“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 armchair. “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 w
ith 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?”
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 corrugated-iron 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 could easily 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 ha
d 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.”
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