Thóra stuck her tongue out at him. “Come on,” she said, “we’ve got more important things to do than talk about ghosts. Let’s go and find Berta or Steini.”
“You must try to send the ghost baby back to its mother,” Matthew persisted. “That’s what you’re meant to do…”
THÓRA COULDN’T WAIT TO GET OUT OF THE RECEPTION AREA. A scorched smell hung about the place from the charred carcasses that had been carried through the building. She would have liked to pinch her nose as she went past Vigdís, but decided to just hold her breath and keep walking. As she hurried past, she bumped into Thröstur Laufeyjarson.
“Oh, sorry,” she said, trying to regain her balance. “I didn’t see you.”
“That’s all right,” said the canoeist grumpily. He was wearing a wet suit, his hair wet. “No harm done—shame I can’t say the same for my canoe,” he added.
“Oh?” asked Thóra. “Has it been damaged?” When she saw Thröstur’s fierce expression, she involuntarily blurted, “I haven’t touched it.”
“No, I know,” said Thröstur, continuing on his way.
“Hang on, I wanted to ask you something,” said Thóra, grabbing his arm. She was startled to realize how muscular he was. “I’ve been trying to find you, but you’re hard to get hold of.”
“What do you want to ask?” he said. She let go of his arm, not wanting to push her luck. “Whether I’ve ever got stuck with my head underwater when I’ve been out in the canoe?”
“Er, no,” replied Thóra, baffled. “That had never occurred to me. No, my question is about the two murders that have been committed here. You must have heard about them.”
Thröstur’s expression was a strange mixture of irritation and apprehension. The hotel doors opened and he caught sight of the pile of bones that was being carried past. “What’s going on there?”
“Quite a lot,” said Thóra. “None of it good. Have you got time to talk? It could be important.” She hoped the sight of the bones would sway him.
“Yes, all right,” he replied abruptly. “I was on my way to talk to the police, anyway. Since my canoe’s damaged, there’s no reason to keep quiet anymore.”
“About what?” asked Thóra, directing him to a table outside. They sat down, and Thóra introduced Matthew. “What were you going to tell the police?”
Thröstur looked grave. “On Friday morning, I went out to train and found my canoe all covered in blood.” He checked himself. “Well, not exactly covered. There was blood on the paddle and the seat, and splashes here and there. It wasn’t my blood, and I assumed it must have something to do with the murder committed on Thursday evening.”
Thóra stared at him. “It’s Tuesday today,” she said. “Why on earth haven’t you said anything before?”
“I didn’t know anything about the murder until Saturday, when some woman in reception told me, and I’d cleaned most of it off by then,” said Thröstur impatiently.
“So there’s still some blood left?” asked Thóra hopefully. Perhaps the murderer’s fingerprints could be preserved.
“Er, no, there isn’t,” muttered Thröstur sheepishly, adding by way of mitigation, “I’m due to compete in the world championships in two weeks’ time. I couldn’t have my canoe being taken off to some lab, so I cleaned the rest off and decided to keep my mouth shut. The damage had been done, because I’d already removed most of the blood.”
Thóra didn’t envy him; he’d have to confess all to Thórólfur. “But what made you change your mind?” she asked.
“Whatever idiot did it must have run the canoe up on to some rocks and damaged the bottom. I couldn’t understand why my times were so bad, but I only just noticed the damage. The bottom was fine when I checked it last week, so it’s that bloody killer who’s caused me all this trouble.” He leaned back and crossed his arms. “The police may as well take the canoe. I won’t be able to compete now.”
Clearly what upset Thröstur most about the case was that the murderer had damaged his canoe.
“I’m not sure you understand,” said Thóra, “that if you’d come forward with the information about the canoe at once, on Saturday, it might have been possible to prevent the murder that took place on Sunday evening.”
“Hardly!” Thröstur argued. “There wasn’t much blood left—I told you.” He looked to Matthew for support, then tried to change the subject. “I’m definitely going to sue the murderer when he’s discovered and get compensation for the damage. I was on course for a medal.”
