My Soul to Take

CHAPTER 25

“You go first,” said Thóra, giving Matthew a gentle shove. “You can pretend to be a horse lover. They’ll believe that, what with you being German.” They were standing in the yard at Tunga hoping to meet Bergur, the farmer. To Thóra’s mind, he had to be the prime suspect in the murder of which Jónas was now accused. They had walked right up to the farmhouse, which seemed to have been built on the cheap. It looked like any other small detached house from the early 1970s, but in worse repair than most. Large blotches showed on the corrugatediron roof where the paint had flaked off, and there were rusty streaks down the dirty yellow walls wherever the steel reinforcing rods were exposed. “Go on, don’t be shy,” urged Thóra.

“You know it’s not that, my dearest,” replied Matthew, wrinkling his nose. “What’s that disgusting smell?” He looked around the yard.

“Isn’t it just a good old country smell?” Thóra inhaled deeply through her nose. “Unless that beached whale is upwind of us. Come on,” she said. “On second thought, I’ll do the talking. It’s probably best just to be honest about it.” She knocked on the weathered front door. On it was a wooden sign with the names of the occupants painted in flamboyant script: BERGUR AND RÓSA. Thóra hoped that the lady of the house wouldn’t answer. Their business was with Bergur, and Thóra didn’t even know if his wife was aware of his relationship with Birna. She didn’t want to be the bearer of news like that, and there would be no way to talk to Bergur without the subject cropping up. She crossed her fingers.

The door opened and a man in his thirties peered out. He was lean but well built, with broad shoulders and powerful biceps. Thóra couldeasily understand what Birna had seen in him—there was something very appealing about his strong features and dark curly hair.

“Hello,” she said. “Are you Bergur?”

“Yes,” the man replied warily.

Thóra smiled. “My name’s Thóra, and I’m a lawyer working for Jónas from the hotel. This is Matthew from Germany. He’s backing me up, so to speak.” Matthew nodded politely. “We wanted to have a quick word with you.” She looked him in the eye. “About Birna’s murder, and the other body that’s been found.”

Bergur glared at them. As Thóra had anticipated, he was far from happy to see them. “I’m not sure I have anything to say to you,” he said wearily. “I’ve been grilled endlessly by the police and I’m simply exhausted. Can’t you just read the witnesses’ statements? I’ve got nothing more to say.”

Thóra’s face fell. “Actually, I prefer to talk to people in person instead of reading their accounts. And the questions I need answered aren’t always asked.” She sighed lightly. “But if you don’t want to talk to us, maybe we’ll just contact your wife tomorrow. I presume she won’t be as tired as you are.”

Bergur hesitated. “She won’t want to talk to you any more than I do.”

“We’ll just have to find out, won’t we?” replied Thóra. “I’ll call her to explain my business. I’m sure she’ll want to see me.” That should do it, she thought, putting on her best poker face.

Bergur glanced back inside the house, then glowered at Thóra. He pretended not to notice Matthew. “All right,” he said grumpily. “I’ll talk to you, but not here. There’s a little coffee room in the stables where we can sit.” He reached behind the door, put on some shoes, and called loudly, “Rósa! I’m going out.” Then he shut the door behind him without another word, even though his wife had shouted back something unintelligible. He set off in silence.

“These stables,” Thóra called after him as he strode ahead toward a fairly new, corrugated-iron-clad building, “are they where Eiríkur’s body was found?” When Bergur didn’t answer, Thóra rolled her eyes at Matthew—they weren’t making much progress. Then she pointed to her mouth to indicate that he should join in the conversation. He just smiled and shook his head.

They followed Bergur to a large door, which he threw open. “Come inside,” he said.

“Thanks,” Thóra said, amused by Matthew’s expression when the smell of horse dung hit them like a slap in the face. “That’s a nice horsey smell,” she said, out of earshot of Bergur, and winked at him. Matthew had clamped his mouth shut so tightly that it was impossible for him to smile, but his face relaxed a little when they reached the coffee room.

