Thóra had entered the room first and couldn’t see the girl’s face as she said this. She couldn’t tell if she was serious, but the tone of her voice suggested that she was. Thóra looked around the beautiful room and walked over to a wall of glass overlooking the ocean. Outside was a small terrace.
“Bad in what way?” she asked, turning to look at the girl. The view implied quite the opposite; the waves glistened beyond an empty, peaceful beach.
The girl shrugged. “Just bad. This has always been a bad place. Everyone knows that.”
Thóra raised her eyebrows. “Does everyone know that? Who’s ‘everyone?’” If the place had a bad reputation that the sellers knew about but had neglected to mention, it might provide some flimsy grounds for a compensation case.
The girl looked at her with the scorn only a teenager can muster. “Everyone, of course. Everyone here, anyway.”
Thóra smiled to herself. She didn’t know the population of the southern coast of Snæfellsnes, but knew that the word “everyone” could not cover many people. “And what is it that everyone knows?”
Suddenly the girl became evasive. She thrust her hands into the pockets of her far-too-large jeans and looked down at her toes. “I’ve got to go. I shouldn’t be talking to you about this.” She spun around and walked out into the corridor. “Maybe later.” In the doorway she stopped and looked imploringly at Thóra. “Don’t tell Jónas I’ve been gossiping about this. He doesn’t like me talking to the guests too much.” She rubbed her left hand between the thumb and index finger. “If I want to be able to find work, I need a reference. I want to work at a hotel in Reykjavík.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not an ordinary guest. I’ll tell Jónas that you’ve been particularly helpful and ask his permission to talk to you properly when things are quieter. Jónas asked me to come here to investigate various matters. I think you can help me, and that would help him too.” Thóra looked at the girl, who glared at her suspiciously. “What’s your name, anyway?”
“Sóldís,” the girl replied. She stood in the doorway for a moment, as if unsure what to do, then smiled weakly, said goodbye and left.
BERGUR KETILSSON WALKED AT A LEISURELY PACE, EVEN THOUGH he knew that his wife was waiting for him at home with his nightly coffee. He preferred to spend the evening alone in the great outdoors rather than sitting at home with her in oppressive silence and fake marital bliss. He groaned at the thought. They had been married for twenty years, on reasonably good terms, but there had never been much passion between them, not even during their short courtship. They weren’t that way inclined, or at least she wasn’t. He had only recently discovered that side to his character—a little late to realize it, at forty. Life would doubtless have treated him differently had he found out before he married Rósa, the albatross around his neck. Perhaps he would have gone to Reykjavík to study instead. As a young man, he had taken delight in the Icelandic language, although he had never hinted at it to anyone. There was little to test the intellect of a lonely farmer. He scanned the eider nests mournfully. The recent cold snap had taken its toll on the ducklings. There would be fewer nests next year.
He walked on. In the distance he saw the hotel roof above the rocks on the beach. Silently he focused on it and tried to picture what went on inside, but he couldn’t imagine. He shrugged and continued on his way. As he was feeling depressed, he decided to take the longer route home, via the bay. This was not completely random, because he wanted to know how the hatching seabirds had fared during the cold spell. Quickening his pace, he trudged on, deep in thought. The hotel was behind the emotional crisis that had seized him. If it had not been built, he would have gone on with his life, reconciled to it, neither happy nor sad. He could never form a firm opinion about what went on there, as in its way it had brought him too much joy and too much confusion for him to be able to think logically about it. Spotting a nest, he approached it slowly. Two tiny ducklings were lying dead inside. The mother eider was nowhere to be seen, so perhaps the cold had killed her too.
