My Soul to Take

CHAPTER 19

Thóra cleared her throat. “There’s one thing I don’t understand.” She looked at Jónas, who was sitting beside her, his face ashen. “Why do you want to talk to my client? He doesn’t own the stables, and I can’t imagine that anything has emerged in your initial investigation to suggest that he was involved in this.” She regarded Thórólfur steadily. “Has it?”

Now it was Thórólfur’s turn to clear his throat. “I would have thought it was obvious. The last time a body was found here in the neighborhood, it turned out to be a woman who worked for your client, and since that was only a few days ago, our first question must be whether anyone is missing from here. We have reason to believe that the same person was responsible.”

Jónas leaned forward in his chair. “Would you please use my name? I don’t exactly feel comfortable at being called ‘a client.’ ”

Thóra suppressed a groan but looked at Jónas and nodded. Then she turned back to Thórólfur. “In other words, you’re only here to ask Jónas whether the deceased could be a guest or employee of the hotel? Not because you consider him connected in any other way?”

Thórólfur clenched his fists. “I didn’t say that. The investigation is only in its early stages, as I indicated. However, it should be clear that at this point in time we are only trying to discover the identity of the deceased. What happens after that is completely undecided.”

“These stables,” said Thóra, “am I allowed to ask who owns them?”

“Ask what you like,” Thórólfur answered moodily. “I may answer.” He cracked his knuckles. “But it’s no secret that the stables in question belong to the farm of Tunga.”

Thóra gave a start, and hoped that Thórólfur hadn’t noticed. “Is it close to here?” she asked casually.

“It’s the next farm along, just west of here,” Jónas chipped in, relieved to be able to contribute.

“I see,” Thóra said. “Then it must be very close to the beach where Birna’s body was found, right?” She addressed the question to Thórólfur. Since he didn’t seem about to answer, she added, “Oughtn’t you to be talking to the people who live there, rather than those at the hotel?” She had decided not to tell the police about the farmer’s relationship with Birna until she had met him herself. She resolved to contact Bergur first thing in the morning, since the truth was bound to come out. Once that happened, she might not get the opportunity to speak to him.

“Let’s get back to the subject,” Thórólfur said tetchily, turning to Jónas. “I presume you know the stables in question?”

“Yes, sort of,” Jónas answered. “I know where they are and I have been inside.”

“Do you ride?” asked Thórólfur.

“No, not at all,” Jónas answered. “Just interested. I hope to go into that line of business in the future. At the moment the hotel operation is keeping me busy.”

“So what were you doing in the stables, that time you went inside?” said the detective.

“Rósa was kind enough to show me the horses,” Jónas said, adding hurriedly, “Rósa is the lady of the house, Bergur’s wife. We’ve discussed horses on the few occasions that we’ve met, and she wanted to show me a young stallion they had just bought. That was quite a while ago, at least six months.”

“Do you remember the name of this stallion?” Thórólfur asked.

“Yes,” Jónas said. “I think it was called Snowy.” He smiled. “It ought to have been called Fire, really—I’ve never seen a horse with such a temper.”

Thórólfur took his time formulating his next question, scribbling something on a notepad. Thóra was ill at ease. There was something about these questions about the horse that suggested that this was more than a fact-finding mission. She decided to wait and see what happened.

Eventually Thórólfur looked up from his notepad and glared at Jónas. “In other words, for six months you have known that in these particular stables is a horse that is rather bad-tempered—indeed, uncontrollable? Is that correct?”

“Yes,” said Jónas, looking surprised. “Why do you ask?”

“No particular reason,” the detective said, jotting something down. “And what about foxes?” he asked. “Can you tell me anything about foxes around here?”

Astonished, Jónas looked from Thórólfur to Thóra. “Am I meant to answer that?” he asked, perplexed. Thóra nodded. She was dying to know where all this was heading. Jónas turned back to Thórólfur. “I don’t quite understand the question. Do you want to know about foxes in general, or whether I have any?”

“Well,” said Thórólfur, “I would like to know whether there are many foxes in the vicinity. But if you keep foxes, it would also be good to know that.”

Jónas leaned back in his chair and frowned. “I don’t keep any foxes. Why would I keep foxes? This isn’t a fur farm.” He was addressing his words to Thóra, who shrugged but motioned him to continue. Jónas did, although he clearly found it uncomfortable. “But there are wild foxes around here. I know because they attack the eider ducks and the farmers complain about it. To tell the truth, that’s all I know about foxes.” He fell silent for a while before adding, “Well, except that they are the only mammal that was native to Iceland at the time of the settlement.”

