My Soul to Take

CHAPTER 18

The stallion belongs to my wife. I’m not fond of horses,” said Bergur, staring at the floor.

Thórólfur leaned across the old kitchen table, taking care to keep his sleeves out of the coffee Bergur had spilled when he filled his cup with shaking hands. “So what were you doing in there, since you claim you’re not much of an equestrian?”

“The horses have to be fed every night. That’s my job,” Bergur replied without looking up. “You don’t have to be a horsey person for that.”

In his many years in the police force, one thing Thórólfur had learned was that he could trust his intuition in interrogations. He had a very strong feeling that the man hunched in front of him had something to hide. God alone knew what it was, but Thórólfur was determined to find out. “No, I suppose you don’t,” he agreed, then continued. “How come you still have your horses stabled? I understand from my people that they’re normally put out to pasture in June.”

“We hire out horses,” replied the farmer. “Well, my wife does, actually, but I help out when needed. I handle the feeding and so on.” He gnawed at a cuticle on his left hand. “We’re going to put the stallion out in the paddock; we just haven’t got around to it yet.”

Thórólfur scribbled in a notepad, then looked up. “When did you realize something was wrong?”

Bergur shrugged. “I don’t know the exact time, if that’s what you mean. I don’t wear a watch or carry one of those around”—he pointed to Thórólfur’s mobile, which lay on the table between them—“but obviously it was very soon after I went into the stable block.” Bergur stopped talking and swallowed audibly.

“Yes, of course,” said Thórólfur impatiently. “But how come you noticed it immediately? The stall is at the far end of the stables. Was there any particular reason you went straight there?”

Bergur swallowed again. “I always feed the stallion first. He’s not broken in yet and he gets agitated. He’s hard work—he’s incredibly wary of people, so he becomes really worked up when I’m in the stables. If he’s fed first, he leaves me in peace to feed the other horses.”

“I see,” said Thórólfur. “He’s in the biggest stall with the highest partitions, is that right?” Bergur nodded silently. “Why is that? Is it because of his temperament?”

“No, not just that. Stallions are always fenced off more securely. It stops them getting in with the other horses, which could end in disaster.”

“So this stallion wasn’t particularly bad, perhaps?” asked the detective. “I mean, are they all like that? Do they pose a special threat to other horses?”

“Well, stallions are more aggressive than geldings and mares,” answered Bergur quietly, “but this stallion is exceptionally wild. I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure of that.”

“Fine,” said Thórólfur, although it wasn’t clear to the farmer what he meant. “So you say you went straight over to that pen—”

“Stall,” the farmer corrected him.

“Stall, then,” he said crossly. “And you immediately saw a man lying there?”

“Yes, pretty much,” Bergur replied. “It was all so surreal I have trouble describing it in detail.”

“Why don’t you give it a go?” suggested Thórólfur.

“I think I noticed the fox first, then the man. I remember seeing blood in the sawdust and thinking the horse had injured himself. Then I saw the fox and thought the blood must have come from that, and then …” Bergur was breathing heavily now, trying to stay calm. “It was awful. He was just lying there. I wondered at first if he was still alive, but when I leaned over for a better look I could tell he was dead.” He inhaled deeply and repeated, “It was awful. And his feet. God help me—”

“So you haven’t got used to it?” interrupted Thórólfur, drumming his fingers on the table.

Bergur looked up, surprised and anxious. “What do you mean?”

“This is the second body you’ve chanced upon in a couple of days. I thought it might not be so bad the second time,” said the detective. “Come to think of it, it’s a hell of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say,” Bergur whispered. “I couldn’t bear to go through that again, and I wish it had never happened to me. Neither time.” He sat up and looked Thórólfur in the eye. “I had no part in this, if that’s what you think.”

“No, no, I’m sure you didn’t, but it’s interesting all the same,” said the other man, meeting Bergur’s glare with a quizzical look.

“It was an accident,” said the farmer mulishly. “Surely no one doubts that?”

“How would you explain such an accident?” asked Thórólfur.

“Well, I don’t know,” replied Bergur, then paused. “A hunter who followed a fox into the stable? Or something … weirder.”

“What do you mean, ‘weirder’?” inquired Thórólfur.

“There are cases of men who go into livestock enclosures to … satisfy their needs. Maybe he was one of them,” said the farmer, flushing slightly.

“Then he would have taken a stool or box to stand on, wouldn’t he? And how does the fox come into it? And what about the pins?” snapped Thórólfur, stone-faced. “Both your explanations are pretty implausible.”