“You can sit here,” said Bergur, pointing to three hard chairs around an old kitchen table. He leaned against a little sink unit on which stood a dirty coffee cup and box that had contained rifle ammunition.

“Thank you,” Thóra said as she sat down. She could see Bergur’s lip curl as he watched Matthew dust off his chair before sitting. “I don’t know if you heard me ask just now,” she said, “but are these the stables where Eiríkur’s body was found?”

Bergur nodded. “Yes,” he said reluctantly.

“And it was you who discovered him, wasn’t it?” Thóra continued. When he nodded silently, she went on. “And you stumbled upon Birna’s body too. Isn’t that weird?” she said disingenuously.

Instead of answering, Bergur stared fixedly at her from beneath his heavy brow, until Thóra was forced to blink. Only then did he speak. “Are you trying to insinuate something?” he snapped. “If so, I’ll say the same to you as I said to the police—I had nothing to do with either of those deaths.”

“Murders,” she corrected him. “They were both murdered. Be that as it may, we know you were having an affair with Birna. So was everything going well?”

Bergur flushed, and Thóra was unsure if it was from anger or shame at discussing his infidelity with a stranger. When he spoke, his voice suggested the latter. “Things were just fine,” he said, thin-lipped.

“And did your wife know about it? What’s her name again?” said Thóra. “Rósa, that’s it. Did Rósa know?”

His blush deepened. “No,” he said. “She didn’t know, and I don’t think she’s heard about it yet. Not from me, anyway.”

“So it was just a fling?” asked Thóra. “I only ask because you kept it hidden from your wife.”

“It had become more than that,” Bergur replied, stung. “I was going to divorce Rósa. The time just wasn’t right.”

“I understand,” she said. “So there’s probably no point telling her now, given what’s happened?”

“That’s none of your business,” he cried, his face blazing now.

“No, you’re right,” agreed Thóra. Her chair creaked as she tried to make herself more comfortable. “I heard one thing about Birna today that strikes me as odd in light of what you’ve just said.” She fell silent, as if wondering whether to let Bergur in on the secret.

“What was it?” His curiosity was aroused.

“No, I’m sure it wasn’t true,” said Thóra, and started examining her fingernails. Then she looked up. “Okay. The day Birna was murdered, she had sex with two men. You, I presume, and someone else—perhaps the murderer, perhaps not. Is it possible your relationship was just a bit of fun for her?”

Bergur drew himself up to his full height and took a deep breath. “I don’t know where you got your information from, but I was told that she’d been raped. You don’t have to be a genius to conclude that the second time was against her will,” he yelled.

“So you’re saying you were one of the two?” asked Thóra.

Bergur sagged back against the sink. “Yes,” he said. “It was fully consensual and hours before she died. We were together in the afternoon, and she was murdered that evening.”

Thóra paused, thinking. “Who do you think murdered Birna?” she asked. “You were close; you must have wondered.”

“Jónas,” he snarled. “Who else?”

Thóra shrugged. “He says he’s innocent. Just like you,” she said. “And why would he want her dead? She was working on a project that meant a lot to him. Without her it’ll all fall apart, or at least be seriously delayed. I understand that he’d come to terms with breaking up with her, so he could hardly have been jealous, could he?”

“They were never really together,” said Bergur angrily. “They were having sex, but it was never a relationship.” He paused to catch his breath. “But he missed her terribly, and it’s not true that he’d recovered from the rejection.”

“How do you know?” she asked.

“Birna told me,” said Bergur petulantly. “He was still chasing after her. That’s why she stopped using her hotel room as a studio. He wouldn’t leave her alone and she was unable to get any work done.”

Thóra was agog. “So where did she work?” she asked. “Presumably somewhere close by.”

Bergur could obviously tell that Thóra’s interest was aroused and he took pleasure in drawing out his reply. “She moved over to Kreppa,” he said eventually. “The farm belongs to the hotel, but it’s deserted. She moved her stuff in there.”

“I know the farm,” Thóra replied. “I’ve even been inside, but I saw no evidence that anyone had worked there recently,” she said dubiously. “Do you know which room she used?”

