My Soul to Take

CHAPTER 5

As the police car pulled slowly out of the drive, Jónas felt that the officers had done all they could to prolong their visit. They must have known that the sooner they left, the fewer visitors would have noticed them. He heaved a sigh of relief when the car finally disappeared from sight, praying they would not need to come back. He knew his prayers wouldn’t be answered. They had sealed off Birna’s room, after a quick look inside to check she wasn’t there, and ordered Jónas to make sure that no one went in until it had been searched. Clearly Jónas had not seen the last of them.

His only hope was that the dead woman would turn out not to be Birna, but that was wishful thinking. Before leaving the scene, the police officers had asked Jónas to point out her car in the car park. It was a dark blue Audi Sport, which she had recently bought, and was parked at the very end of the car park. Birna always parked as far away from other cars as possible, to reduce the likelihood of careless drivers opening their doors and scratching her pride and joy. The policemen had walked up to the car, and one of them had produced a little plastic bag from his pocket. Without opening the bag, he had pointed it at the car and squeezed its contents. The sports car had beeped and flashed. The police officers exchanged meaningful looks.

Jónas sighed. It was a very uncomfortable situation. Should he allow himself to grieve? He had liked Birna despite her flaws, and if he was honest with himself, he had been rather more than fond of her, although his affection had not been reciprocated. Should he feel aggrieved? This was a major setback for his plans to expand the hotel. Should he tell the staff or act as though nothing had happened? The police hadn’t advised him either way. He had to be careful, because many people would undoubtedly scrutinize his reaction and interpret it to fit whatever stories were circulating. It was a small place and his staff were not known for their discretion. He sighed again. Perhaps the police would rule it an accident, but nothing in their behavior suggested that.

Jónas turned and went inside. He hurried past reception to avoid being stopped by anyone. His ploy worked, but it was obvious just looking at Kata, propped up against the reception desk, that she was burning to know what the police had said. The beautician opened her mouth as soon as Jónas entered the building, but when he looked down and quickened his pace, she closed it again. She and Vigdís, the receptionist, watched despondently as he rushed past without saying a word. It wouldn’t last long—in the end curiosity would get the better of them, even if they had to chase him down the corridor—but so far so good, Jónas thought, as he hurried into his office and closed the door behind him. He sat down, brooding. Maybe some good would come of this. Was there a chance that this tragedy could be spun in favor of the hotel, and Jónas himself? He picked up the telephone and dialed a number. Thóra sat sheepishly on the edge of her bed. Birna’s diary rested in her lap. She had not decided what to do with it, whether to sneak it back into Birna’s room or whether she could plant it somewhere without arousing suspicion. Should she get rid of the book immediately or wait until she had read it? Her cheeks burned when she thought that Birna might well still be alive. What had she been thinking? Was she so bored by her postbox-obsessed clients and all the other nitpickers that she was starting to make more exciting cases out of nothing? She had come here to dissuade a half-crazy hotel owner from pointless litigation, not to become embroiled in a police investigation that was none of her business. The telephone rang and she reached for it, welcoming the distraction.

“Could you pop in and see me?” Jónas said cryptically. “Something unexpected has cropped up and it might be connected with the hauntings.”

“What is it?” asked Thóra, intrigued.

“I’ll explain when you come, but I think Birna, the architect, is dead and—”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Thóra interrupted him, and hung up.

Well, well. She turned from the telephone to look back at the diary. In a way she was relieved: at least she had not stolen the diary from a living person. She opened the book with her sleeve and flicked through the pages using the edge of her thumb. It was certainly an unusual diary. Instead of containing a few notes, each page was densely packed with small, tight handwriting. There were a lot of sketches of houses, buildings, and design details. Some of the sketches seemed to be rough doodles from Birna’s imagination; others looked more likely to be real-life projects. One page per day had clearly not been enough for Birna, because she had filled the pages well into September—four months ahead.

Thóra looked at the last entries, hoping to find something along the lines of “Met X on the beach—must be careful,” but no such luck. The final two-page spread said, “Bergur’s birthday—mustn’t forget. Transfer money for April,” and listed a welter of names of companies that Thóra didn’t recognize. Beside each name was a telephone number with measurements in millimeters followed by prices in krónur. At the very end of each line was a string of different abbreviations that she couldn’t fathom: “B., W., R., G., S., etc.” At the top of the page, she had written “Cladding,” underlined. Birna had apparently been seeking information about different types of cladding and had marked a cross against the line showing one of the lowest prices. Since the cladding could not be connected with the woman’s death, a rather frustrated Thóra flicked back to the preceding pages. There was a plan showing, as far as Thóra could tell, the area surrounding the hotel and the location of the new building. The main measurements and distances had been written in, and an ornate arrow pointed north. Around the drawing were comments by Birna, mainly concerning the slope of the land and light conditions, but one aroused Thóra’s interest in particular: “What’s wrong with this spot??? Old plans???” Just beneath, written with another pen, it said, “Keens,” also followed by three question marks. She was none the wiser. A detailed sketch of a swastika amid a list of everyday objects on the following page did not help. If the notebook was anything to go by, Birna had definitely not been your average woman.