Bergur sat back in his chair. “I’m not investigating this; you are. I have no idea how the man ended up in there. You asked me and I answered. All I know is, I wasn’t involved.”

“Fine, but it’s still your shed, and—”

“It’s a stable. Sheds are for cattle,” said Bergur peevishly. His anger subsided immediately and he added in a much calmer voice, “I’m not sure I feel up to discussing this anymore. I still haven’t recovered from the shock.” He bowed his head and returned his gaze to the table.

“It’s almost over,” replied Thórólfur, who had little sympathy for the man opposite him. “I noticed a rifle on the wall inside. Is it yours?”

“Yes,” Bergur said. “It’s mine. I very much doubt that you’ll find a farmer in these parts who doesn’t own a rifle.” He looked up, annoyed. “The man wasn’t shot. What’s wrong with you?”

The detective smiled coldly. “No, but the fox was, if I’m not mistaken. Did you shoot that fox?”

Bergur picked awkwardly at the faded oilcloth on the table. “No. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Oh, really?” said Thórólfur with an exaggerated air of bafflement. “Could you explain that a little better? I’m not sure I understood. You don’t know whether you shot that fox?”

Bergur stopped fiddling with the cloth and looked up. “I shoot foxes if and when I notice them. There’s an eider colony here, and we can’t have a predator loose around them, but I haven’t shot a fox for months, apart from one the other day that got away. I know I hit it because I found blood and some scraps of fur, but I never saw its corpse. I thought it had escaped, but who knows? It might be the same fox.”

“Indeed, who knows?” echoed Thórólfur. “Maybe you can describe to us exactly where this was, and of course there are plenty of other things we need to go over more closely.”

“Not right now,” moaned Bergur, who was clearly exhausted. “I simply can’t.”

“No problem,” said Thórólfur jovially. “Just two final points and we’ll discuss it later. Firstly, are the stables normally open or locked? And secondly, did you know or recognize the deceased?”

Bergur did not look up. “The stables are never locked. Until now it hasn’t been considered necessary.” Then he raised his head and looked wearily at Thórólfur. “I have no idea whether I knew the man. It could be anyone—you saw the state he was in.”

“Fair enough,” said the detective, getting to his feet. “Oh, sorry, one final question.”

Bergur looked resigned. “What?”

“We found some writing on one wall of the stall, or rather scratchings. It was just a few letters, but we were wondering whether they were there before.”

“Letters?” repeated Bergur, surprised. “I don’t remember any letters there. What did they say?”

“It looked to me like ‘RER.’ Does that mean anything to you?”

Bergur shook his head. “Nothing. I’ve never seen that and don’t know what it means.” Nothing in his face suggested dishonesty, but Thórólfur couldn’t shake the feeling that Bergur had something to hide. The question was, what?

“If I weren’t so hungry, I’d suggest we look somewhere else,” Matthew said as he opened the door for Thóra. The restaurant specialized in vegetarian dishes, and in spite of Thóra’s rough translation of an assortment of framed press clippings in the window singing its praises, Matthew was far from excited.

“Beer’s a vegetable.” Thóra grinned. “Or made from vegetables, anyway.”

Matthew shook his head ruefully. “I don’t know what information you have about beer, but believe me, that’s not right.” He followed her inside. “At most, beer is a grain product.”

“Grain, vegetable,” said Thóra as she looked around for a waiter. “There’s no difference.” She noticed a woman she recognized sitting at the bar and gave Matthew a nudge. “That woman works at the hotel. Maybe we should go over and talk to her.”

“I’m not going over there unless we can get a menu and order from there,” Matthew said. “And only if they have salted peanuts.”

“It’s a deal,” said Thóra, and smiled at the waiter who came over. “We’d like to start at the bar, if that’s okay,” she said. “But we’re pretty hungry, so it would be great if we could see the menu now.”

They went over to the bar area, which was small compared with the dining room, and Thóra sat on a barstool beside the woman. There were only four stools, so Matthew sat down on the other side of Thóra, directly in front of a bowl of peanuts.

“Hello,” Thóra said, leaning forward so the woman could see her face. “Don’t I know you from the hotel? Jónas’s place?”