Thórólfur smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I wasn’t asking for a lecture on the natural sciences.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Tell me another thing. Do the letters ‘RER’ mean anything to you?”

The hotelier shook his head. “No. I can’t say they do.” He looked at Thóra. “How about you?”

“I haven’t the faintest,” she answered, and turned to Thórólfur. “What does it mean?”

“It’s not important,” he said firmly, then changed the subject. “Do you have a sewing room in the hotel here?”

“No,” replied Jónas. “Do you have a loose button or a hem that needs mending?” he asked, in apparent sincerity.

Thórólfur did not answer Jónas, but continued, “Do you offer acupuncture?”

“I don’t personally, but we have discussed calling in an acupuncturist temporarily,” Jónas answered, startled. “It’s an ancient practice, but you can achieve incredible results with all sorts of ailments. I know of a man who smoked a pack a day of unfiltered Camels for thirty years—” He got no further.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re not making small talk here,” Thórólfur growled. “I ask; you answer. Preferably yes or no, as appropriate.” He had been rubbing one of his shoulders as he talked, and Thóra prayed that Jónas would not offer him a hot-stone massage.

“What I want to know is this: is there a sewing room here? Is acupuncture practiced? If not, do you offer any kind of service that requires pins or needles?”

Jónas thought for a moment, then answered in accordance with Thórólfur’s instructions. “Yes,” he said.

The policeman sighed. “Yes, and … ? What kind of service?”

Thóra indicated that Jónas should answer. “In each room is a little sewing kit, the size of a matchbox. It’s for guests who need to make minor repairs to their clothes. I can fetch one of those sets if you want. There are several colors of thread, one needle, two or three buttons, and a safety pin, if memory serves. There’s nothing else in it.”

“No other pins?” Thórólfur asked.

“No,” said Jónas, shaking his head. “I’m fairly sure of it.”

“I’d like to see one of those sets before I leave,” Thórólfur said. “And take a look at where you keep the stock.” He paused, glowering at Jónas. “One last question. I’ve been notified that Birna’s room was broken into.”

“What?” exclaimed Jónas. “I didn’t know that. Who told you that?”

“That’s none of your business, unless you know who did it and when it happened.” Thórólfur’s glare didn’t waver.

“I don’t know anything about it. I haven’t been in there since you had the room cordoned off on Friday evening and banned everybody from entering. I swear it wasn’t me.” Jónas was gabbling now. “I have no reason to go in there.”

“That’s what you say,” Thórólfur said, finally looking down at his notebook. “Somebody felt they had a reason. If not you, then who?” He looked back up at Jónas.

“Well, I don’t know. The murderer, I suppose,” said Jónas, flustered.

“Is that everything?” interrupted Thóra. “You said, ‘One last question,’ and Jónas has answered it now. Can we go?”

Thórólfur flapped his hand dismissively. “Please do. But I definitely need to talk to you again tomorrow,” he said to Jónas. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Jónas’s eyes widened, and Thóra spoke before he could. “No, of course. We won’t. I should remind you that I wish to be present any time Jónas is questioned. I assume that won’t be a problem.”

“No, no,” replied Thórólfur. “Why would it be?”

Thóra and Jónas left the office that he had lent to the police officers—if you could call it an office. It was used as a storeroom for cleaning supplies, but happened to also contain a desk that wouldn’t fit anywhere else. Chairs had been fetched and arranged as comfortably as the limited floor space allowed, but the result was a little unconventional. As soon as they had entered the room, Thóra had been struck by how unthreatening it was. She wondered if that would put the police at a disadvantage during their preliminary interviews. After being inside for a while, however, she had realized that the smell of disinfectant was so overpowering that it more than made up for the unimpressive atmosphere. She was indescribably relieved to walk out of there, and her mind was buzzing. Foxes? Pins? RER?

Jónas was knocking back brandy. He had invited Thóra and Matthew into his flat, as she needed to talk to him after the interrogation. Small but cozy, the flat was part of the hotel building. Thóra was sitting beside Matthew on a soft leather sofa, a glass of water in her hand, and she had a magnificent view of the glacier to the west. Jónas sat in a chair beside them.

“They think I killed Birna and that man,” he complained, taking another gulp of his cognac. “Are you sure you don’t want any of this? It really calms you down.”