“It was one of the upstairs rooms,” he said, without elaborating.

“I see,” she said, determined to revisit the farm at the first opportunity. Some of Birna’s belongings must still be there, hopefully something that could shed light on her death, although that might be wishful thinking. “Tell me something,” she said. “Do you know the history of the two farms, Kreppa and Kirkjustétt?”

Bergur shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m from the West Fjords. I didn’t move here until I was about twenty.”

“You never heard mention of a fire at Kirkjustétt?” she asked hopefully, although she knew it was unlikely.

“No, never,” said Bergur. “Apparently the farms are still in their original condition, so there could only have been a fire there if it happened just after they were built and the damage was repaired immediately. I doubt that, though, because Birna was fascinated by those two farms and she never mentioned it to me.”

“Did she discuss their history with you?” asked Thóra. “And did she ever mention Nazis in connection with them?”

Bergur looked startled. “Actually, she did,” he said. “We didn’t talk about it much, but she once asked me if I knew anything about Nazis in the area sometime in the past. Of course I knew nothing, but when I asked her what she meant, she changed the subject and said it didn’t matter. Odd that you should mention it too. I’d forgotten all about it.”

“What about Kristín?” she asked. “Did she ever mention the name Kristín?”

Bergur gave a hollow laugh. “Show me the Icelander who’s never spoken the name Kristín at some time in his life.” He stopped smiling. “But no, I have no particular recollection of her mentioning that name.”

“All right,” Thóra said. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you about Eiríkur, the aura reader.” Not waiting for his response, she went on, “Did you know each other?”

“No,” Bergur replied. “I knew who he was. That was all. I never spoke to him.”

“Can you tell me how you found his body?”

“Don’t you want to see for yourselves?”

Thóra and Matthew stood up and followed him back into the main part of the stables. Accustomed to the smell, Thóra put on a brave face, but Matthew grimaced at her as they left the coffee room. They went up to one of the stalls, which had higher partitions than the others.

“He was in here,” Bergur said, his face pale now. “The stallion was in the stall too, and it had trampled him to death. That’s how it looked to me at least.” He opened the gate to the stall. “The horse isn’t in there now.”

Thóra peered in. There was not much to see now that the floor had been cleared. “Presumably the police have investigated the scene thoroughly?” she asked.

“Yes, they spent the whole night here,” he replied. “It wasn’t a pretty sight.”

“I bet it wasn’t,” Thóra said. “What were you coming in here for?”

“I have to feed them,” he answered brusquely. “Unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately?” she repeated. “What do you mean?”

“I wish I’d never seen it. It was horrible,” the farmer said frankly. “It was an awful sight. The fox, the needles, the blood . . . and that poor man.”

“The fox?” Thóra asked. “There was a fox in here?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Tied to the man’s chest. At first I thought it was a wig; then I realized. I stood here unable to move for ages. I just couldn’t stop staring.” He closed the gate to the stall.

“Why would anyone tie a fox to their chest, or to someone else’s?” Thóra speculated. “Do foxes have any special significance in this part of the country?”

“Not that I know of,” Bergur replied. “I have no idea what it was supposed to mean. Perhaps it was just to make it worse for the poor guy. The smell of the fox was disgusting. It had been dead much longer than he had.”

Thóra nodded, deep in thought. She couldn’t think of a logical explanation. “But what was that about needles? Had the man been injecting himself?” This might explain Thórólfur’s bizarre questions about acupuncture and sewing sets.

Bergur frowned, clearly not enjoying the recollection. He swallowed loudly before speaking. “Pins had been stuck into the soles of his feet.” He hesitated before adding, “The same had been done to Birna.” He shuddered, then continued, “Whoever did that was some kind of monster.”

“Pins?” Thóra asked in astonishment. “Sewing pins?”

“Yes.” Bergur bit his lip. “I’d prefer not to discuss it. I don’t like to think about it too much.”

Thóra let the matter rest, so astounded that she had no idea what to ask next. Why would anyone stick pins into someone’s feet before murdering them? Could Birna and Eiríkur have been tortured to extract information? Thóra abandoned her speculations and changed the subject. “May I ask if you can account for your whereabouts at the time the police think Birna and Eiríkur were murdered?”

