My Soul to Take

CHAPTER 24

She hung up.” Thóra grimaced. She looked at the screen of the mobile Jónas had lent her. “Unless I lost reception.” She shook her head. “No, she hung up.”

“Are you surprised?” Matthew asked. “She and her brother practically threw you out of their house this morning—she’d hardly be dying to speak to you.”

“No, perhaps not,” Thóra said grumpily, putting her mobile back in her pocket. “It would just have been really helpful to know what building used to stand here.” She and Matthew were now at the edge of the lawn, as there was no mobile connection by the rock. “Maybe her daughter, Berta, knows something,” Thóra mused. “Hopefully I haven’t offended her too.”

“I doubt it,” Matthew said. “But she’ll turn her back on you pretty quickly if you start asking questions about that friend of hers with the wheelchair.”

“No,” said Thóra. “I’ll steer clear of that for the time being. Right now I just want to find out more about this building.” They set off toward the hotel. When they passed the patch where Matthew had dug down to the foundations, Thóra came to a halt. “How come Birna didn’t know about this? She seems to have spent a lot of time thinking about this patch of land, if her diary is anything to go by.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” replied Matthew. “Jökull mows the lawns, so he’s probably the only one who knew about the uneven ground here. There was clearly no love lost between him and Birna, so he wouldn’t have told her about it even if she’d asked.”

“But someone’s been here looking for something. If they were trying to find the foundation, they can’t have been very observant. None of the holes were anywhere near the raised area.”

“You can hardly call them holes,” Matthew reminded her. “But I agree that if our mysterious digger was looking for the house that burned down, he wasn’t much of a detective.”

“I almost want to go back down into the basement to check the boxes thoroughly,” Thóra said, her mind racing. “Maybe something in them would show us what was here. A photo perhaps.”

He looked at his watch. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. Don’t you have to go to fetch your kids and the trailer?”

“That can wait until tonight,” she replied. “I phoned Gylfi just now and they’re happy enough for the moment. They’re going to walk over to a shop not far from where they parked.” She crossed her fingers. “I just hope his girlfriend’s let her parents know they’re okay. I’m not phoning them, that’s for certain. They never shut up about the trouble Gylfi’s got their little baby girl into. They think it’s all my fault.”

“What about your ex?” asked Matthew. “Do you think Gylfi will tell him?”

“I hope not,” Thóra said. “Hannes can worry himself sick for all I care. It’s his fault they ran off in the first place.” She patted the pocket with her mobile in it. “I’ve got hundreds of unread messages from him. I’ll check them when I have time, or—” Her mobile rang and she fished it out of her pocket. It was Bella.

“Hello,” said Thóra. “How did it go?” While she was talking to her secretary, she rummaged in her pocket for a pen and paper. “No Kristín, you say?” She scribbled down what Bella was saying. Then she rang off and turned back to Matthew. “He’s buried there alone. No Kristín in any of the nearby graves.” She sighed, disappointed. “His gravestone is inscribed with his name, dates of birth and death, and a short verse.”

“What fun,” Matthew said. “More poetry. Go ahead.”

Thóra read Bella’s message from the piece of paper:

She looked up at Matthew. “Actually this one rings a bell, unlike the other verse, which I’ve never heard before. I might be able to find it on the Internet. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s from The Sayings of the High One.”

Matthew tapped her on the shoulder. “The police seem to have called out reinforcements,” he said, pointing to the patrol car pulling up at the hotel. “I don’t think you’ll be going down to the basement just yet.”

“Why don’t you want to come outside? ” asked Berta, opening the curtains. The dim room brightened up at once. “It’s gorgeous weather outside.” She stood looking out for a while, then turned away from the window. “Come on, it’ll do you good.”

“You go,” Steini said curtly, picking at a little loose flap of rubber on one wheel of his chair with his good hand. “I don’t want to.”

