Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - My Soul to Take

“Were you planning to answer my texts, or were you just going to ignore them?” said her ex-husband angrily. “I don’t know where the hell you are, but I’m a little tired of playing hide-and-seek with you. I wasn’t born yesterday; I know you’ve turned your phone off because you’re off somewhere with some man you only just met.”

Thóra didn’t dignify that with a response, but she had to say something after a speech like that. “If you’ll shut up for one minute, Hannes,” she said, “I’ll be able to tell you that I’m out here working, and if you had ever ventured outside the big city you would know that not everywhere has good mobile reception.” She had no qualms about saying this, although she’d only known it herself for a few days. “All I have to say is that Gylfi and Sóley are just outside Selfoss and they need to be collected. Sigga is with them.”

“What am I supposed to do about it?” yelled Hannes. “I work too. I can’t just come and go at your beck and call.”

“Can you fetch them or not?” Thóra asked. “If not, I’ll phone my parents and ask them to do it. But I’d like to remind you that technically this is your fault. If you hadn’t sung ‘Eye of the Tiger’ over and over again, he wouldn’t have left.” Thóra realized she could hear music in the background. “I can hear ‘Final Countdown,’ ” she said, shocked. “Are you still playing SingStar?”

In the end Hannes agreed to collect the kids and Thóra hung up, annoyed at herself for being annoyed at him. She called Gylfi to tell him that his father would collect them. Then she shook herself. “Just a family drama,” she said to Matthew, who was looking at her inquisitively. “Let’s go over to Kreppa and try to find Birna’s office.”

“By all means,” he replied. “I’d do anything except look at a dead whale. And who knows? Maybe we’ll find more names of murdered people carved into the house somewhere.”

They were walking back toward the hotel when Thóra saw a man waving at them. It was the travel photographer, Robin Kohman. Thóra waved back and he came over.

“Hi,” he called as they drew close. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Really?” she called back, quickening her pace. “We’ve been rushing around a bit.”

“I’m leaving tonight,” the photographer said when they had exchanged greetings, “and wanted to give you Birna’s photographs.” Then he added gloomily, “I’ve heard what happened, and I really want to hand this over to someone who knew her. I was hoping you could maybe help me out.” He shook his head mournfully. “This is all so tragic, and so unexpected in a country like Iceland.”

“Yes, it’s awful,” said Thóra. “We just have to hope that they catch whoever did it.”

“Have the police talked to you?” asked Matthew. “No doubt they’ll want to talk to all the hotel guests before they leave.”

Robin nodded. “Yes, I spoke to them this morning, but I couldn’t tell them anything.”

“So you didn’t want to give the photographs to them?” Thóra asked. “Not that we don’t want them, of course. I’ll make sure they end up with someone close to her.”

“No, I didn’t think they were relevant,” Robin said. “It’s out of the question that they could be connected with Birna’s murder in any way. They’re just normal, innocent photographs.” He smiled. “Although there is a slightly weird one of a dead fox.”

Matthew put down the photo. They were sit ting at the bar with Robin and on the table in front of them lay a pile of pictures that Robin had taken from a large envelope marked with Birna’s name.

“Where was this taken?” Matthew asked, pointing at the dead fox in the middle of the picture. The scrawny creature lay on its side in the grass. Its tongue was hanging out of one side of its mouth and its rich brown pelt was tattered and bloody.

“It was lying beside the path, down toward that old abandoned farm near here. The one called Kreppa,” Robin replied. “Birna asked me to go with her to take some photos and we came across this poor thing. Birna asked me to take a shot of it; she thought it was rather sad. You can’t tell from the photograph, but the signs all around suggested that the fox had dragged itself there after being badly injured.” Robin pointed to a wound on the animal’s side. “It must have got away from the hunter, but the shot turned out to be fatal.”

“Did you take the fox with you?” Thóra asked.

“No, are you crazy?” Robin said. “We didn’t touch it. It was giving off a dreadful smell and we didn’t want to touch it.”

“Do you think anyone else could have come along after you and taken it?” Thóra asked.

Robin looked from her to Matthew, startled. “I don’t quite understand your interest, but of course it’s possible. The fox could be seen by anyone who walked past.” He grimaced. “But I just can’t imagine anyone being interested in taking a dead animal. Unless the skin is valuable.” He turned to Thóra. “Are Icelanders particularly fond of foxes?”

She smiled. “No, not to the extent of taking home dead ones. We’re interested in this for completely different reasons, which would take too long to explain.” She picked up the pile of photographs and started flicking through them. “Did Birna tell you why she chose these specific subjects?” she asked him. “I see that many of the photos are of the old farm Kreppa and the area behind the hotel, but here’s one of a steel trapdoor, and another of an inside wall, as far as I can tell. Did she explain this at all?” She handed the photographs she was talking about to Robin.

Robin examined the pictures and nodded. “If I recall correctly, this trapdoor was in the meadow by the old farm, on the other side of the hill,” he said. “The photo of the wall was taken in the basement here, in the old part of the hotel. She asked me to take it the day after we’d been shooting, but offered no further explanation, any more than she did about the trapdoor. I thought it was something to do with architecture, but I still couldn’t quite work out why she wanted these photos.”

“And did she say anything about this rock?” asked Matthew, showing him three photographs of the engraved rock they had found behind the hotel.

Robin looked at the pictures. “Yes, funnily enough. I asked her about this rock while we were shooting it from all angles. She translated the verse for me, and because I thought it was rather unusual, I asked her whether it was an Icelandic tradition to write verses on rocks.” He put the photographs down. “She said it wasn’t, and seemed quite surprised to find an inscription there.”

“She didn’t offer any explanation for this, or say what she thought the rock was doing there?” asked Thóra hopefully.

“Not exactly,” Robin replied. “She was wondering whether the verse could have been written by the occupants of the farm, or whether a poet had lived there. Then she speculated that it might have been a pet’s grave, although she didn’t think the verse was appropriate. She didn’t reach any conclusion that I remember.”

Matthew tugged at Thóra’s sleeve. “Here’s an interesting one,” he said, handing her a picture of Birna talking to an old man in front of the hotel entrance. Thóra snatched it from him. “Maybe they were talking about converting his vacation home for year-round use,” Matthew said slyly.

Robin leaned over to see what had aroused their interest. “Yes, this one,” he said. “I just took it for fun. We were setting off from the old farm when this man came out from the hotel and started talking to Birna. I know he’s a guest here because I’ve seen him in the dining room several times.”

Thóra nodded. “Do you know what they were talking about?”