Thóra nodded. No mother in her right mind would bury a dead infant in the countryside when there was a cemetery nearby. Kristín must have survived her mother. Thóra did not want to tell Lára about the message that had been carved into the pillar, claiming that Kristín had been murdered. It was better for her to believe that she was still alive.
Thóra changed the subject. “Do you know what building stood out here at the back? It must have burned down a long time ago.”
“A building?” exclaimed Lára. “There was only one building there and it’s still standing, although it’s been incorporated into the hotel.” She wrinkled her brow in thought. “Unless you mean the barn,” she said suddenly. “Now that you mention it, I suppose it has gone.” She turned her head, looking for a window on to the land behind the hotel, but there wasn’t one. “On the other side of the farmhouse was a building that acted as a barn and a cattle shed. It might have burned down, but that would have happened before I came back, because I don’t remember a fire. I can’t say for sure if the building was still standing when I returned to the area.”
“I know this must sound odd, but do you remember anything special about the coal bunker at Kreppa?” Thóra asked. “It’s underground but can be reached both from inside the basement and through a hatch in the meadow.”
Lára screwed up her face as she considered it. “Not that I recall. Is it important?”
“What are that lot playing at?” said Sóldís suddenly, before Thóra could reply. “Don’t they know camping’s banned here? There’s a big sign at the highway exit. This is a protected nature reserve.”
“Oh, no.” Thóra sighed as she watched her SUV and trailer bunny-hopping into the hotel car park.
CHAPTER 29
THE TRAILER STUCK out well beyond the parking space. Thóra watched as Gylfi got out of the SUV and opened the doors for his little sister and Sigga, who were both sitting in the back. He had obviously not wanted the airbag to injure his unborn child if they had an accident. Gylfi certainly had his priorities right, if you ignored the fact that he had no driver’s license. Sigga arched her back as she got out, her swollen belly seeming more disproportionate than ever in contrast with her fragile frame. Thóra hoped for her sake that the child would not take after its father’s side of the family when it came to birth weight, because both Gylfi and Sóley had had heads the size of pumpkins when they were born. As she wondered how she could get rid of them, she remembered that it was ten in the evening—too late to arrange for a driver to collect them.
“Why didn’t you go with your dad?” she called out to Gylfi, striding across the car park to greet them. “He was supposed to collect you in Selfoss.”
“We just didn’t,” Gylfi said, conscientiously locking the SUV door. “None of us wanted to go back with him, or to Sigga’s parents, so we decided to keep on camping. I told Dad so he wouldn’t have a wasted journey, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
That was the last thing on Thóra’s mind. Hannes could chase wild geese halfway around the world for all she cared, but she was concerned about how to handle Jónas, Matthew, and her two children, not to mention her pregnant prospective daughter-in-law, without messing something up—or everything.
“How are you feeling, Sigga?” she asked the girl, hugging Sóley, who had wrapped herself around her mother ecstatically.
“Well,” said Sigga, “my back hurts.”
Thóra gasped. “Do you think the baby’s on its way? If so, there’s no way you can stay here.”
“No, Mum,” said Gylfi, shocked. “It hasn’t been nine months yet.” He had clearly never heard of premature birth.
“Come inside,” she said, ushering her visitors toward the hotel lobby. “We need to talk about this little jaunt of yours, Gylfi, but it’ll have to wait,” she whispered in her son’s ear. “I’m very disappointed in you.” Then she added in a louder voice, for everyone to hear, “I’ll see if I can get a room for you. You’ve had enough camping. That can wait until the baby’s born.” Envisaging Gylfi trying to erect the trailer awning with a newborn baby in his arms, she quickly added, “And has started school.”
Matthew was standing at the door, wreathed in smiles. Thóra pulled a face at him over their heads. “Kids, you remember Matthew. He’s helping me with a case concerning the hotel. You have to be on your best behavior because I need to work. Don’t go anywhere and don’t break anything.” She almost added, “And don’t give birth to anything,” but decided against it. The first two commandments would be difficult enough to keep.
