Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - My Soul to Take

She waved to Matthew and crossed to where he sat having a beer at the bar. She put the folder down and sat beside him. “Are there still three children?” she asked.

“It was a close call,” he said. “Your son and daughter were a bit green around the gills when they got back from the beach. The pregnant girl was the only one who looked okay. I bought them each a Coke at the bar and they took them up to their room to watch a video.”

“I was more worried about whether a fourth had joined them,” she said, beckoning to the waiter and ordering a glass of Coke.

“You’re not a grandmother yet, so relax,” said Matthew, clinking his glass against hers and indicating the folder. “Did you find anything interesting?” He sipped his drink.

“No, I can’t say that I did. There was confirmation of various things we’d either heard or guessed. Needles or pins had been stuck into the soles of the feet of both victims, a fox had been tied to Eiríkur’s body, and according to tests carried out on the animal, it had been dead for some time—shot with a rifle. Unfortunately, there was no explanation as to why the fox was attached to his body.”

“Haven’t you heard from the lovely Bella?” asked Matthew. “Wasn’t she going to check that out for you?”

“Damn, I’d forgotten her,” said Thóra. She took out her mobile and quickly dialed the office.

“Hello,” said Bella flatly as she picked up. No “Central Lawyers,” no “Can I help you?”—nothing to suggest that the caller had reached a respectable law firm rather than a private home.

“Hello, Bella. This is Thóra. Did you find out anything about the connection between foxes and horses?” Thóra couldn’t be bothered to scold her yet again for her telephone manner.

“Eh?” replied the girl idiotically. “Oh, that.” When she stopped talking, Thóra thought she could discern a sucking noise followed by a quick exhalation.

“Bella, are you smoking in the office?” she asked, irritated. “You know that’s not allowed.”

“Of course not,” replied Bella. “Are you crazy?”

Thóra was sure she could hear the crackle of burning tobacco. Could the girl have taken up smoking a pipe?

Before she had time to ask, Bella went on, “The horse-riding types I spoke to hadn’t heard of any specific connection between the two, so I talked to a foxhunter I know and I got a bit more out of him.”

Thóra completely forgot about the smoking. “What did he say?” she asked eagerly. Would her secretary prove useful for once?

“Well,” said Bella, “he told me horses can go mad with fear if they smell the scent of a dead fox, especially if it’s started to rot.”

“Is that something only foxhunters would know,” Thóra asked excitedly, “or would all riders be aware of this? Do you think the ones you spoke to could have been particularly ill informed?”

“Ill informed about foxes?” Bella asked sarcastically. “I don’t have the faintest idea, but I’d say they don’t know about it, as a rule. I mean, how often do you come across a fox?”

“Thanks, Bella,” said Thóra, meaning it for probably the first time ever. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?” Her offer wasn’t that generous, since the secretary’s absence would have no discernible effect on the company’s operation. She hung up and recounted the conversation to Matthew.

“So the murderer tied a fox to Eiríkur to drive the horse wild—to make sure the poor man would be killed and not just badly injured.” Matthew raised an eyebrow. “A pretty cold customer.”

“But as a rule riders don’t know how horses react to a dead fox,” said Thóra pensively. “It’s mainly foxhunters who do.” After reflecting for a moment she added, “I wonder if Bergur hunts foxes. He has ducks on his farm.” She looked up at Matthew. “There was a box of rifle cartridges in the stables, in the coffee room.”

Matthew stared back at her. “Could ‘RER’ have been an attempt at ‘BER,’ for ‘Bergur,’ but Eiríkur couldn’t write it properly?” He took out his mobile and called up the photograph he had taken of the scrawl on the wall. It took him a while to enlarge the image and center it. “I’ll be damned,” he said after scrutinizing the photograph. He handed the phone to Thóra. “The lower diagonal on the first R isn’t straight like on the second one.”

Thóra put down the telephone and turned to Matthew. “I think Thórólfur took the news quite well,” she said. “He played it cool, but I could tell he was delighted. I predict Bergur will have a visit from the police soon.”

“Or his wife will,” said Matthew. “You never know.”

“Yes, you do,” she replied. “Some things you just know. I read the autopsy report and it’s obvious that Birna was the victim of a very brutal rape, so no women are in the frame, except perhaps as accomplices. If Rósa did play a part in the murder, it wasn’t with her husband. I doubt they could agree on the time of day, let alone something on this scale.”

Just then, Sóldís walked over to them. “Granny wants a word with you,” she said awkwardly. “She asked me to ask you to phone her. It’s something to do with what you were talking about yesterday.” She looked down at her feet. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, you know, but here’s her number.” She handed Thóra a Post-it.

Thóra thanked her kindly and took out her mobile immediately, while Sóldís turned around and quickly left the bar. The telephone was answered after a single ring.

“Hello, Lára. This is Thóra, the lawyer from the hotel. Sóldís told me you wanted a word.”

“Yes, hello. I’m so glad you called. I haven’t been able to think about anything but Gudný since we talked yesterday. I believe that you’ll lead to the child’s fate being discovered at long last.” Thóra had the feeling that Lára was in a very emotional state, although her voice didn’t betray it. “I’m holding the letter from her, the one I told you about yesterday,” said the old woman, sniffing almost inaudibly. “I searched everywhere and eventually found it stored away with a couple of other things that I still keep from that time. I’ve read it over and again, and I think I’ve found something by reading between the lines.”

“What do you mean?” asked Thóra.

“In one place she says the baby takes after its father and I’ll see the resemblance at once,” said Lára. “At the time, when all that talk about incest started up, I half believed she was referring to her father or uncle. Now that I’m older, I realize that no woman would say that about a child born under such circumstances. She also asks whether I know the whereabouts of a young man she was keen on before I moved away. She wanted to drop him a line.” Lára stopped to take a deep breath. “I think that young man must have been the child’s father. He moved to Reykjavík soon after me, and I remember how strangely he acted when I bumped into him a year or so later. He refused to talk to me. I didn’t understand it then, and still don’t, really. The baby might explain his reaction. Perhaps he thought I knew about the baby or Gudný’s pregnancy and didn’t want to discuss it. He had a young lady on his arm.”

“Who was it?” Thóra asked. “Is he still alive?”

“Most definitely,” Lára replied. “When he dies, it will be reported in all the newspapers. He used to be a cabinet minister.”

Thóra felt her grip tightening on the handset. “Magnús Baldvinsson?” she asked, as calmly as she could.

“Yes, how did you guess?” exclaimed Lára, astounded. “Do you know him?”

“He’s staying at the hotel,” replied Thóra, “but he may have left by now—his grandson came to fetch him yesterday evening.”