Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - My Soul to Take

At the beachhead he stumbled and looked down in surprise. As a rule he was sure-footed and confident, with a knack for negotiating the rounded boulders and slippery seaweed. Looking down, he noticed something that he had never seen on the beach before among all the oddities that had washed up over the years. For a start, it was a much larger bed of seaweed than he had ever seen washed ashore in the bay. More important, a human arm could be seen through the seaweed. There was no doubt about that. The fingers were curled and twisted in a way that no doll or mannequin manufacturer would have wanted to reproduce. Bergur bent down and the acrid stench of blood filled his nose. He jumped back. The smell had probably escaped when he’d uncovered the soft, slimy seaweed with his foot, and the metallic smell of blood was so powerful that the stench from the rotting whale paled in comparison. Bergur put his arm over his nose and mouth to avoid inhaling the foul air.

He straightened up, since there was little he could do for the person under the seaweed. He could see the outline of a body under the weed, and patches of white flesh were showing through. Once he had discerned the shape of it, it was so obvious that he was amazed he hadn’t noticed it immediately. Since he never took his mobile with him, there wasn’t much he could do but rush home and call the police. Perhaps the coast guard should be called out as well. They would enjoy being involved. He breathed through the sleeve of his coat to stave off the smell of blood, then stiffened. He recognized the ring on the swollen finger.

Bergur fell to his knees. Oblivious to the smell, he grabbed the ice-cold hand to be certain. Yes, that was her ring. He moaned and began to tear the seaweed away from where he imagined the head to be, but stopped when he realized there was no face. He could tell from the corpse’s familiar hair that his dream of a happy new life was over. Thóra was trying to unwind. Lying on her stomach, she made an effort to relax, or rather to concentrate on appearing relaxed, because she didn’t want the masseuse to think otherwise. The latter was a stringy, muscular woman, slightly younger than Thóra. She was wearing white canvas trousers, a pale green T-shirt, and orthopedic sandals on her feet. She had painted her toenails with light blue polish. Thóra did not make a habit of scrutinizing that part of people’s anatomy, but the toes kept appearing as she lay on the bench with her face positioned in a hole at one end.

The worst of it was over; the woman had stopped massaging and begun arranging hot stones in a row down her backbone. “Now you should feel how the energy from the stones flows through your back. It travels along the nerves and out into every part of you.” This speech was accompanied by soothing music from a CD the masseuse had told Thóra was on sale in reception. Thóra decided to look in at reception and find out the name of the group, to make sure she never bought one of their CDs by accident.

“Will it be much longer?” Thóra asked hopefully. “I think the energy’s penetrated every single cell. I’m beginning to feel great.”

“What?” The masseuse was incredulous. “Are you sure? It’s supposed to take a lot longer.”

Thóra suppressed a groan. “Positive. It’s brilliant. I can tell I’m done.”

The masseuse began to protest, but stopped when a telephone rang somewhere inside the salon. “Just a minute,” she said to Thóra, and her toes disappeared.

“Hello,” Thóra heard her say. “I’ve got a client.” A long silence ensued. Then, in a much more agitated tone of voice, “What? Are you serious … ? Jesus … I’m on my way.”

The masseuse hurried back in and began removing the stones from Thóra’s back. Thóra tried to conceal her relief by taking an interest in the telephone call. “Is anything wrong? Don’t worry about me; I’m all done, like I said.”

The woman was working quickly. “Something’s happened. Something terrible. Really terrible.”

Thóra propped herself up. “Really?” she asked, not needing to feign curiosity this time. “Is it something to do with the ghosts?”

An expression of horror spread across the woman’s face and she put her hand over her mouth. “Oh, I hadn’t thought of that. A body’s been found on the beach. Vigdís from reception thinks it’s someone from here, and the police have arrived to talk to Jónas.”

Thóra leaped naked from the bench and reached for a gown. She quickly pulled it on, never having been in the habit of going around nude in the company of strangers, although she was not ashamed of her body. “You get going—I’ll take care of myself.” She tightened the flannel belt around her waist and tied a knot. “Was it an accident?”

“I don’t know,” the masseuse said, shifting impatiently from one foot to the other. Clearly she was itching to go and find out more.

“I’ll get my things together and leave,” Thóra said, shooing the woman off. “I promise not to steal any stones.”

The woman didn’t need telling twice. She turned on her heel and rushed out into the corridor. Thóra went up to the screen she’d undressed behind and began putting her clothes back on. Her mobile rang in her bag and she fished it out. “Hello,” she said, trying to put on a sock with one hand. The connection was appalling and the line crackled.

“Hello, Thóra.” It was Matthew. “I’m still waiting for a reply to my e-mail.”

“Oh, yes,” Thóra said in German, abandoning her struggle with the sock. “I’m just about to answer.”

“Name the date. I’ll do the rest,” said Matthew. He clearly intended to come no matter what. “Give me the green light and I’ll be there.”

“It’s rather inconvenient at the moment,” Thóra answered reluctantly. “I’m working and something’s cropped up.”

“What has?” asked Matthew, clearly unconvinced. “Tell me.”

“Yes, well, it’s all rather peculiar,” Thóra said, racking her brain to remember the German word for “ghost.” “I’m working on a case connected with ghosts, but it seems as though it may be getting more complicated. The police have found a body and it may stir things up.”

“Where are you?” asked Matthew.

“Me?” Thóra replied foolishly. “I’m in the countryside.”

“Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be there tomorrow night.” His voice was solemn.

“Wait, it’s all right. Don’t come here,” Thóra gabbled. “There’s no murder, only a body.” She hesitated. “As far as I know, anyway.”

“I’ll look forward to seeing you tomorrow,” said the voice from the handset.

“But you don’t even know where I am, and I’m not going to tell you. Wait a few days and let me find a better time. I promise. I want to see you too. Just not right now.”

“You don’t have to tell me where you are. I’ll find you. Auf Wiedersehen.”

Thóra couldn’t argue anymore. Matthew had hung up.

When she was dressed, Thóra decided to go straight to reception in the hope of finding out more about the body. On her way out, she noticed a bunch of keys the masseuse had left behind in her haste. She decided to hand it in at reception, as an excuse for going there. She strode quickly down the corridor, feeling pleased with herself.

There was no sign of the masseuse in the lobby. A young woman was leaning over the reception desk, deep in a whispered conversation with her colleague behind the counter. She was disturbingly thin and the snow-white tunic she wore over her matching trousers did little to conceal it. Thóra stood beside her and smiled at the two women in the hope of being allowed to join in. She was far from welcome; both looked most displeased to see her, but they recovered themselves and gave her frosty smiles. For a short while she pretended to look at a poster behind the reception desk advertising a séance the previous evening with a well-known medium from Reykjavík. Then she turned back to the others, smiling pleasantly.