“DON’T WORRY,” MATTHEW SAID WHEN THEY HAD SAT DOWN again at the computer in Jónas’s office. “This is fine. I like your kids. Although this isn’t exactly the holiday I had in mind, I think it could be interesting.” He tipped her a conspiratorial wink. “Maybe you could arrange a babysitter and we can find a restaurant that serves only organically cultivated chickweed.”
Thóra didn’t look up from the screen. “Why isn’t Jón Árnason’s folktale collection on the Internet?” she muttered.
“Can I take that as a yes?” asked Matthew.
“What?” Thóra asked vacantly, scrolling down the page she was reading. “Oh, yes,” she added, with no idea what she was agreeing to. “No matter where I search I can’t find the folktale itself, only the verse. I have to get to a library.”
Matthew looked at his watch. “You’re unlikely to find one open now,” he said. “Do you really think the inscription is that important?”
Thóra looked up at him. “No,” she admitted. “I just have nothing else to do. I’m clutching at straws for tomorrow—I don’t have much to go on.”
“If either Bergur or his wife is the murderer, as you seem inclined to believe, I don’t think that rock can have anything to do with it,” said Matthew. “It makes more sense for you to concentrate on something more recent.” He crossed to the window and watched as a car pulled up at the hotel. It parked in a space directly below the window. “I recognize that number plate,” he said, releasing the curtain. “Where’s the list?”
Thóra gaped at him. “Are you saying you can remember a single number from the thousands you went through?” she asked, passing him the list.
“It’s a personalized number plate,” he replied. “There weren’t that many, so it stood out.” He flicked through the list. “Here it is. An hour before Eiríkur was killed, this car came through the tunnel from Reykjavík.” He handed the list back to Thóra and pointed to the entry. “There. ‘VERITAS,’” he said. “I specifically remember this one because it made me wonder what the owner’s job could be. I couldn’t think of anything connected with ‘truth,’ unless he was a mathematics teacher.”
Thóra took the list from him and read the owner’s name. “Not quite,” she said, putting it down again. “He’s a politician. Baldvin Baldvinsson, the grandson of old Magnús, whom we talked to.” She stood up. “What’s he doing back here again?”
“Visiting his grandfather, perhaps?” suggested Matthew. “Or maybe he’s drumming up votes.”
“Let’s ask him,” said Thóra. “If his registration plate is accurate, at least he’ll tell us the truth.”
BALDVIN STOOD IN THE LOBBY, DRUMMING HIS FINGERS ON THE RECEPTION desk while he waited. Vigdís had her back to him, working on the computer. Thóra hoped she was reasonably well paid, because she seemed to be at the reception desk around the clock.
“Don’t you ever take a break?” she asked as she approached Baldvin with Matthew. Rather than confront him directly, Thóra had decided that talking to Vigdís would be a good start. Since he appeared to be waiting for something, he was unlikely to leave immediately.
Vigdís looked over her shoulder at Thóra. “Oh! Yes, of course I do. Jónas was going to take this shift but…” She hesitated. “You know. He meant to hire someone for the other shift, but he never got around to it.” After tapping at the keyboard for a moment, she turned to Baldvin. “You can have room fourteen. It’s next door to your
grandfather.” She handed him the key.
Thóra turned to Baldvin. “Aren’t you Magnús’s grandson? The city councilor?”
Baldvin was startled. He looked tired, which only heightened the striking resemblance to his grandfather. Remembering the photographs of Magnús as a young man, Thóra wondered what it must feel like, knowing exactly how the years would treat you. “Er, yes, I am,” he answered. “Do I know you?”
Thóra proffered a handshake. “No, but I’ve heard about your grandfather. I was a friend of Birna’s.” Before releasing her firm grip on his hand, she asked bluntly, “You knew her, didn’t you?”