In the bay, the story was the same. He saw a few chicks in the nests resting on each ledge. Perhaps that was some consolation. Next year the eider and the scavenging seabirds would still be evenly matched. Turning from the cliff, he headed toward the farm. He walked slowly, reluctant to arrive. Not even the stench from the beached whale upset him; it suited his mood. Bergur quickened his pace slightly. Perhaps he should rush home and tell Rósa that he had found another woman. More fun, cleverer, prettier, and younger too. A better woman than her in every way. For an instant, it seemed the right thing to do. He would give Rósa everything—the farm, the cattle, the horses, the eider colony. He would not have any use for them in his new, happy life. Then this dreamlike vision faded. Rósa could not run the farm by herself and would hardly rejoice at the news. She had never been particularly impressed by the countryside or the farm, greeting everything with the same flat expression bordering on indifference. The only thing that got a reaction out of her was the cat. The same went for their married life: she was never furious, never ecstatic. The strange thing was that he used to be exactly the same, but now he was a completely different man.
At the beachhead he stumbled and looked down in surprise. As a rule he was sure-footed and confident, with a knack for negotiating the rounded boulders and slippery seaweed. Looking down, he noticed something that he had never seen on the beach before among all the oddities that had washed up over the years. For a start, it was a much larger bed of seaweed than he had ever seen washed ashore in the bay. More important, a human arm could be seen through the seaweed. There was no doubt about that. The fingers were curled and twisted in a way that no doll or mannequin manufacturer would have wanted to reproduce. Bergur bent down and the acrid stench of blood filled his nose. He jumped back. The smell had probably escaped when he’d uncovered the soft, slimy seaweed with his foot, and the metallic smell of blood was so powerful that the stench from the rotting whale paled in comparison. Bergur put his arm over his nose and mouth to avoid inhaling the foul air.
He straightened up, since there was little he could do for the person under the seaweed. He could see the outline of a body under the weed, and patches of white flesh were showing through. Once he had discerned the shape of it, it was so obvious that he was amazed he hadn’t noticed it immediately. Since he never took his mobile with him, there wasn’t much he could do but rush home and call the police. Perhaps the coast guard should be called out as well. They would enjoy being involved. He breathed through the sleeve of his coat to stave off the smell of blood, then stiffened. He recognized the ring on the swollen finger.
Bergur fell to his knees. Oblivious to the smell, he grabbed the ice-cold hand to be certain. Yes, that was her ring. He moaned and began to tear the seaweed away from where he imagined the head to be, but stopped when he realized there was no face. He could tell from the corpse’s familiar hair that his dream of a happy new life was over.
THÓRA WAS TRYING TO UNWIND. LYING ON HER STOMACH, SHE made an effort to relax, or rather to concentrate on appearing relaxed, because she didn’t want the masseuse to think otherwise. The latter was a stringy, muscular woman, slightly younger than Thóra. She was wearing white canvas trousers, a pale green T-shirt, and orthopedic sandals on her feet. She had painted her toenails with light blue polish. Thóra did not make a habit of scrutinizing that part of people’s anatomy, but the toes kept appearing as she lay on the bench with her face positioned in a hole at one end.
The worst of it was over; the woman had stopped massaging and begun arranging hot stones in a row down her backbone. “Now you should feel how the energy from the stones flows through your back. It travels along the nerves and out into every part of you.” This speech was accompanied by soothing music from a CD the masseuse had told Thóra was on sale in reception. Thóra decided to look in at reception and find out the name of the group, to make sure she never bought one of their CDs by accident.
“Will it be much longer?”
Thóra asked hopefully. “I think the energy’s penetrated every single cell. I’m beginning to feel great.”
“What?” The masseuse was incredulous. “Are you sure? It’s supposed to take a lot longer.”
Thóra suppressed a groan. “Positive. It’s brilliant. I can tell I’m done.”
The masseuse began to protest, but stopped when a telephone rang somewhere inside the salon. “Just a minute,” she said to Thóra, and her toes disappeared.
“Hello,” Thóra heard her say. “I’ve got a client.” A long silence ensued. Then, in a much more agitated tone of voice, “What? Are you serious…? Jesus…I’m on my way.”
The masseuse hurried back in and began removing the stones from Thóra’s back. Thóra tried to conceal her relief by taking an interest in the telephone call. “Is anything wrong? Don’t worry about me; I’m all done, like I said.”