The woman had clearly had a little too much to drink. In front of her was a gaudy glass with a bright green mixture in it, and beside it were several tiny red plastic swords, each speared through a cocktail cherry. It took her a while to register that she’d been asked a question and she used the time to refocus her eyes, which seemed to be half full of tears behind heavy makeup. When she started speaking, though, she didn’t sound anywhere near as drunk as she looked. “Do I know you?” she asked, fairly coherently.

“No, we’ve never met, but I’ve seen you around. My name’s Thóra, and I’m doing a little project for Jónas.” Thóra held out her hand.

The woman’s handshake was feeble. “Oh, yes, that’s right. Now I remember you. I’m Stefanía, the hotel’s sex therapist.”

Thóra managed to stop her eyebrows shooting up, as she was certain the woman would not appreciate it. “I see. Is it a busy job?”

The woman shrugged and sipped her cocktail. “Sometimes. Sometimes not so much.” She put down her glass and licked her red lips. “Jónas claims business will pick up. To tell the truth, it’s got off to a very slow start.”

“Oh, dear,” Thóra said sympathetically. “But isn’t it a nice place to work apart from that? It’s a lovely hotel.”

The woman snorted and scowled. “No it isn’t!” She turned to look at Thóra, but was still having trouble focusing.

“Are you talking about the ghost?” asked Thóra. “Does it disturb you?”

Stefanía shook her head firmly. “No. Fortunately I’m never there in the evenings. I haven’t seen any ghosts, but I guess they only work nights. I’ve never heard of a ghost scaring people during the day.” She pushed back a lock of hair that had fallen over one eye. “No, my problem is the women who work there.” She sighed. “It’s always the women. It would be great if it was all men.” She hiccupped. “And me, of course.”

“Well, yes, of course,” agreed Thóra. “But which women do you mean? I haven’t met many, though I did speak to Vigdís in reception.”

“Vigdís, Pigdís,” Stefanía mumbled. “She’s a real bitch.”

“Oh,” said Thóra, startled. “Obviously I don’t know her well, but she seems all right. Maybe I’ve got that wrong.”

“You bet you have,” Stefanía hissed. “She can’t stand me, even though I’ve never done anything to her.” Suddenly serious, she added, “Actually, I’ve analyzed it and know what her problem is.” She paused dramatically. “I’m a threat to her—a sexual threat.” She looked at Thóra triumphantly.

“What do you mean?” said Thóra, perplexed. “Is she frightened you’ll rape her?”

Stefanía chuckled. Her laugh was unexpectedly light and natural. “No, silly. As a woman, she feels a primal threat from other women who are more attractive.” She smiled smugly. “A blind man would see that I’m sexier than her.” She took a sip of her drink. “It’s always happening to me. I ought to know the signs by now.”

Matthew tugged at Thóra’s sleeve. “Can we order? I know what I want, and I’m starving.”

Thóra looked at the empty bowl of peanuts. “No problem. Just call the waiter and order.” She went to turn back to Stefanía, but Matthew stopped her.

“What about you? What do you want?” Matthew pointed at the menu. Thóra hadn’t even glanced at it.

“Anything,” she replied. “Just order me anything.” She went back to Stefanía while Matthew called the waiter over. “Speaking of women,” she said, “did you know Birna, the architect?”

Stefanía’s expression changed instantly. Her face fell and for a fraction of a second it seemed to be melting. “Oh, God,” she said with a lump in her throat. “It’s so awful.”

“Yes, it is,” agreed Thóra. “So she wasn’t one of those annoying women?”

“No, not at all. She was lovely,” said Stefanía. She emptied her glass in one gulp. Then she removed the tiny sword with the cocktail cherry, which she put in her mouth and sucked before ceremoniously placing it on the bar beside the others. “I’m devastated by all this, and I don’t really know how I feel.” She looked up at Thóra. “I’m not in the habit of coming here on Sunday evenings, even though I live locally.”

“I understand,” said Thóra, although she didn’t, not at all. “You seem to have known Birna well—do you have any idea who could possibly have wanted to harm her?”

Stefanía lifted her empty glass and spun it. The last few drops swirled around in the bottom. “Yes, I do,” she said calmly.

“Really?” Thóra could not conceal her eagerness. “Who is it?” Stefanía regarded her beadily. “I’m sworn to confidentiality. Sex therapists are like doctors in that respect. And lawyers.”

Thóra was careful not to burst out laughing at the analogy. Perhaps it was not so far-fetched—some of the divorce cases handled by her colleague Bragi could verge on sex counseling. “Well, I’m a lawyer and there are exceptions to the rule. The greater good, for instance.”