“Don’t be like that,” said Berta. She walked over and crouched so their faces were at the same level. Often she found he responded better if she made eye contact. “I promise you’ll feel better if you get some fresh air. Something’s clearly bothering you, and who knows, it might help to have something else to occupy you.”

“It won’t help,” answered Steini, still scowling.

Berta had got used to his monosyllabic replies. His speech was impaired by the burns on one side of his mouth, where the skin of his lips had somehow fused together. Berta had always been astonished that the doctors hadn’t done a better job, and she had a suspicion that Steini had refused to undergo further surgery; he refused to discuss it whenever she asked. He couldn’t still be on the waiting list, as he had told her once. A much more plausible explanation was that he hadn’t recovered from the pain and discomfort of his first operations and couldn’t face any more. The week before, she had heard a message from Steini’s physiotherapist on his answering machine, asking him to call back to discuss resuming his treatment. Steini had clammed up completely when Berta asked him to return the man’s call. He obviously needed more time to recover, mentally as well as physically.

“We can go for a drive if you’d rather,” she suggested gently. “I’m up for anything, but I do think we should go somewhere.”

“Anything?” echoed Steini, looking her right in the eye without blinking.

“Almost anything,” Berta replied, feigning cheerfulness as she stood up. She wasn’t sure what he was trying to say, but she didn’t feel confident about going there. Not now, and preferably not ever. “You know what I mean.” She put a hand on his knee. “Come on. Please?”

Steini yanked the little tag of rubber off his tire. “Don’t you ever get scared?” he asked.

“Scared?” said Berta, taken aback. “What have I got to be scared of?” She smiled. “Summer’s coming.”

He looked at her in silence for a while. Then he stared down at his lap. “I feel bad.”

A pang shot through Berta’s stomach. She could not bear to see him in this state. Things were bad enough for him already. It was so unfair. Why had he had to come away from the accident so damaged? Plenty of people walked away from accidents without a scratch on them. If only she hadn’t telephoned him …

She forced herself to keep smiling. “I know,” she said cheerfully, “let’s go over to Kreppa. I’m way behind with the packing, and we might find something interesting too. You remember how much fun we had last time.”

Steini laughed coldly. “Fun, you say?” he said. He sighed. “Oh, I don’t care. Let’s just go.”

“Great,” she said. “I promise you won’t regret it.” She was relieved. As soon as they set off he would cheer up—he always did. Suddenly his hand darted out and clutched her wrist, startling her.

“Can you forgive me?” he asked weakly.

“Forgive you?” she said. “Forgive you for what?”

“If the worst happens, can you forgive me?”

Berta shook her head, perplexed. This was the longest sentence she’d heard from him in months. “What are you talking about?” She gently loosened his grip on her wrist and moved behind the wheel-chair. “The things you say. Me forgiving you?” she said, starting to push. “Silly boy, what have you ever done to me?”

“Hopefully nothing,” Steini said, pulling up his hood as Berta wheeled him outside.

Thórólfur frowned and leaned against the door to the makeshift office at the hotel. “We’ve made considerable progress. That’s all I can say for now.”

Thóra stood in the corridor facing him, her arms folded. She whispered to avoid being overheard by Jónas, who was waiting for them inside. He had asked Thóra to be present when Thórólfur called him in, but no sooner had they sat down than Thórólfur read him his rights, adding that as a suspect he did not have to answer the accusations against him. Now she was arguing with the officer in the corridor.

“You haven’t answered my question. Why is Jónas suddenly being treated as a suspect?” she asked. “What’s changed?”

Mirroring her stance, Thórólfur folded his arms, his face stern. “We have spoken to several witnesses, both yesterday and today. The picture they have painted doesn’t look good for your client.”

Thóra inhaled sharply. “Meaning what? Are you going to arrest him?”

“That depends on what he says during questioning.” Thórólfur shrugged. “Who knows, perhaps he can explain a few things.”

“A few things?” said Thóra. “Like what? He’s told you everything you need to know so far.”