“Yes and no,” Bergur said. “I can account for my whereabouts, but I generally go off by myself, so no one can back me up except my wife.” He looked defiantly at Thóra, as if daring her to contradict him. She couldn’t, and thought him much smarter than Jónas, who had fabricated an alibi that was easy to disprove. “She’d never lie to the police,” he added dryly, as if that were a great failing.

“One more thing,” Thóra said quickly. “What does ‘RER’ mean?”

Bergur opened the gate to the stall. “I don’t have a clue what it stands for.” He pointed to the wall. “Eiríkur scratched it on the corrugated iron before he died.”

Thóra went back inside with Matthew in pursuit. After she’d explained what Bergur had been saying, they bent down for a closer look at the scrawling. Matthew took out his mobile to photograph it.

“RER,” Thóra said, following him back out. “Reb?” she said. “ ‘Rebbi’ is a nickname for a fox. Could he have tried to write ‘Rebbi’? That first R could just as easily be a B.”

Bergur shrugged. “I told you—I have no idea.” He closed the stall. “I’ve got to get back indoors. Are we done?”

There was a creak as the stable door opened. A woman of about Bergur’s age came in tentatively. Thóra was struck by her appearance. She wasn’t ugly, but there was something about her posture and clothing that made her look very unattractive. Her hair was lank and colorless, tied back with a band that had seen better days. There was not a speck of mascara on her stubby eyelashes. She was the kind of woman you’d have trouble describing five minutes after she’d left the room, and she looked like she knew it. From her expression, she wanted the earth to swallow her. Thóra tried to send her a smile of encouragement as she hesitated at the open door.

The woman cleared her throat, then said softly, “Are you coming?” She directed her words at Bergur, as if she hadn’t even noticed Thóra and Matthew.

“Yes,” said Bergur, without a hint of warmth in his voice. “You go in. I’m coming.”

“Well, then,” Thóra said breezily. “We should be leaving.” She turned to Bergur. “Thank you. It was good to have the opportunity to see the murder scene.” She turned to the woman she assumed was Rósa. “Your husband was good enough to show us the stall where the body was found. I’m a lawyer, involved in the case on behalf of a client.”

Rósa nodded, without interest. “Hello, I’m Rósa.” She did not offer her hand to shake. Her eyes lingered on Thóra for only a fraction of a second before she turned back to her husband. “Are you coming?” she repeated. Bergur said nothing.

Thóra tried to defuse the tension with a final question, one she was glad Matthew couldn’t understand. “Last question, I promise,” she said. “I saw a young man in a wheelchair outside the hotel. I think he’s local. Do you happen to know how he was injured?” Bergur and Rósa stared at her, frozen to the spot. “You know, the one who’s badly burned?” she clarified. She didn’t need to say anything else, because the stream of curses Rósa suddenly unleashed left no doubt that she knew who Thóra meant. Thóra looked on, speechless, as Bergur grabbed his wife by the arm and led her away.

Matthew put his hand on her shoulder. “I can’t tell you how badly I want to get out of this foul-smelling place, but I’m not leaving until you tell me what the hell you said to that poor woman.”

Magnús Baldvinsson smiled to himself. Old and tired though he was, he still had moments when he felt young again. This was one of those moments. He dialed the number and waited cheerfully for his wife to answer, took a good sip of the cognac he had bought at the bar and relished the warmth of the golden liquid before swallowing. “Hello, Frída,” he said. “It’s over.”

“What?” she said. “Are you coming home? What’s happened?”

“The police have arrested a man for Birna’s murder,” Magnús answered, lifting his glass and swirling the brandy in front of his eyes. “You can tell Baldvin to come and fetch me whenever it’s convenient.”

“He’s out east preparing for the party conference. I don’t think he’s expected home until late tonight,” said his wife, her voice tinged with fear. “Do you want me to ask someone else to drive over and get you?”