The woman was working quickly. “Something’s happened. Something terrible. Really terrible.”
Thóra propped herself up. “Really?” she asked, not needing to feign curiosity this time. “Is it something to do with the ghosts?”
An expression of horror spread across the woman’s face and she put her hand over her mouth. “Oh, I hadn’t thought of that. A body’s been found on the beach. Vigdís from reception thinks it’s someone from here, and the police have arrived to talk to Jónas.”
Thóra leaped naked from the bench and reached for a gown. She quickly pulled it on, never having been in the habit of going around nude in the company of strangers, although she was not ashamed of her body. “You get going—I’ll take care of myself.” She tightened the flannel belt around her waist and tied a knot. “Was it an accident?”
“I don’t know,” the masseuse said, shifting impatiently from one foot to the other. Clearly she was itching to go and find out more.
“I’ll get my things together and leave,” Thóra said, shooing the woman off. “I promise not to steal any stones.”
The woman didn’t need telling twice. She turned on her heel and rushed out into the corridor. Thóra went up to the screen she’d undressed behind and began putting her clothes back on. Her mobile rang in her bag and she fished it out. “Hello,” she said, trying to put on a sock with one hand. The connection was appalling and the line crackled.
“Hello, Thóra.” It was Matthew. “I’m still waiting for a reply to my e-mail.”
“Oh, yes,” Thóra said in German, abandoning her struggle with the sock. “I’m just about to answer.”
“Name the date. I’ll do the rest,” said Matthew. He clearly intended to come no matter what. “Give me the green light and I’ll be there.”
“It’s rather inconvenient at the moment,” Thóra answered reluctantly. “I’m working and something’s cropped up.”
“What has?” asked Matthew, clearly unconvinced. “Tell me.”
“Yes, well, it’s all rather peculiar,” Thóra said, racking her brain to remember the German word for “ghost.” “I’m working on a case connected with ghosts, but it seems as though it may be getting more complicated. The police have found a body and it may stir things up.”
“Where are you?” asked Matthew.
“Me?” Thóra replied foolishly. “I’m in the countryside.”
“Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be there tomorrow night.” His voice was solemn.
“Wait, it’s all right. Don’t come here,” Thóra gabbled. “There’s no murder, only a body.” She hesitated. “As far as I know, anyway.”
“I’ll look forward to seeing you tomorrow,” said the voice from the handset.
“But you don’t even know where I am, and I’m not going to tell you. Wait a few days and let me find a better time. I promise. I want to see you too. Just not right now.”
“You don’t have to tell me where you are. I’ll find you. Auf Wiedersehen.”
Thóra couldn’t argue anymore. Matthew had hung up.
CHAPTER 4
WHEN SHE WAS dressed, Thóra decided to go straight to reception in the hope of finding out more about the body. On her way out, she noticed a bunch of keys the masseuse had left behind in her haste. She decided to hand it in at reception, as an excuse for going there. She strode quickly down the corridor, feeling pleased with herself.
There was no sign of the masseuse in the lobby. A young woman was leaning over the reception desk, deep in a whispered conversation with her colleague behind the counter. She was disturbingly thin and the snow-white tunic she wore over her matching trousers did little to conceal it. Thóra stood beside her and smiled at the two women in the hope of being allowed to join in. She was far from welcome; both looked most displeased to see her, but they recovered themselves and gave her frosty smiles. For a short while she pretended to look at a poster behind the reception desk advertising a séance the previous evening with a well-known medium from Reykjavík. Then she turned back to the others, smiling pleasantly.
“Hi,” Thóra said, to break the ice. Her curiosity got the better of her and she forgot the charade with the keys. “I heard about the body that was found on the beach.”
The women exchanged glances and seemed to come to a silent agreement. The thin one turned to her. “It’s just awful,” she said emphatically, her eyes wide. “You know the cops are here?” Removing her elbow from the counter, she stretched out her hand for Thóra to shake. “I’m Kata, the beautician.” Her teeth shone pearly white.