“It’s a tragedy,” said Thóra, striving unsuccessfully to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “One more question. You drove through the Hvalfjördur Tunnel on Sunday evening, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” snapped Thröstur. “I ran out of my protein supplement and I had to get to a decent pharmacy.” He glared defiantly at Thóra. “Don’t you believe me? I’ve got the receipt, from a pharmacy in the city.”
“What? Oh, yes,” said Thóra absently. She was thinking of something else: the fact that they could no longer rule out the people who had been at the séance, or any hotel staff who were in the vicinity. “How long does it take to paddle from here out to the inlet where the architect was killed?” she asked.
“No time at all,” he replied. “It’s a very short distance by sea. You don’t have to follow all the twists and turns of the overland route. It would take me about five minutes if the sea was calm. Someone not used to a canoe might take ten minutes.”
“Can a first-timer paddle one fairly easily?” asked Matthew, who until then had just been listening.
“Yes, unless they’re really inept,” said Thröstur. “You need practice to paddle a canoe well, but to go from A to B in calm water you don’t need any expertise, just strength.” He stood up. “I’d better take a shower before I go and see the police. I want my case taken seriously because I’m not kidding about this.” He pushed the heavy wooden chair up to the table and turned away. Then he suddenly recalled something and turned back. “Also, that lad in the car is sure to remember me,” he said. “He should be easy enough to trace.”
“What lad? Who do you mean?” asked Thóra.
“When I drove out of the tunnel toward Reykjavík, I saw a car stopped at the side of the road. I thought it had broken down. I pulled over to offer the driver a lift, but it was a terribly disfigured boy, who said he wasn’t going anywhere, that he was just going to sit in the car for a bit and everything was fine. Then he wound up his window and refused to speak to me.”
“What time was this?” asked Matthew.
“About six, I think,” replied Thröstur. “He was gone when I got back later that evening. He probably got fed up with reassuring people that he was okay. I can’t have been the only one who thought he’d broken down. Another car was pulling up as I left,” he added, then turned and went into the hotel.
Matthew nudged Thóra’s leg under the table. “I think Steini followed Berta through the tunnel to make sure she was definitely gone, then pulled over and watched her drive away before turning back to finish off Eiríkur. Thröstur must have turned up while he was waiting. It all fits.”
“It’s a bit tenuous,” said Thóra. “If he was at the tunnel at six, he still had to drive all the way up here, which is a fair distance.”
“We don’t know Eiríkur’s time of death with any accuracy,” said Matthew. “They said ‘dinnertime.’ People eat their dinners at all sorts of times.” He stood up. “I’m just going to get the list. I want to see when he drove south. I wasn’t looking for that when I found his name.”
Thóra couldn’t bear the idea of going through the reeking lobby again, so she decided to wait outside. Matthew soon came hurrying back with the sheaf of papers. “He went through the tunnel toward Reykjavík five cars after Berta. It all fits my theory. He must have wanted to be sure she was gone.” He slapped the papers down on the table in front of Thóra. “I think we have to speak to her, in case she knows something that may complete the jigsaw.”
“Even if she knows something, we have to hope she’s willing to share it with us,” said Thóra, standing up. “We can’t be sure she’ll give him up, even when she realizes what he’s done. Let’s not expect her to jump for joy when we tell her that her friend and relative may be a murderer. It may take longer for her to realize fully what a terrible thing he did.” She frowned. “If he did do anything. I’m far from sure.”
THÓRA CLAPPED HER HAND TO HER FOREHEAD. “NOW I KNOW what it is that’s been bothering me,” she said. “It’s the order of inheritance. If the child outlived her mother and grandfather, all the assets are in completely the wrong hands. Of course Grímur wouldn’t have inherited from the child.” They were sitting in the car in the drive outside Kreppa, where they had hoped to find Berta. There was no sign of her car, and the house was deserted.
“What do you mean?” asked Matthew. “Wasn’t he next of kin, once the mother and grandfather were dead?”
