what he says during questioning.” Thórólfur shrugged. “Who knows, perhaps he can explain a few things.”

“A few things?” said Thóra. “Like what? He’s told you everything you need to know so far.”

“As I said, there were various developments yesterday and today, things we didn’t know last time we talked to him. And anyway, I haven’t found his explanations thus far at all satisfactory,” Thórólfur replied. “Shouldn’t we just get on with it? Then you’ll know what it is we want to ask him.”

“Give me two minutes alone with him,” she said. “I need to explain this change in his status to him.”

He didn’t like it, but he had to capitulate. Now that Jónas was a suspect, she had the right as his attorney to provide private counsel prior to an interrogation. The detective called his assistant out of the office, and Thóra went inside. She hurriedly sat down beside Jónas, who looked at her in confusion.

“What’s going on?” he asked anxiously. “Why did you leave?”

Thóra put her hand on his knee. “Jónas, things have changed,” she said. “Until now you’ve been questioned as a witness and been informed of your rights accordingly at the beginning of questioning. Now you’re a suspect.”

“What?” exclaimed Jónas, his voice cracking. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” she replied. “We don’t have much time, so let’s not waste it. Listen to me.” She looked him in the eye. “Thórólfur told me that various developments have occurred during questioning of witnesses, the outcome of which is that you’ve become a suspect.”

“What? I didn’t do anything, I told them that,” said Jónas, almost shouting. “They must be lying.” Thóra could feel his leg trembling.

“It’s possible the witnesses aren’t telling the truth, Jónas,” she said, tightening her grip on his knee in an attempt to steady him. “Now it’s vital that you explain your whereabouts and give convincing answers to Thórólfur’s questions. If he’s dissatisfied or unhappy with them inany way, you risk being arrested.”

Jónas’s leg stopped moving. He turned pale. “Arrested? What do you mean?”

“Arrested by the police, Jónas,” said Thóra. “You’ll be driven to the station in a police car, then appear before a judge tomorrow morning with the recommendation that you be detained in custody.” Thóra had only handled three cases involving short terms of custody, so she was not overly familiar with the process. Those cases had been quite trivial, but Thóra decided this was not the time to make Jónas aware of her inexperience.

“I can’t go to prison,” Jónas said, shuddering so expressively that Thóra didn’t doubt he meant it. “I just can’t. It’s Monday.”

Thóra raised her eyebrows. “Monday? Is that any worse than any other day?”

“No, no,” he said distractedly. “I just don’t want to get caught up in all this today. Monday is my unlucky day.”

Thóra interrupted him before he could begin rambling about stars and auras. “Listen carefully. We’ll let the police back in, and they’ll question you. Hopefully you have an explanation for everything they think proves your guilt, and if so, I promise that you’ll walk out of here with me.”

“What if I can’t?” Jónas asked, grabbing her hand. “What then?”

“Then we’ll just have to take things as they come,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. “Chin up, and try to act as normal as possible under the circumstances.” She stood up and walked over to the door. “Ready?” she asked, one hand on the doorknob. Jónas nodded, but he didn’t look ready.

“Um, I don’t know,” Jónas said, glancing nervously at Thóra, who was sitting beside him.

Thórólfur affected a look of exaggerated surprise. “Really? If you asked me whether I’d had sex with a beautiful young woman last Thursday, I wouldn’t have any trouble remembering. Maybe it’s a regular occurrence for you?”

Thóra groaned inwardly. “My client chooses not to answer that question,” she said impassively.

“All right,” said the detective. “We’ll be demanding a DNA sample, so the answer is immaterial.”

No DNA test was required to answer the question. Jónas sat rigidly by her side, guilt radiating from every pore. It was obvious to everyone that Jónas had had sex with the architect that day, which unfortunately was also the day she met her grisly end.

“Was semen found in Birna’s vagina?” asked Thóra. “I remind you that I must be presented with all the documentation if my client is taken into custody, because we would certainly appeal to the Supreme Court against any such order.” She heard Jónas let out a faint moan.

Thórólfur was holding a pencil, and he chewed on it while he thought it over. “I see no legal impediment to confirming that semen was found in the deceased’s vagina,” he said eventually.

“May I ask whether your investigation uncovered Birna’s relationship with a local farmer?” Thóra asked, hoping the police were unaware of it. “This semen could be his.”

“We know all about him,” Thórólfur said, and a peculiar look crossed his face.

“Really?” she said. “Shouldn’t you be questioning him rather than Jónas?”

“Oh, we are,” Thórólfur said, skillfully twirling the pencil between his fingers. “Irrespective of the outcome of his DNA test, we will need a sample from your client.”

“Why’s that?” Thóra asked. “If the semen turns out to be the farmer’s, it can hardly be Jónas’s.” Thórólfur smiled cruelly and the truth dawned on Thóra. “Was the semen from two different men?”