Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - My Soul to Take

“Why didn’t you go with your dad?” she called out to Gylfi, striding across the car park to greet them. “He was supposed to collect you in Selfoss.”

“We just didn’t,” Gylfi said, conscientiously locking the SUV door. “None of us wanted to go back with him, or to Sigga’s parents, so we decided to keep on camping. I told Dad so he wouldn’t have a wasted journey, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

That was the last thing on Thóra’s mind. Hannes could chase wild geese halfway around the world for all she cared, but she was concerned about how to handle Jónas, Matthew, and her two children, not to mention her pregnant prospective daughter-in-law, without messing something up—or everything.

“How are you feeling, Sigga?” she asked the girl, hugging Sóley, who had wrapped herself around her mother ecstatically.

“Well,” said Sigga, “my back hurts.”

Thóra gasped. “Do you think the baby’s on its way? If so, there’s no way you can stay here.”

“No, Mum,” said Gylfi, shocked. “It hasn’t been nine months yet.” He had clearly never heard of premature birth.

“Come inside,” she said, ushering her visitors toward the hotel lobby. “We need to talk about this little jaunt of yours, Gylfi, but it’ll have to wait,” she whispered in her son’s ear. “I’m very disappointed in you.” Then she added in a louder voice, for everyone to hear, “I’ll see if I can get a room for you. You’ve had enough camping. That can wait until the baby’s born.” Envisaging Gylfi trying to erect the trailer awning with a newborn baby in his arms, she quickly added, “And has started school.”

Matthew was standing at the door, wreathed in smiles. Thóra pulled a face at him over their heads. “Kids, you remember Matthew. He’s helping me with a case concerning the hotel. You have to be on your best behavior because I need to work. Don’t go anywhere and don’t break anything.” She almost added, “And don’t give birth to anything,” but decided against it. The first two commandments would be difficult enough to keep.

“Don’t worry,” Matthew said when they had sat dow n again at the computer in Jónas’s office. “This is fine. I like your kids. Although this isn’t exactly the holiday I had in mind, I think it could be interesting.” He tipped her a conspiratorial wink. “Maybe you could arrange a babysitter and we can find a restaurant that serves only organically cultivated chickweed.”

Thóra didn’t look up from the screen. “Why isn’t Jón Árnason’s folktale collection on the Internet?” she muttered.

“Can I take that as a yes?” asked Matthew.

“What?” Thóra asked vacantly, scrolling down the page she was reading. “Oh, yes,” she added, with no idea what she was agreeing to. “No matter where I search I can’t find the folktale itself, only the verse. I have to get to a library.”

Matthew looked at his watch. “You’re unlikely to find one open now,” he said. “Do you really think the inscription is that important?”

Thóra looked up at him. “No,” she admitted. “I just have nothing else to do. I’m clutching at straws for tomorrow—I don’t have much to go on.”

“If either Bergur or his wife is the murderer, as you seem inclined to believe, I don’t think that rock can have anything to do with it,” said Matthew. “It makes more sense for you to concentrate on something more recent.” He crossed to the window and watched as a car pulled up at the hotel. It parked in a space directly below the window. “I recognize that number plate,” he said, releasing the curtain. “Where’s the list?”

Thóra gaped at him. “Are you saying you can remember a single number from the thousands you went through?” she asked, passing him the list.

“It’s a personalized number plate,” he replied. “There weren’t that many, so it stood out.” He flicked through the list. “Here it is. An hour before Eiríkur was killed, this car came through the tunnel from Reykjavík.” He handed the list back to Thóra and pointed to the entry. “There. ‘VERITAS,’ ” he said. “I specifically remember this one because it made me wonder what the owner’s job could be. I couldn’t think of anything connected with ‘truth,’ unless he was a mathematics teacher.”

Thóra took the list from him and read the owner’s name. “Not quite,” she said, putting it down again. “He’s a politician. Baldvin Baldvinsson, the grandson of old Magnús, whom we talked to.” She stood up. “What’s he doing back here again?”

“Visiting his grandfather, perhaps?” suggested Matthew. “Or maybe he’s drumming up votes.”

“Let’s ask him,” said Thóra. “If his registration plate is accurate, at least he’ll tell us the truth.”

Baldvin stood in the lobby, drumming his fingers on the reception desk while he waited. Vigdís had her back to him, working on the computer. Thóra hoped she was reasonably well paid, because she seemed to be at the reception desk around the clock.

“Don’t you ever take a break?” she asked as she approached Baldvin with Matthew. Rather than confront him directly, Thóra had decided that talking to Vigdís would be a good start. Since he appeared to be waiting for something, he was unlikely to leave immediately.

Vigdís looked over her shoulder at Thóra. “Oh! Yes, of course I do. Jónas was going to take this shift but . . .” She hesitated. “You know. He meant to hire someone for the other shift, but he never got around to it.” After tapping at the keyboard for a moment, she turned to Baldvin. “You can have room fourteen. It’s next door to your grandfather.” She handed him the key.

Thóra turned to Baldvin. “Aren’t you Magnús’s grandson? The city councilor?”

Baldvin was startled. He looked tired, which only heightened the striking resemblance to his grandfather. Remembering the photographs of Magnús as a young man, Thóra wondered what it must feel like, knowing exactly how the years would treat you. “Er, yes, I am,” he answered. “Do I know you?”

Thóra proffered a handshake. “No, but I’ve heard about your grandfather. I was a friend of Birna’s.” Before releasing her firm grip on his hand, she asked bluntly, “You knew her, didn’t you?”

Baldvin looked as if he had swallowed a fly. He gulped convulsively, then was back to his normal self. “A friend of Birna’s, you say? Unfortunately I don’t think I know anyone called Birna.”

“Really?” Thóra said, but decided not to push her luck. She still hadn’t let go of his hand and his palm had gone clammy. “Are you sure? Weren’t you here on Sunday?”

Baldvin tensed up, but she didn’t know if this was because of her tight grip on his hand or the question. “Me? No, you must be mixing me up with someone else.” He flashed a smarmy smile.

“Am I?” Thóra feigned surprise. “I thought I drove up here through the tunnel directly behind you. Maybe I am getting mixed up.” She finally released her grip and Baldvin jerked his hand back as if she had leprosy.

“I think you must be. I was somewhere else then.” He turned to Vigdís. “Thank you,” he said, then, “Nice to meet you,” to Thóra, with another pearly grin. A true politician.

“You too.” Thóra beamed back. When he’d gone, she turned to Matthew and whispered urgently, “He’s lying through his teeth.” Then she asked Vigdís, “Do you remember him being here on Sunday evening?”

Vigdís shook her head and yawned. “No, I’ve only met him twice before,” she said. “The day he dropped his grandfather off and the evening of the séance.”

Thóra clutched the edge of the reception desk. “Was he here then?”

“Yes, I just told you,” said Vigdís indignantly. “He had dinner with his grandfather. Then they went to the séance. I think they soon realized it wasn’t their cup of tea, because they’d left by the interval.”