Baldvin looked as if he had swallowed a fly. He gulped convulsively, then was back to his normal self. “A friend of Birna’s, you say? Unfortunately I don’t think I know anyone called Birna.”
“Really?” Thóra said, but decided not to push her luck. She still hadn’t let go of his hand and his palm had gone clammy. “Are you sure? Weren’t you here on Sunday?”
Baldvin tensed up, but she didn’t know if this was because of her tight grip on his hand or the question. “Me? No, you must be mixing me up with someone else.” He flashed a smarmy smile.
“Am I?” Thóra feigned surprise. “I thought I drove up here through the tunnel directly behind you. Maybe I am getting mixed up.” She finally released her grip and Baldvin jerked his hand back as if she had leprosy.
“I think you must be. I was somewhere else then.” He turned to Vigdís. “Thank you,” he said, then, “Nice to meet you,” to Thóra, with another pearly grin. A true politician.
“You too.” Thóra beamed back. When he’d gone, she turned to Matthew and whispered urgently, “He’s lying through his teeth.” Then she asked Vigdís, “Do you remember him being here on Sunday evening?”
Vigdís shook her head and yawned. “No, I’ve only met him twice before,” she said. “The day he dropped his grandfather off and the evening of the séance.”
Thóra clutched the edge of the reception desk. “Was he here then?”
“Yes, I just told you,” said Vigdís indignantly. “He had dinner with his grandfather. Then they went to the séance. I think they soon realized it wasn’t their cup of tea, because they’d left by the interval.”
Thóra widened her eyes at Matthew. He gestured toward Vigdís, who was standing up to leave. Thóra realized at once what he meant. She was holding a key identical to the one they had found in the desk at Kreppa.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, surprised that they were still standing there. “Was the kids’ room all right?”
“Oh, yes,” Thóra replied, staring at the key. “Would you mind letting me have a look at that key?” She produced hers. “I came across one just the same and I was wondering what it fits.”
“This is the key to my staff locker,” she said, reluctantly showing her. “If you found one, it must belong to someone who works here. People do lose them.”
Thóra compared the keys. They were virtually indistinguishable. She handed back the other. “I don’t think it belongs to one of the staff,” she said. “Do you know if Birna had a locker at her disposal?”
Vigdís pursed her lips, thinking it over. “Not as far as I know, but she could have. The lockers were only installed recently. She chose them and ordered them. Maybe she kept one for herself.” Vigdís walked around the desk. “Come with me,” she said, setting off. “There aren’t many lockers, so it won’t take long to see if it fits.”
Thóra and Matthew followed Vigdís to the staff room, where there was a row of steel lockers along one wall.
“Shall I just start?” asked Thóra, brandishing the key. “I won’t rummage around in anything and if the key fits a locker that belongs to someone else I’ll close it immediately. I just want to know if Birna possibly kept some of her stuff hidden away. I don’t want to bother the police with this if it turns out to be of no consequence.”
“Sure, whatever,” said Vigdís. “You don’t need to try number seven: that’s mine.”
Thóra tried the locks. She didn’t need much time, because the key fit on her third attempt. It gave a little click as it turned. She carefully revolved the chrome handle and opened the locker. With a deep breath and a glance at Matthew, she peered inside. Almost at once she pulled her head out, disappointed. “Empty. Damn.” She stood aside to let him take a look. When he put his head inside and didn’t withdraw it immediately, she tapped his back impatiently. “What? Can you see something?”
Matthew twisted to peer up at the roof of the locker. “Something’s been stuck up here,” his voice echoed from inside the hollow space. “Do you have any tweezers?” he asked, straightening back up. “We don’t want to cover it with fingerprints if it’s something important.”
Thóra looked over at Vigdís. “Is there a first-aid kit here?” Sticking her head into the locker, she noticed a small white rectangle of paper taped to its top. The edges were slightly curled. “What on earth is that?” she wondered aloud, as she took a pair of tweezers from Vigdís. “I guess we should leave this for the police but until we know what it is we can’t be sure. For all I know it could be the manufacturer’s guarantee for the lockers or an installation guide.”