“As I said, there were various developments yesterday and today, things we didn’t know last time we talked to him. And anyway, I haven’t found his explanations thus far at all satisfactory,” Thórólfur replied. “Shouldn’t we just get on with it? Then you’ll know what it is we want to ask him.”

“Give me two minutes alone with him,” she said. “I need to explain this change in his status to him.”

He didn’t like it, but he had to capitulate. Now that Jónas was a suspect, she had the right as his attorney to provide private counsel prior to an interrogation. The detective called his assistant out of the office, and Thóra went inside. She hurriedly sat down beside Jónas, who looked at her in confusion.

“What’s going on?” he asked anxiously. “Why did you leave?”

Thóra put her hand on his knee. “Jónas, things have changed,” she said. “Until now you’ve been questioned as a witness and been informed of your rights accordingly at the beginning of questioning. Now you’re a suspect.”

“What?” exclaimed Jónas, his voice cracking. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” she replied. “We don’t have much time, so let’s not waste it. Listen to me.” She looked him in the eye. “Thórólfur told me that various developments have occurred during questioning of witnesses, the outcome of which is that you’ve become a suspect.”

“What? I didn’t do anything, I told them that,” said Jónas, almost shouting. “They must be lying.” Thóra could feel his leg trembling.

“It’s possible the witnesses aren’t telling the truth, Jónas,” she said, tightening her grip on his knee in an attempt to steady him. “Now it’s vital that you explain your whereabouts and give convincing answers to Thórólfur’s questions. If he’s dissatisfied or unhappy with them inany way, you risk being arrested.”

Jónas’s leg stopped moving. He turned pale. “Arrested? What do you mean?”

“Arrested by the police, Jónas,” said Thóra. “You’ll be driven to the station in a police car, then appear before a judge tomorrow morning with the recommendation that you be detained in custody.” Thóra had only handled three cases involving short terms of custody, so she was not overly familiar with the process. Those cases had been quite trivial, but Thóra decided this was not the time to make Jónas aware of her inexperience.

“I can’t go to prison,” Jónas said, shuddering so expressively that Thóra didn’t doubt he meant it. “I just can’t. It’s Monday.”

Thóra raised her eyebrows. “Monday? Is that any worse than any other day?”

“No, no,” he said distractedly. “I just don’t want to get caught up in all this today. Monday is my unlucky day.”

Thóra interrupted him before he could begin rambling about stars and auras. “Listen carefully. We’ll let the police back in, and they’ll question you. Hopefully you have an explanation for everything they think proves your guilt, and if so, I promise that you’ll walk out of here with me.”

“What if I can’t?” Jónas asked, grabbing her hand. “What then?”

“Then we’ll just have to take things as they come,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. “Chin up, and try to act as normal as possible under the circumstances.” She stood up and walked over to the door. “Ready?” she asked, one hand on the doorknob. Jónas nodded, but he didn’t look ready.

“Um, I don’t know,” Jónas said, glancing nervously at Thóra, who was sitting beside him.

Thórólfur affected a look of exaggerated surprise. “Really? If you asked me whether I’d had sex with a beautiful young woman last Thursday, I wouldn’t have any trouble remembering. Maybe it’s a regular occurrence for you?”

Thóra groaned inwardly. “My client chooses not to answer that question,” she said impassively.

“All right,” said the detective. “We’ll be demanding a DNA sample, so the answer is immaterial.”

No DNA test was required to answer the question. Jónas sat rigidly by her side, guilt radiating from every pore. It was obvious to everyone that Jónas had had sex with the architect that day, which unfortunately was also the day she met her grisly end.

“Was semen found in Birna’s vagina?” asked Thóra. “I remind you that I must be presented with all the documentation if my client is taken into custody, because we would certainly appeal to the Supreme Court against any such order.” She heard Jónas let out a faint moan.