Thóra greeted her, surprised at the strength of her grip considering her size. “I’m Thóra. I’m looking into a little matter for Jónas. I’m not really a guest.”
The receptionist nodded. “Oh, yeah, he mentioned it to me. I’m Vigdís, the reception manager. You’re one of those lawyers, right?”
Not knowing exactly what “one of those” meant in this context, Thóra nodded. “That’s right.” Looking around, she saw through the glass entrance doors that a police car was still outside. “Where did the police go?”
Vigdís pointed to the right and whispered, although no one else was nearby. “They wanted to talk to Jónas.” She leaned back in her chair and raised her eyebrows conspiratorially. “He wasn’t even surprised when I told him.”
“What did the police say?” Thóra asked. “He might not have realized what the matter involved.”
Vigdís blushed slightly. “Well, no,” she said reluctantly. “They didn’t say anything to me really, just asked for Jónas.”
“So how do you know there’s a body?” asked Kata, the beautician, who was clearly no fool.
Vigdís’s cheeks grew redder. “I heard them say it. I showed them to Jónas’s office, and when they introduced themselves, they stated their business with him.”
Thóra was certain that the woman had put her ear up to the door. “Did they say anything about how this person died?” she asked. “Was the body washed ashore, or what?”
“And was it a man or a woman?” the beautician interjected. “Did they say?”
“It was a woman, apparently,” replied Vigdís, the flush leaving her cheeks. She clearly enjoyed holding all the cards, and when she started speaking again, she drew out every word for maximum effect. “They didn’t mention the cause of death exactly, but I swear they were implying that it was unnatural.” She took a deep, dramatic breath. Kata put her hand to her mouth, her colleague’s theatrics clearly producing the desired response.
“Why did they come here?” Thóra pressed. “Was the body found on the beach?”
Vigdís nodded slowly and pointed to a window overlooking the open sea below. “I don’t know exactly where, but it was in this area. Down there somewhere.”
Thóra and Kata looked out of the window. The weather outside was relatively calm and it was still bright daylight despite it being late. The beach itself was hidden from view because the lawn outside the window was a little above sea level.
“How could it have been directly below here?” asked Thóra, turning away from the window. “Surely you would have noticed if the po
lice had been active in that area.”
Vigdís shrugged. “A huge amount of land belongs to the old farm and you can’t see the whole beach from here by any means. The headland over there is one reason.” She pointed to a hill through the window. “The farthest point west is on the other side of that hill, and we can’t see it from here. That part can be reached by road from elsewhere.”
Thóra and Kata stared at the hill as if hoping to see through it. Then Thóra nodded slowly. “Weren’t there originally two farms here, on two separate plots of land?” Vigdís shrugged. Thóra continued, “As far as I recall, there were two plots of farmland owned by two brothers, but one of them died childless so the other one inherited it. Then he merged them into one. That would explain the question of access. Generally there’s only one driveway up to each farm, not two. Do you suppose the boundary lay across that hill?” Looking back, she saw that neither woman was remotely interested.
“Sure,” Kata said, turning back to her friend. “But who is the dead woman? Did they say anything about that?”
“I don’t think they have the faintest idea. When they came, they asked me how many guests were registered at the hotel and if any were missing.” She grinned conspiratorially at her audience. “I just told them the truth—that I had no idea. This is a hotel, not a prison.” Then addressing Thóra, she added, “The guests have keys that they can take out with them. They don’t drop off the keys with me, so it’s pure chance whether I notice their movements. They seldom talk to me, unless they’re going for a hike and want guidance about routes.”
“It has to be that drunk couple in number eighteen, either him or the wife. I’ve not seen either of them for two days,” Kata said disapprovingly.
Vigdís shook her head. “No, the kitchen sent food up to their room just a while back. And drinks.” She emphasized the latter firmly. “The woman just phoned down to ask for room service. She said they’d been indisposed and had slept the whole day.”
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