“Do you know more than you told the police just now?” asked Thóra. “What was that about foxes and needles? And the letters?”

“I don’t have a clue, I swear,” he replied. “I know nothing about that man and even less about foxes, needles, and letters. I was freaking out. I thought it was a trap.”

“That’s highly unlikely,” Thóra reassured him. “But it was certainly very odd.” She waited as Jónas finished his drink and reached over to refresh it. “Tell me one thing, Jónas.” He looked around. “Did you know that Birna was involved with a farmer from around here? A married man?”

Jónas blushed. “Well, I suspected she was, yes,” he said, a strange look on his face.

“And you are presumably aware that the very same farmer owns those stables?” she persisted.

“Yes, I realized that,” he said, “but I didn’t want to say anything.”

“Why not?” she asked.

“I just didn’t,” Jónas replied, taking another swig.

“Could it be because you were having a relationship with her yourself, and didn’t want to risk being implicated further?” she said.

“Maybe,” answered Jónas sulkily.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you were together?” shouted Thóra, frustrated.

“It was nothing, nothing,” he replied. “I had no reason to hurt her.”

“So you split up amicably?” she asked. She looked sideways at Matthew, who was smothering a yawn. She was conducting the conversation in Icelandic so that Jónas’s responses would be as natural as possible. Poor Matthew had to sit there like a gooseberry, looking out of the window at the glacier. She admired his composure; her ex-husband would already have nudged her several times to ask if they could leave.

“Yes, pretty much,” Jónas replied. His eyes were a little glassy, but Thóra couldn’t tell whether through tiredness—it was past midnight—or alcohol. “I wouldn’t have minded it going on a bit longer, but she wanted to move on. Said I was too old.”

“It sounds as though you weren’t too pleased about it,” Thóra said. “Did she go straight from you to Bergur?”

“Yes.” Jónas scowled. “I suppose she did.”

“You seem quite angry,” Thóra said. “Maybe I’m missing something, but I find it strange that you wanted her to continue working here under the circumstances, even if the split was amicable.”

“It was. I’m not lying,” he said. “What could I do? She didn’t want me anymore. Life’s like that sometimes. She was a good architect, and she understood my plans for developing the area. I’m man enough to be able to keep business and pleasure separate.”

“Good for you,” said Thóra. “Let’s just hope that the other witnesses back you up when they’re questioned.” She looked at him sternly. “If not, it won’t look good.”

“Why not?” Jónas asked, affronted. “Aren’t I allowed to have girlfriends?”

“Of course you are,” said Thóra, slightly annoyed. “But you know what I mean. And another thing—who’s the man in the stables? Maybe it’s Bergur. What then?”

He turned pale. “I … I don’t know.”

Thóra started to get up. “I shouldn’t be painting too dark a picture. We don’t even know yet if it was an accident or something worse.” Jónas looked at her. “Do you think the police would ask me about foxes and cryptic letters if a farmhand had fallen out of the hayloft? No, there’s some connection with what happened here.” Matthew’s arm rested lightly on Thóra’s shoulders as they stood on the beach watching the surf. She had asked him to take a short walk with her before they went to sleep, because the smell of disinfectant was still in her nostrils and would give her a migraine if she wasn’t careful. She closed her eyes and was about to say something romantic when her mobile rang.

“Anyone would think the hotel was the only place around here where there’s no mobile reception,” sighed Matthew.

Thóra answered it quickly.

“Hi, Thóra. Sorry to call you so late,” said a female voice. “It’s Dísa from next door.”

“Oh, hello,” Thóra said, surprised. Had her house caught fire?

“I did try to call earlier, but your phone must have been switched off,” said Dísa apologetically.

“No, I’m on Snæfellsnes and the signal’s patchy,” Thóra said, hoping her neighbor would get to the point. “It comes and goes.”

“Yes, I knew you were out of town. That’s why I called you. I saw somebody driving away in your SUV with the trailer, at about eleven. I thought it was rather strange. Did you lend it to anyone?”

“No,” said Thóra, perplexed. “Thanks, Dísa. I’ll check whether anyone borrowed it, and if not, I’ll call the police. Thanks again.”

She hung up and saw that six text messages were waiting for her. She opened the most recent one. It said, “call me asap—gylfi left and took sóley with him.”

Thóra let out a laugh that turned into a groan. She looked at Matthew and said wearily, “Never have children. Stick with that little girl in Africa.”