Thóra shook her head. “It was the father, of course. The child’s father would have inherited everything upon her death.”
“And that’s probably Magnús,” he said. “I hadn’t thought of that. Grímur should never have inherited anything, of course. That’s why he hid the girl and tried to destroy any information about her life, what there was of it.”
Thóra gasped. “What’s more, if his daughter Málfrídur knew about the murder, her inheritance was unlawful too.”
“Doesn’t that go without saying?” asked Matthew. “If her father got the inheritance fraudulently, he isn’t entitled to it, so neither is she.”
“I’m not absolutely sure, but I think the case is different if she knew nothing about the crime. If my theory’s right, she did know, and what’s more, she’s still alive. Her children had power of attorney to sign on her behalf when the land was sold to Jónas. They haven’t formally inherited anything, so whether they knew is irrelevant. The power of attorney stated that their mother was in charge of the parental estate, which hasn’t been through probate, so the question of complicity wouldn’t apply to them.”
“They’ve got a lot to lose,” said Matthew, “and there’s a lot to gain for the child’s father, Magnús.”
“Yes, it’s pretty clear that he wouldn’t have gained much by killing Birna to prevent the child being discovered. Quite the contrary.” Thóra gazed at the old farmhouse through the windshield. “But it’s a different story for Elín and her family. Berta, for instance, wouldn’t have a place to stay here in the west. The house in Stykkishólmur belonged to Bjarni after Grímur got into financial difficulties, and his farm too. If Berta had no home here, Steini would have a pretty lonely life.” She looked at Matthew. “Shouldn’t we speak to him in person?” she said. “We’ve no idea when and where we’ll catch up with Berta. Sóldís must know where he lives, so that shouldn’t be a problem.”
“But what about Thórólfur?” asked Matthew. “Shouldn’t we let him know, or even get him to go instead?”
Thóra thought for a moment. “No, no. It’s like with the wall. We have to be sure we’re right before we inconvenience the police, and they’ve got their hands full at the moment.”
MATTHEW AND THÓRA STOOD WAITING AT STEINI’S. HE’D CALLED out that he was just coming, but they had been waiting a while.
“He’s not very fit—it’s taking him ages,” said Matthew, pulling his jacket closer around him. The temperature had dropped suddenly, and the air was damp, so they were chilled to the bone. “Brr. Are you sure it’s June?”
Before Thóra could answer, the door was opened, but only halfway. “What?” they heard, from beneath the familiar hoodie.
“Hello,” said Thóra as warmly as she could manage. “Do you remember us? We came out to Kreppa yesterday and met you with Berta, and we met down at the inlet too.”
“Yeah, so, what do you want?” Steini’s voice was so muffled that he sounded like he was talking with his mouth full. Thóra suspected this was because he found it hard to open his mouth. She hoped it wasn’t painful for him to speak. Whatever he had or hadn’t done, she felt truly sorry for him.
“We wanted to speak to you,” said Thóra, hoping he would agree to let them in. “It’s about Sunday evening.”
The wheelchair backed away and the door opened wider. “Come in,” he mumbled. Because of his impediment, it was impossible to tell whether he was worried at the prospect of speaking to them. Thóra and Matthew exchanged discreet glances as they entered, but said nothing.
“Have you lived here long?” she inquired companionably as they sat down in the modest living room. At first glance, Steini’s home seemed rather depressing. Everything was neat and tidy, but there was no sign that anyone lived there: no pictures on the walls, no personal effects, only his crutches propped up in the doorway to the living room, which was more welcoming than the hall. There was a vase filled with wild flowers. Thóra supposed Berta had brought them, since it seemed inconceivable that the young man in the wheelchair would have picked flowers and arranged them in a vase.
“Yes,” answered Steini, without elaborating.
“I see,” said Thóra. “I’d better get to the point. We were wondering whether you drove through the tunnel on Sunday evening. A car registered in your name went through at about dinnertime.”