Although Thóra would have liked to read the diary from cover to cover, she had to go to see Jónas. He knew she had nothing better to do, so it would be hard to explain being late. All the same, she flicked back until she found another, similar drawing. This showed the floor plan of a house, two adjacent rectangles divided up into rooms. A staircase was shown in the same place on both, so it must be a two-story house. The rooms were clearly marked: two living rooms, kitchen, study, bedroom, toilet, and so on. Various comments filled the margins, such as “Built in 1920? Rising damp in SW wall. Foundations?” Birna had also written down a question that must have been plaguing her, because she had drawn a crosshatched box around it: “Who was Kristín?” Thóra looked at the floor plan. One of the rooms on the upper floor was marked “Bedroom” like the other two, but beneath it was written in smaller letters, “Kristín?” Thóra scanned the two pages in search of any indication that the drawing showed one of the local houses, and saw that the top of the left-hand page was marked “Kreppa,” the name of one of the farms. She closed the diary and slid it inside her suitcase. The cleaners would hardly start rummaging around in there.

Jónas seemed worried, and not his usual expansive self. He offered Thóra one of the two uncomfortable seats in front of his desk, then threw himself down in an upholstered leather chair behind it. No herbal tea was offered, much to Thóra’s relief.

“What did the police want, Jónas?” Thóra asked, to break the ice.

Jónas groaned. “Does everyone know they were here?”

“Well, I can’t answer for everybody, but a lot of people know besides me. Most people know a policeman when they see one,” replied Thóra. “What did they want?”

Jónas groaned again, louder than before. From under his sleeve he pulled down a steel bracelet set with a large brown stone, which he rubbed absentmindedly as he answered her question. “They found a body on the beach, the body of a woman they believe to be Birna, the architect I told you about yesterday.” He closed his eyes, still slowly rubbing the bracelet.

“Ah,” said Thóra. “Did they mention the cause of death? There can be many reasons for people being found dead on a beach. More often than not it’s suicide.”

“I don’t think she committed suicide,” Jónas said morosely. “She wasn’t the type.”

Thóra didn’t like to point out that there was no particular type that took their own lives. “What did the police say? That’s the most important thing. Presumably they’ve visited the scene?”

Jónas tore his attention away from his bracelet and looked at Thóra. “They said nothing specific. It was more the way they acted and what they didn’t say.” He looked back at his wrist. “If she’d drowned, for example, fallen on to a rock, something that suggested an accident, they would definitely have asked me about her behavior. You know—did she do a lot of hiking? Kayaking? Swimming in the sea? But they asked me nothing. All they wanted to know was whether anything was missing from here and whether I recognized her from the very rough description they gave.” Jónas suddenly stared at Thóra. “Now that I think of it, it was extremely strange that they made no mention of her facial features. Do you suppose the head was missing?” Before Thóra could answer, he corrected himself: “No, hardly, they described the hair color.” His eyes widened. “Could it be that the killer cut the head off, scalped it, and put the hair on top of the body?”

Thóra put an end to his conjecture. “I think you’re letting your imagination run away with you. But I do agree that it sounds as if they suspect it was something more than an accident.” Casually, she added, “Did the police examine her room?”

“One of them took a look inside. The other waited outside in the corridor with me. He was only in there for a minute or two. Then when he came out again, he just shook his head.”

“So he didn’t say that any unauthorized person had been in there or ask you who had a key?” Thóra’s cheeks flushed slightly.

“No, nothing like that. They absolutely forbade anyone to enter until the CID had finished its work. Then they asked to see her car. They had the key in a little bag.”

Thóra nodded thoughtfully. There was really no question of the dead woman’s identity. “Well, I never.” Looking at Jónas, she suppressed the urge to ask him to stop fiddling with the damn bracelet. It probably had some connection with alternative medicine, energy fields or something. “Did anyone want Birna dead? Was she in some kind of trouble?”

