Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - My Soul to Take

“No, I have no idea,” Robin said. “They spoke in Icelandic, but actually I didn’t need to understand in order to realize that it wasn’t a friendly chat. I only took the one photograph because they soon started arguing and it didn’t seem appropriate.”

“Did she tell you what they’d been arguing about?” asked Matthew.

“Well, she muttered something about people having to take responsibility for their actions,” Robin said. “She was quite annoyed, so I didn’t press her.” He thought a little longer. “Then she said something about old sins bearing fruit, just like old debts. I couldn’t figure that out, so I changed the subject.”

Thóra and Matthew exchanged a glance. Magnús Baldvinsson. Old sins?

The nurse walked over to the old woman’s bed and gently nudged her shoulder to wake her. “Malla, dear,” she said gently. “Wake up. It’s time to take your medication.”

The old woman opened her eyes without saying a word. She stared up at the ceiling above her, blinked a few times and coughed weakly. The nurse waited in silence. She knew that sometimes it could take the old lady a while to get her bearings. She stood calmly beside her, one hand resting on her skeletal shoulder and a little plastic cup in the other. It contained the white and red pills she was supposed to administer. “Come on,” she said kindly. “You can lie back down afterward.”

“She came,” said the old woman suddenly. She was still staring up at the ceiling and had not yet looked at the woman who was patiently standing at her bedside.

“Who did?” the nurse answered vaguely. She was well accustomed to all kinds of nonsense from the old people, especially when they were only half awake. It was as if they traveled back to times long past, when they were younger, fitter, and not completely helpless.

“She came,” the old woman repeated, smiling. “She’s forgiven me.” She looked up at the nurse for the first time, still beaming. “She wasn’t angry. Always so sweet.”

“That’s nice,” soothed the nurse. “It’s not good to be angry.” She shook the cup of tablets. “Well, let’s sit you up and give you your medication.”

Instead of looking at the pills, the old woman continued to stare at the young nurse. “I asked her if she was angry,” she said, “and she just said, ‘Why should I be angry?’ ” With difficulty she lifted herself on to her elbows. “Always so sweet.”

“Do you want me to hold the water, or can you do it yourself?” asked the nurse, reaching out for a beaker on the bedside table. She handed the water to her patient.

“Of course I told her why she ought to be angry,” the old lady said, completely ignoring both water and pills. “And I thought she always knew I was there.” She shook her head in surprise, her white curls bouncing. “Apparently she didn’t,” she said, closing her eyes. “But she forgave me all the same.”

“That’s great,” the nurse said, putting down the container of pills and the beaker. “Come on,” she said, and gripped under the woman’s arms. “You need to sit up more.” She lifted her into a better position. Her back was crooked and she couldn’t be expected to sit up straight, but this would do. “Now, let’s take some tablets.” She picked up the pills. “There are more people waiting, so we have to be quick.” She held the glass to the woman’s thin, pale lips.

The old lady opened her mouth and allowed the nurse to pour the pills into it. She knew the routine by now and didn’t swallow until she had been given the water. The pills disappeared with loud gulps that seemed not to embarrass her.

When she was done, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and looked up at the nurse. “She was so good, so sweet. Just imagine.”

“Imagine what, love?” the nurse asked politely, privately wondering if the old woman was in full possession of her faculties.

“She forgave me,” she said, sounding even more surprised than before. “And I’d done nothing to help her.”

“Oh, are you quite sure about that?” The nurse smiled. “I’m sure you did a lot for her. You just don’t remember.”

The old woman glared. “Of course I remember. She died. How could I forget that?”

The nurse gently stroked the woman’s white hair. Just as she’d suspected, the poor old dear was rambling. A dead woman visiting her? Taking care not to smile, she laid her back down in a comfortable position. “There, there, Malla. Just try to go back to sleep.”

The old woman closed her eyes the moment her head touched the pillow. “Murdered. Evil is everywhere.” She smacked her lips, then muttered sleepily, “My sweetheart. My sweet Kristín.”

“It must be the same fox that was tied to Eiríkur’s body,” said Matthew. “At least, I can’t see it anywhere here.” He and Thóra had followed the path that Birna and Robin had taken to Kreppa and were at the spot where they’d apparently found the fox. It was nowhere to be seen.

“It could have been eaten by another animal, but I’m sure you’re right,” said Thóra. “The only animals I’ve seen around here are sheep, and I doubt they eat foxes.” She looked skyward. “Birds, perhaps, but then the bones would still be here.”

“So the murderer would be someone who uses this path,” Matthew said, swiping at the tall grass beside the path with a branch he’d picked up while they were looking for the dead fox.

“Either that or he shot the fox and tracked it here after Birna and Robin had left,” Thóra said. “What I’d give to know why he did it.”

“Who knows, Wonderwoman Bella might find that out for us,” said Matthew. “Perhaps the fox was supposed to signify something.”

“Like a message?” said Thóra, unconvinced. “From an animal rights group or something?”

“No, from the murderer,” he replied. “It could be some psycho who’s trying to communicate something. Have we established that nothing like this was attached to Birna’s body?”

“Not as far as I know,” said Thóra. “They both had pins pushed into the soles of their feet, but no one’s said anything about a fox or any other animal in connection with her.”

They stopped on the gravel driveway in front of the farmhouse.

“Whose car is that?” Matthew asked, pointing to a newish Renault Mégane.

Thóra shrugged. “No idea,” she said. “No one’s supposed to be here.” She noticed a light in one of the windows. “Maybe Elín and her brother are clearing the place out. I hope so.” She got the key out and they went up to the door, which turned out to be unlocked. Thóra opened it and put her head inside. “Hello,” she called. “Anyone here?”

“Hello!” someone replied, and they heard approaching footsteps.

“Hi there,” said Thóra cheerfully when Elín’s daughter Berta appeared. She had tied back her hair with a bandana and was holding a filthy duster.

“You scared me to death!” Berta said. “Do come in. I’m packing away some old things for Mum and Uncle Börkur.” She brandished the cloth. “Everything’s really dusty, so I’m trying to clean every item before I pack it up, even though it’s taking me ages.”

Matthew smiled at her, delighted that someone had remembered he was a foreigner and was bothering to speak English. “Hello,” he said, offering her his hand to shake. “Nice to see you again.”

“You too,” said Berta. “I had the presence of mind to bring a thermos flask and I’ve just made coffee. Your timing’s perfect because Steini doesn’t want coffee and I made far too much.”

They followed her into the kitchen, where the young man sat in his wheelchair. As before, he had pulled a hood over his head to cover his face, and when they walked in, he glanced at them from under it but said nothing.