Matthew and Vigdís watched as she tried to remove the tape, although they could see little more than her back.
“Bingo!” she said, extricating herself with the white piece of card gripped in the tweezers. “It’s a photograph.” She turned it over. “Oh!” She flipped it around to show the others.
“Good God!” exclaimed Vigdís. “Baldvin Baldvinsson! I didn’t know he was a neo-Nazi!”
“It’s not Baldvin,” said Thóra, placing the photograph on the staff-room table. “It’s his grandfather, Magnús. It was taken years ago.”
“Jesus, they’re dead ringers,” marveled Vigdís. “I’d have thrown that photo away if I were Magnús. Or Baldvin.”
“Perhaps they never got the chance,” said Thóra. She turned to Vigdís. “Don’t tell a soul about this,” she said.
“God, no,” replied Vigdís. “Of course not.” She was already trying to remember her friend Gulla’s phone number and calculating what time Kata would arrive at the beauty parlor the following morning. Of course, they could be trusted. Everyone knew that telling your best friends counts as not telling a soul.
She collected her handbag from her own locker and went back to reception. As she passed Matthew, she placed a hand on his shoulder and told him kindly that her ex-husband had suffered from bouts of impotence and that Viagra had helped him regain his manhood. Bewildered, Matthew watched her walk away.
“Why on earth would she want to share that with me?” he asked Thóra in astonishment.
It dawned on Thóra that the sex therapist’s oath of confidentiality was not as sacrosanct as Stefanía had implied. Thóra shrugged. “They’re all a bunch of weirdos around here,” she said, feigning innocence. Then she gave a weak smile. “I suppose I should go and put Sóley to bed. It’ll be a while before I get to bed myself, the way things are turning out.”
THÓRA WAS BACK AT JÓNAS’S COMPUTER AGAIN. “IT ALL FITS,” SHE said as she scanned the Google results for “Baldvin Baldvinsson.” She opened a few links that contained nothing of interest, but she kept idly clicking while they talked.
“How?” asked Matthew. “I admit that a photograph like that, hidden in a place like that, suggests that Birna wanted to prevent it being found. The only person likely to want it is Magnús, but he’s too old to kill anyone. Besides, I’m not exactly sure why he would want to murder Birna, even if he knew she had the photo.”
“I don’t think he’s the only one, actually,” Thóra said. “His grandson, Baldvin, has much more to lose. It says here that he’s entering the primaries for the parliamentary election next spring and a recent newspaper article pointed out just how much he resembles his grandfather in every way. A photo of his grandfather in Nazi uniform, which could just as easily be of him, could sink his campaign.” She l
ooked up. “This man drives around in a car with a registration plate that says VERITAS. It’s obvious what impression he wants to give. Nazis aren’t exactly part of his image. Part of the reason for his stellar political career is his grandfather. If the old man’s reputation is tarnished, it will smear Baldvin, although he wasn’t even a twinkle in his eye at the time.”
“So what was Birna’s motive?” wondered Matthew. “Why didn’t she simply hand over the photograph? Was she trying to blackmail them? Neither of them looks seriously rich. That car with the VERITAS plates is just an old Jeep.”
“When she found the photograph, presumably in that old album in the basement that seemed to have one missing, she might have taken it out just to examine it more closely. Obviously she was shocked to see a well-known person in it. Then she must have realized that she could turn it to her advantage, and I suspect that she wanted something other than money from them,” Thóra said, clicking yet another link. She read briefly, then looked up again. “This is quite interesting,” she said. “Baldvin is on the council committee to select a design for a new bus station they’re building in Reykjavík. You remember that drawing of the glass complex on the wall at Kreppa? There aren’t many wooded areas in Iceland. The proposed site by the hill on Öskjuhlíd is one of them. There were buses in the drawing.” She stabbed her finger in the air triumphantly. “She was clearly determined to win that commission. That could also explain why she phoned him.”
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