Jónas shook his head slowly. “No, she was just normal.” Thóra couldn’t imagine what he considered normal, but assumed that his criteria were different from hers. “A great person and a brilliant architect.” Jónas smiled awkwardly. “Actually, she was a true Capricorn, consistent and committed. But a lovely person. A genuinely lovely person.”

“Didn’t anyone really dislike her?” Thóra asked. “Can’t you think of anyone who could have got into a dispute with her, something that could have got out of hand?”

Jónas pushed his bracelet back under his sleeve and gave Thóra his undivided attention. “Listen, I was wondering if it might be connected with the ghost.”

Thóra managed not to smile. “Are you implying that a ghost murdered her?” Jónas shrugged, then waved his hands. “What do I know? It seems like more than a coincidence. This place is haunted. Birna is found dead just outside. She was working on modifying the premises. Ghosts want to keep their surroundings the same as when they left them. They fight with all their powers against any kind of disruption. What are you supposed to believe?”

Not a paranormal enthusiast, Thóra had never heard much about the behavior of spirits. “Jónas, I think we can rule out involvement by a ghost.”

“Are you sure?” the hotelier asked. “Birna was very curious about the history of this place. She felt that she had to find out about it, because without that knowledge it was hard for her to get a feel for the site. We can’t rule out her stirring up the angry spirit of a deceased inhabitant, which cost her her life. Maybe not directly, but perhaps indirectly.” He went on, seeing that Thóra was lost for words. “There might not be a direct connection, but the situation now is this: this place is haunted, and the sellers concealed that fact. A woman has met a tragic death—perhaps because of something connected with the ghost. That will be difficult to rule out, because it can always be claimed that the murderer was governed by forces from beyond. Are you with me?”

Thóra could only shake her head.

“Yes, don’t you see? You tell the sellers that a woman has died here and there are stories that a ghost has played a major role. The whole business will be brought up in court. My feeling is that those people wouldn’t care to be linked to a murder, if only indirectly. Would you like to be a witness in a murder case in which the defense implied that you had kept quiet about information that led to such an atrocity?” Jónas shook his head on Thóra’s behalf. “No, you wouldn’t care for that. Nor would they. That might persuade them to negotiate compensation terms.”

Thóra interrupted him. “What difference would it make if you won compensation? You’re stuck with the hotel. Presumably you don’t want to break the contract at this stage? If you’re serious about this ghost, I doubt whether you can bribe it to leave.”

Jónas smiled. “Of course I can’t. But I imagine I’ll have to raise my staff’s wages so that they don’t all quit. They are spiritual people, sensitive toward supernatural matters. Some of them have already dropped hints about leaving. My business plan would be ruined and the small profit I was hoping for might easily be wiped out. Guests at places like this are sensitive too. They don’t seek the company of beings from beyond, especially not if it could cost them their lives.”

Thóra needed a while to digest this. She had no desire to force people to strike a deal by making absurd threats about linking their names to a murder, but Jónas’s claims about his staff were a concrete contribution. “Let me think it over.” She was about to stand up, then decided to stay put. “Actually, you still have to tell me all about this ghost. How exactly does it manifest itself?”

Jónas sighed. “Gosh, I don’t know where to begin.”

“At the beginning, perhaps,” suggested Thóra, a little irritated.

“Yes, that’s probably best,” agreed Jónas, brushing off Thóra’s slight. “As I told you, most of the staff here are more sensitive than ordinary people.”

Thóra nodded.

“They started sensing an uncomfortable presence. If I remember correctly, it was the aura reader—his name’s Eiríkur—who first noticed it. Then others became aware of it gradually. I brought up the rear, really. At first I thought it was just their imaginations.” Jónas regarded Thóra gravely. “It’s almost impossible to describe it to anyone who can’t sense these things, but I can tell you it’s by no means a pleasant feeling. Probably the best analogy is when you feel you’re being watched. As if someone’s sitting watching you from a dark corner. That’s the way I’ve felt, anyway.”

His story only strengthened Thóra’s conviction that this was a case of mass hysteria. One person had started a vague story and others had joined in until what they imagined had become a fact. “Jónas,” she said firmly, “you have to do better than this. Your claim is absolutely no use to me—I can’t face the sellers of this property and repeat what you’ve just said. We need something tangible. It’s not enough to say you get the occasional shiver down your spine.”

Jónas looked shocked. “It’s so much more than that. You can ignore a shiver; this feeling lasts. Oppressive may be the best word for it. Almost all of us have heard crying in the middle of the night, an infant crying.” Suddenly he became boastful. “And I’ve seen a fully fledged ghost. More than once, as it happens. Its presence has become more intense recently.”