“No, don’t worry,” said Magnús jovially. The familiar glow of pride in his grandson added to his joy that the tension and fear of the past few days was finally over. “I enjoy driving with him, so I can wait. Also, I want to hear all about the conference.”

“He’s been asking after you constantly since he drove you out there,” she said. “He’ll be glad to have you back home.” There was a short silence before she added, with a mixture of suspicion and apprehension, “Are you two up to something?”

“No, of course not,” said Magnús firmly. “Well, I’d better go. Tell Baldvin to come when it suits him. I’ll be here.”

They exchanged farewells and Magnús hung up. He let his hand rest on the receiver for a while. He didn’t know whether it was the alcohol or the sight of his wrinkled, clawlike hand, but something had dragged him back into the real world, and he felt like an old man again. To his astonishment, he felt a tear run down his lined face, and he watched it drop onto his trouser leg. Staring at the stain, he was overcome with guilt and misery.

Oh, Kristín.

Thóra rubbed her eyes. “I don’t know how much this helps, but I was right—the verse on Grímur Thórólfsson’s gravestone is from The Sayings of the High One,” she said as she leaned back in her chair from the computer. She beamed proudly at Matthew until she realized that he had no idea what she was talking about. “The Sayings of the High One are proverbs of wisdom, attributed to the god Odin. A lot of their advice is still very relevant.” Thóra recognized the lack of interest on Matthew’s face from her own schooldays, the first time she learned about The Sayings. “Anyway,” she went on. “It says here that the verse describes how bad people feel when they are dependent on others.”

“Which doesn’t really tell us anything,” said Matthew. “Everyone knows that.”

“Actually, I think it tells us a lot,” she argued. “For example, it was obviously carved on to Grímur’s gravestone for a good reason. It wasn’t chosen at random.”

She turned back to the screen and searched for the verse they’d found on the rock behind the hotel. The results were less productive; all she found was a reference to Jón Árnason’s nineteenth-century folktale collection on a page about the practice of abandoning children outside, and although she tried several times, she couldn’t locate the poem itself.

“That verse is connected with the abandoning of infants,” she told Matthew. “It says here that the cries of unbaptized babies who were left outside to die of exposure can be heard when the wind blows in the place where they died. Also that the ghosts of these babies can move around by lifting themselves on to one knee and dragging themselves along by one hand.” She looked up at Matthew. “Was that what you saw out of the window?” He shot her an evil look, and Thóra turned back to the computer, grinning. “The next time you see one, make sure it doesn’t manage to crawl three circles around you, because you’ll go mad. You should try to chase it away. Then it’ll go off and eventually find its mother.” She looked back at Matthew, smiling innocently.

“Very funny,” he said grumpily. “I wasn’t joking—I definitely heard it.”

“I need to get hold of a copy of those folktales and look through them.” Thóra yawned. “But that can wait.”

“No, there’s no rush,” said Matthew. “I have a feeling it won’t get you any closer to catching the murderer.”

“You never know,” she said, entering the details for her final search—for information on the tuberculosis epidemic in Iceland. Very few pages came up, and she browsed through them. “What rotten luck,” she said. “TB drugs came on the market in 1946. A year after Gudný died.” After reading a little more, she logged out and stood up. “I can understand why neither Gudný nor her father wanted to go to a sanatarium. According to what I just read, the attempts to treat or cure TB were very unappealing. Collapsing one lung, removing several ribs, stuff that did no good and in many cases left the patients severely disabled.”

Matthew tapped on her shoulder. “This is all fascinating, but I think you ought to look around and see who just walked in.”

Thóra looked over toward the lobby, but averted her gaze immediately. “What does she want? Do you think she saw me?”

“Maybe she’s come to beat you up,” he whispered in her ear. “But if it’s any consolation, my money’s on you.”

Without answering, Thóra stole another glance. She watched Jökull, the waiter and groundsman, walk over to where Bergur’s wife was hesitating at the reception desk. He was wearing an anorak and outdoor shoes, and hugged Rósa fondly before they left the building together. Neither seemed to notice Thóra or Matthew.

Thóra turned to him. “How on earth do they know each other?”