Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - My Soul to Take

Thórólfur suddenly stopped playing with the pencil. “Perhaps,” he replied, after a short pause.

That was all Thóra needed to hear. Birna had had sex with two men on the day of her murder. Jónas was definitely one of them, and the other was either Bergur or the murderer, unless they were one and the same person. She could feel Jónas freezing up beside her, and knew enough about men to realize what was worrying him. She leaned over to him to murmur in his ear without the police hearing: “I’m sure you were first.” She had to stop Jónas getting any more nervous. She felt him relax a little. “Having sex with someone is not the same as killing them, is it?” she remarked to Thórólfur, adding, “Which is not to say that Jónas is admitting to anything of that sort at this stage in the proceedings.”

“No, not necessarily,” he replied. “But when the murder victim sustains external and internal genital trauma consistent with rape, it starts to look a little different, doesn’t it?”

Thóra chose not to respond. “Is there anything else you would like Jónas to clarify, or is it just the semen?”

“There’s more,” Thórólfur said. “Let’s discuss the text message sent to Birna from your mobile, Jónas. We have her phone and know what it says, when it was sent, and who sent it. Namely you. Can you explain why you sent her a message asking her to meet you at the spot where she ended up being killed? It would help if you could for example tell us where you were between nine and ten o’clock on the evening in question?”

Dismayed, Jónas turned to Thóra. She nodded quickly and blinked at him. “I can’t explain the message. I didn’t send it, so someone must have taken my phone. I went for a walk around seven and left my mobile behind. Someone must have stolen it while I was out.”

“Stolen, you say,” drawled Thórólfur sarcastically. “Someone ‘stole’ it and returned it afterward, then?”

“Well, yes,” replied Jónas hesitantly. “I don’t always carry it; I leave it lying around, so it wouldn’t be that difficult.” He rubbed his temple, his nerves frayed. “The hotel was packed. There was a séance. Anyone could have done it.”

“Strange that you mention that,” the detective mused. “That’s precisely the detail we were having difficulty with. As you say, the hotel was packed, yet no one recalls having seen you that evening. Where did your walk take you? Down to the beach?”

“No!” barked the hotelier, thumping the desk. “I went for a stroll, but first I walked down the drive to see if the contractor who was mending the drain had made any progress. Then I walked for maybe an hour afterward. When I got back, I dropped into my office and then went to my room. Someone must have seen me at the hotel. I wasn’t keeping a low profile. I got back just before ten, and the séance was still going on, if I remember correctly.”

“Nevertheless, no one admits to seeing you, either indoors or outside, at around that time. There was an interval between half past nine and ten. The séance guests were all over the hotel—some went out for a smoke; others bought coffee—but none of them saw you. Yet you say you came back around that time,” said Thórólfur. “But let’s change the subject. Last night another body was found in a stables nearby. Can you tell me where you were around dinnertime last night, Sunday?”

“Me? I was in Reykjavík,” said Jónas.

“When did you leave here?”

“I set off about two.” His voice was trembling slightly.

“And presumably you went via the tunnel?”

“Yes,” replied Jónas, before Thóra could stop him. There was something behind this line of questioning, and it disturbed her.

“Presumably in your own car?” Thórólfur persisted. He was smiling like the cat that got the cream.

“My client chooses not to answer the question,” Thóra quickly interjected. She put her hand on Jónas’s leg and squeezed it tight.

“All right,” said the detective, smiling wryly. “But we have established that you went to Reykjavík via the tunnel. Since it’s strictly forbidden to go through it on horseback, on foot, or on a bicycle, we have to infer that you were driving a motor vehicle of some description.”

“Yes, I went in my own car,” said Jónas foolishly, in spite of the pressure that Thóra was applying to his thigh. She couldn’t resist the temptation to dig her nails in to punish his stupidity. Jónas winced and gave Thóra a reproachful look, but she ignored him.

Thórólfur smiled even more widely. Then his face filled with scorn. He picked up some papers that were stapled together and slammed them down in front of the hotelier. “Here is a list of all the cars that drove through the Hvalfjördur Tunnel yesterday. Your car registration number isn’t among them.” He glared at Jónas. “How do you explain that?”

At last, Jónas had the presence of mind not to say anything. “My client chooses not to answer the question,” said Thóra. “I should make it clear that Jónas is very distraught at present, and what he said just now may have been a lapse of memory.”

“It was yesterday!” replied Thórólfur. When neither Thóra nor Jónas responded, he shrugged. “Be that as it may, let’s turn to another matter.”

Another? Thóra tried not to show the anguish she felt on Jónas’s behalf. Whatever else could they have against him?

“Then Jónas argued with Eiríkur, the one they found dead in the stables,” Thóra told Matthew. “Just before Eiríkur left the hotel. And what’s more, his bloodstream was full of sedatives. The same type that Jónas keeps on his bedside table.” She sighed. “The bastards had a search warrant.”

Matthew whistled. “So surely that means he’s guilty?”

“Damned if I know,” replied Thóra. “His fingerprints were found on Birna’s belt, and he definitely had sex with her the day she was murdered, although he refuses to admit it. Then he lied about going to Reykjavík yesterday.” She showed Matthew the list of car registrations. “They wrote down the number of every car that went through the tunnel. Some poor bugger spent the whole night watching the tape from the security camera. They left this list behind, so I took it.”

“Then what?” asked Matthew. “Where did they take him?”

“To Borgarnes,” Thóra replied. “He appears in the West Iceland District Court tomorrow morning. They’ll demand a custody order.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “And they’ll get one, unless the judge is drunk.”

“Is he likely to be?” Matthew asked, shocked.

“No, it’s just a figure of speech,” said Thóra, sitting up in the arm-

chair. “We can only hope, though.”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you what happened while you were gone,” Matthew suddenly announced. “I had a coffee at the bar, and when I was going through my pockets for some money, I found the medal I bought for you in Stykkishólmur. When I put it on the counter with the change, the man sitting next to me went berserk. It was the old guy, Magnús Baldvinsson.”

“Really?” Thóra was amazed. “What did he say?”

“No idea,” Matthew said. “It was in Icelandic, but he didn’t sound happy. In the end he picked up the medal and threw it down behind the bar. Then he stood up and walked away. The barman was speechless. He said Magnús was ranting about me provoking him. Then he gave me back the medal. He was as astonished as I was.”

“I bet he was,” said Thóra, who could hardly believe her ears. “Magnús also reacted very oddly when I asked him about the Nazis, didn’t he? It wasn’t the kind of reaction you’d expect in Iceland,” she explained. “Icelandic Nazism had hardly any following or impact, so even though everyone finds their politics repulsive, people don’t generally attack total strangers at the sight of Nazi memorabilia. Maybe we should talk to him again.” She reached for her mobile. “But not yet—right now, my number one priority is getting my kids back safely. It doesn’t look like I’ll be heading home myself any time soon.” She dialed her son’s number.