“And where have you seen this ghost?” Thóra asked skeptically.

“Outdoors mainly. Outside here.” Jónas gestured toward the window behind him without looking around. “I can’t describe exactly where the ghost was; I’ve only seen it in the fog. Some ghosts appear in certain weather conditions and this one comes when it’s foggy.”

“So presumably you can’t describe it in detail?” Thóra asked.

“No, not really. Except that I know it’s a girl or a woman. The being was far too slight to be a male.” Jónas leaned back in his seat. “I also saw it appear in my mirror. There was no question that it was a girl. It happened quite quickly, but all the same …”

“You said you recognized the girl from a photograph you found. Surely it didn’t happen so quickly that you couldn’t manage to commit her features to memory?”

“Well, I don’t know how to describe it. I was brushing my teeth and I heard a rustling noise. I stood upright and watched in the mirror as the being darted past the door. My subconscious obviously managed to capture the features although I can hardly describe them, but I recognized the face from one of the photos.” Jónas opened a drawer in his desk and started rummaging while he continued his account. “I couldn’t even hold the photo after that. I threw it back in the box and closed it. You wouldn’t have any trouble examining it, but I simply can’t.”

“I doubt it would have much effect on me,” Thóra said, smiling reassuringly. “I’d like to discuss this with some of your staff. This aura reader, Eiríkur, for example.”

“No problem. He’s not here at the moment, but he’ll be back tomorrow, I think.” At last Jónas found what he was looking for in the drawer. He handed Thóra a heavy key on a large steel ring. “This is the key to the old basement. The boxes I told you about are down there. Take a look—there are some interesting things that might explain the hauntings.”

Thóra took the key. “If memory serves, the old farm was called Kreppa, wasn’t it?” she asked innocently.

Jónas looked surprised. “Yes, that’s right. Originally there were two farms that were merged. One was called Kreppa, the other Kirkjustétt.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Birna spent a long time there on the planned development.”

“Really? Why?” Thóra asked, even more curious. “Is the old farm-house still intact?”

“Yes, it’s still there. Originally we planned to renovate there the same as we did here, but Birna was against it. She thought the two buildings were too far apart. The walk between the two properties is not all that long, but they’re not connected by a direct road so the drive between them would hamper joint operation of various services, such as housekeeping. In addition she found the farmhouse at Kreppa to be too dilapidated to make rehabilitation cost effective. You can look at it tomorrow if you want. The keys are under a stone by the entrance. It’s quite interesting inside, because it’s still fully furnished in the old style.”

“How come?” asked Thóra. “There were no tenants on the land when the sale was agreed.”

“I have no idea,” Jónas replied. “Some of that old stuff might have been removed now, as it happens, because the sister … um …” Jónas racked his brains for the woman’s name. He twirled one index finger in the air as he thought about it.

“You mean Elín Thórdardóttir? The one who sold you the land?” suggested Thóra.

“Yes, that’s her,” Jónas said. His finger stopped mid-twirl. “Elín, the sister! She phoned me a couple of months ago and told me they were finally going to do something about taking that stuff away. I was in the city, so I didn’t talk to her myself; I just got a message through Vigdís at reception. Her daughter came a while later and was told where to find the key. It was probably a good thing that neither of them met me, because I would probably have fired off a comment or two about that ghost.”

Thóra was sick of talking about ghosts. “When did it turn out that they wanted those boxes of junk?” she asked. “I don’t remember any mention of that when the sale was going through.”

“Oh, it was verbal,” Jónas said. “They discussed it with me and I told them just to pick it up whenever they wanted.” Then he added self-importantly, “I told them they ought to get a move on, in case I either wanted to use the house or demolish it.”

Thóra nodded. “I might take a look over there while I’m here. Who knows, I might even bump into Elín or her brother.” She glanced at her watch. “I think I’ll wait until morning before I go through the boxes. It’s far too late now.”

Jónas agreed. “It’s not the sort of stuff you want to look at before bedtime, I can tell you.” He grinned mischievously. “Whether you be lieve in ghosts or not.”

The bed was the comfiest Thóra had ever slept in. She yawned and stretched, determined to enjoy her sleep to the utmost. The thick feather pillow supported her neck perfectly, and she made a mental note to ask Jónas where he bought his bedding. Reaching over for the remote on her bedside table, she switched off the television. She felt sleep descending upon her the moment she closed her eyes, and soon her breathing had become regular as she drifted into a dream. She did not even stir when an infant’s soft crying wafted in through the open window.