Thórólfur was holding a pencil, and he chewed on it while he thought it over. “I see no legal impediment to confirming that semen was found in the deceased’s vagina,” he said eventually.

“May I ask whether your investigation uncovered Birna’s relationship with a local farmer?” Thóra asked, hoping the police were unaware of it. “This semen could be his.”

“We know all about him,” Thórólfur said, and a peculiar look crossed his face.

“Really?” she said. “Shouldn’t you be questioning him rather than Jónas?”

“Oh, we are,” Thórólfur said, skillfully twirling the pencil between his fingers. “Irrespective of the outcome of his DNA test, we will need a sample from your client.”

“Why’s that?” Thóra asked. “If the semen turns out to be the farmer’s, it can hardly be Jónas’s.” Thórólfur smiled cruelly and the truth dawned on Thóra. “Was the semen from two different men?”

Thórólfur suddenly stopped playing with the pencil. “Perhaps,” he replied, after a short pause.

That was all Thóra needed to hear. Birna had had sex with two men on the day of her murder. Jónas was definitely one of them, and the other was either Bergur or the murderer, unless they were one and the same person. She could feel Jónas freezing up beside her, and knew enough about men to realize what was worrying him. She leaned over to him to murmur in his ear without the police hearing: “I’m sure you were first.” She had to stop Jónas getting any more nervous. She felt him relax a little. “Having sex with someone is not the same as killing them, is it?” she remarked to Thórólfur, adding, “Which is not to say that Jónas is admitting to anything of that sort at this stage in the proceedings.”

“No, not necessarily,” he replied. “But when the murder victim sustains external and internal genital trauma consistent with rape, it starts to look a little different, doesn’t it?”

Thóra chose not to respond. “Is there anything else you would like Jónas to clarify, or is it just the semen?”

“There’s more,” Thórólfur said. “Let’s discuss the text message sent to Birna from your mobile, Jónas. We have her phone and know what it says, when it was sent, and who sent it. Namely you. Can you explain why you sent her a message asking her to meet you at the spot where she ended up being killed? It would help if you could for example tell us where you were between nine and ten o’clock on the evening in question?”

Dismayed, Jónas turned to Thóra. She nodded quickly and blinked at him. “I can’t explain the message. I didn’t send it, so someone must have taken my phone. I went for a walk around seven and left my mobile behind. Someone must have stolen it while I was out.”

“Stolen, you say,” drawled Thórólfur sarcastically. “Someone ‘stole’ it and returned it afterward, then?”

“Well, yes,” replied Jónas hesitantly. “I don’t always carry it; I leave it lying around, so it wouldn’t be that difficult.” He rubbed his temple, his nerves frayed. “The hotel was packed. There was a séance. Anyone could have done it.”

“Strange that you mention that,” the detective mused. “That’s precisely the detail we were having difficulty with. As you say, the hotel was packed, yet no one recalls having seen you that evening. Where did your walk take you? Down to the beach?”

“No!” barked the hotelier, thumping the desk. “I went for a stroll, but first I walked down the drive to see if the contractor who was mending the drain had made any progress. Then I walked for maybe an hour afterward. When I got back, I dropped into my office and then went to my room. Someone must have seen me at the hotel. I wasn’t keeping a low profile. I got back just before ten, and the séance was still going on, if I remember correctly.”

“Nevertheless, no one admits to seeing you, either indoors or outside, at around that time. There was an interval between half past nine and ten. The séance guests were all over the hotel—some went out for a smoke; others bought coffee—but none of them saw you. Yet you say you came back around that time,” said Thórólfur. “But let’s change the subject. Last night another body was found in a stables nearby. Can you tell me where you were around dinnertime last night, Sunday?”

“Me? I was in Reykjavík,” said Jónas.

“When did you leave here?”

“I set off about two.” His voice was trembling slightly.

“And presumably you went via the tunnel?”

“Yes,” replied Jónas, before Thóra could stop him. There was something behind this line of questioning, and it disturbed her.