After thinking for a while, Stefanía conceded, “If you’re a lawyer, it’s safe to tell you, right? It’s only a couple of names, and you won’t tell anyone, will you? It’s certainly not a question of that ‘greater good’ of yours.”

Thóra could hardly believe how well this was going. She had envisaged a long session at the bar, waiting for Stefanía to drink enough to forget her oath of confidentiality. “Absolutely not, I can’t tell anyone, I promise.”

“Great,” Stefanía said. “I’ve felt sick ever since I heard the news, because I can’t tell anyone. Maybe this’ll make me feel better.” She looked Thóra in the eye. “Promise?”

“I promise,” Thóra repeated. She crossed her fingers behind her back—she’d have to tell Matthew. “Who wanted to harm Birna?”

Stefanía clearly hadn’t exaggerated about needing to get this secret off her chest. When she spoke, it was at triple speed. “She was having an affair with a married farmer from around here. His name’s Bergur and he lives at Tunga. The sex was kind of extreme, and she came to me for counseling. She thought it had gone too far.”

“And could you help her?” asked Thóra. “Did you advise her to stop seeing him?” A breakup might be sufficient grounds for a man to commit murder, if he was unbalanced.

Stefanía put down her glass. “No.” She put one of her red fingernails in her mouth and bit it, hard. When she removed the finger, there was a white mark on the nail where the varnish had cracked. “No, I didn’t.” She stared at her empty glass as if in a trance. “I told her just to go for it. That rough sex wasn’t necessarily dangerous.”

“Oh, dear,” said Thóra. “I can see why you feel bad.”

The sex therapist nodded slowly. When she looked up at Thóra, she spotted Matthew behind her. Until now she had been so absorbed in her own misery that she hadn’t really noticed him. She smiled, a little unpleasantly. “Who’s that? A friend of yours?” she asked coquettishly. Thóra decided to use the language barrier to her advantage. “He’s a foreigner. He’s here to relax.” She leaned over to Stefanía and lowered her voice. “He’s impotent. Result of an accident.” Then she nodded conspiratorially and sat up straight again. “So sad.” Although Thóra felt a bit bad about having lied about Matthew’s sexual prowess she was certain that this sex therapist minx would leave him be as a result. The end in this case would have to justify the means.

Stefanía’s eyes widened. “What a shame,” she said, crestfallen. “If you want, I know a few techniques that could help you. You can have a lot of fun without actual penetration.”

“No, thank you.” Thóra smiled politely. “But thanks for the offer.” She turned to Matthew. “Come on,” she said in German, “the food should be on its way.”

Stefanía smiled at Matthew. “It’s very important that you eat well and don’t miss any meals,” she said sympathetically.

“Okay, thanks,” said Matthew, bemused.

Thóra put her hand on Stefanía’s shoulder. “Thank you very much. I’ll definitely see you soon, because I’ll still be working on this project for Jónas.”

Stefanía looked at her in astonishment. “Don’t you want to know who the other one is?”

“Which other one?” she asked, confused.

“The other man who wanted to harm Birna,” replied Stefanía with a hint of irritation.

Thóra nodded quickly. “Oh, yes, definitely.”

Stefanía leaned over to whisper in her ear. When she was so close that Thóra was certain her ear had been smeared with lipstick, Stefanía said in a low voice, “Jónas.”

Thóra watched the police cars pull up. Three cars—clearly something was going on. They drove slowly onto the graveled space outside the hotel and parked side by side in one corner. The slamming of car doors broke the silence as six officers got out, including one woman.

“What now?” Thóra wondered aloud. “They said they weren’t coming back until tomorrow.”

They watched the group stride toward the hotel entrance, outside which she and Matthew were lounging in the trendy patio furniture probably provided for smokers, enjoying the evening sun with a glass of wine each. She was still hungry, because Matthew had repaid her indifference to the menu by ordering her just a green salad. He had hardly fared better with his vegetable lasagne, which was barely a mouthful. As a result, they had twice had to order extra bread, and even that had not sufficed.

She knew two of the officers by sight; the pair who had questioned Jónas and confiscated his mobile. The elder one was named Thórólfur, she thought.

“Good evening,” she said, addressing him.

“Hello,” he said dryly.

“You weren’t expected until tomorrow,” Thóra said. “Is something wrong?”

Without stopping or looking at them, Thórólfur answered as he passed their table, “Things change.” Then the group of officers vanished into the building.