“Presumably in your own car?” Thórólfur persisted. He was smiling like the cat that got the cream.

“My client chooses not to answer the question,” Thóra quickly interjected. She put her hand on Jónas’s leg and squeezed it tight.

“All right,” said the detective, smiling wryly. “But we have established that you went to Reykjavík via the tunnel. Since it’s strictly forbidden to go through it on horseback, on foot, or on a bicycle, we have to infer that you were driving a motor vehicle of some description.”

“Yes, I went in my own car,” said Jónas foolishly, in spite of the pressure that Thóra was applying to his thigh. She couldn’t resist the temptation to dig her nails in to punish his stupidity. Jónas winced and gave Thóra a reproachful look, but she ignored him.

Thórólfur smiled even more widely. Then his face filled with scorn. He picked up some papers that were stapled together and slammed them down in front of the hotelier. “Here is a list of all the cars that drove through the Hvalfjördur Tunnel yesterday. Your car registration number isn’t among them.” He glared at Jónas. “How do you explain that?”

At last, Jónas had the presence of mind not to say anything. “My client chooses not to answer the question,” said Thóra. “I should make it clear that Jónas is very distraught at present, and what he said just now may have been a lapse of memory.”

“It was yesterday!” replied Thórólfur. When neither Thóra nor Jónas responded, he shrugged. “Be that as it may, let’s turn to another matter.”

Another? Thóra tried not to show the anguish she felt on Jónas’s behalf. Whatever else could they have against him?

“Then Jónas argued with Eiríkur, the one they found dead in the stables,” Thóra told Matthew. “Just before Eiríkur left the hotel. And what’s more, his bloodstream was full of sedatives. The same type that Jónas keeps on his bedside table.” She sighed. “The bastards had a search warrant.”

Matthew whistled. “So surely that means he’s guilty?”

“Damned if I know,” replied Thóra. “His fingerprints were found on Birna’s belt, and he definitely had sex with her the day she was murdered, although he refuses to admit it. Then he lied about going to Reykjavík yesterday.” She showed Matthew the list of car registrations. “They wrote down the number of every car that went through the tunnel. Some poor bugger spent the whole night watching the tape from the security camera. They left this list behind, so I took it.”

“Then what?” asked Matthew. “Where did they take him?”

“To Borgarnes,” Thóra replied. “He appears in the West Iceland District Court tomorrow morning. They’ll demand a custody order.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “And they’ll get one, unless the judge is drunk.”

“Is he likely to be?” Matthew asked, shocked.

“No, it’s just a figure of speech,” said Thóra, sitting up in the arm-

chair. “We can only hope, though.”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you what happened while you were gone,” Matthew suddenly announced. “I had a coffee at the bar, and when I was going through my pockets for some money, I found the medal I bought for you in Stykkishólmur. When I put it on the counter with the change, the man sitting next to me went berserk. It was the old guy, Magnús Baldvinsson.”

“Really?” Thóra was amazed. “What did he say?”

“No idea,” Matthew said. “It was in Icelandic, but he didn’t sound happy. In the end he picked up the medal and threw it down behind the bar. Then he stood up and walked away. The barman was speechless. He said Magnús was ranting about me provoking him. Then he gave me back the medal. He was as astonished as I was.”

“I bet he was,” said Thóra, who could hardly believe her ears. “Magnús also reacted very oddly when I asked him about the Nazis, didn’t he? It wasn’t the kind of reaction you’d expect in Iceland,” she explained. “Icelandic Nazism had hardly any following or impact, so even though everyone finds their politics repulsive, people don’t generally attack total strangers at the sight of Nazi memorabilia. Maybe we should talk to him again.” She reached for her mobile. “But not yet—right now, my number one priority is getting my kids back safely. It doesn’t look like I’ll be heading home myself any time soon.” She dialed her son’s number.

“Hello, Gylfi. It’s Mum. Having fun in Selfoss?”