Steini said nothing. His head drooped even more. Then he spoke. “Yes, it was me,” he said. As before, it was impossible to tell from his tone what he was feeling.
“May I ask what you were doing in Reykjavík?” she said.
“No,” replied Steini. He glanced up suddenly from beneath the hood, and Thóra had to steel herself to show no reaction. “Do you think I killed that man?” he asked. Now his feelings were clear enough. He was obviously furious. “Is that what you think?” He pushed himself up out of the wheelchair. He managed to keep his balance by grasping the armrests. One of his legs looked twisted and shrunken. There was no way a healthy limb could stay at that angle.
“No,” she replied hurriedly. “That’s not what we think at all.” She added a white lie to cover her embarrassment. “We thought you might have lent someone your car. We’re trying to work out who was where when Eiríkur was murdered.”
“I was nowhere near there, and not when Birna was murdered either,” said Steini, collapsing back into the wheelchair.
Thóra had grown accustomed to his strange voice, and now she could distinguish almost every word. He still looked very angry, and his breathing was shallow and uneven. Thóra hoped he wasn’t having a fit of some kind.
“An old grave has been discovered at the old farmhouse by the hotel,” she said, hoping to take him by surprise and defuse his temper.
“Get out,” he said unexpectedly. “I don’t want you here.” He rolled the wheelchair toward Thóra.
Matthew, while not understanding the conversation, could see that the interview was over, and that the exchange between Thóra and Steini had taken an unfortunate direction. “Well,” he said, “let’s be going.” He took her hand and pulled her to her feet. He then turned to Steini to thank him before walking out of the room, making sure that Thóra went first.
“He’s not all there, but he’s hardly capable of murder,” he said when they’d shut the door behind them. Steini hadn’t seen them out.
“But there’s something strange about it,” said Thóra. “His reaction to the news about the grave wasn’t quite natural. Or what he said about the tunnel, for that matter. Could he be covering up for the murderer?”
“I doubt it,” said Matthew, holding the car door for her. “If he’s not the killer, then it must be either Bergur or Baldvin. According to your theory, Steini has a grudge against Bergur because he’s related to the person who caused the accident, and as far as we know, he has no connection to Baldvin, so he could hardly be covering for either of them.”
“Damn,” said Thóra. “It was such a good theory.” She got into the car and waited for Matthew to get behind the wheel. “But I quite agree that he couldn’t
have done it. He hasn’t the physical strength. I also have my doubts about Bergur. He could have walked over to the hotel, taken the canoe, and paddled across to the inlet to kill Birna, but it’s so illogical. Why wouldn’t he simply drive over there? He wouldn’t have had to pass over the hole in the road, as he wasn’t coming from there. And when is he supposed to have stolen Jónas’s phone and sent the text message to Birna?” She shook her head. “I don’t think he’s in the frame. Baldvin, however, was at the hotel, and he could easily have taken the phone. He was at the séance, but he left before the interval, so he could have hurried down to the jetty, stolen the canoe, gone over to the inlet, and attacked Birna. He had plenty of motive.” Thóra’s phone rang.
“Hi. I’ve found it for you,” said Gylfi. “It’s the Latin name for aloe vera.”
Thóra thanked him and hung up. She looked at Matthew, who was fastening his seat belt. “What?” he asked when he realized she was staring at him.
“Why would a woman put aloe vera in her vagina? Is it used as a lubricant?” she asked.
Matthew laughed. “Why are you asking me? Do I look that worldly? Talk to your friend the sex therapist, not me.” He backed out of the parking space. “Baldvin’s VERITAS car was still outside the hotel when we left,” he said. “Shall we go and have a word?”
“Good idea.” Thóra grinned. “He’s bound to tell the truth, right?”
Matthew turned the wheel and skidded off down the gravel road. “Absolutely. He’s a politician.”
CHAPTER 33
MATTHEW KNOCKED LOUDLY on the door of Magnús’s hotel room. There had been no answer in Baldvin’s room, so Matthew and Thóra were hoping he was with his grandfather. VERITAS was in its usual place outside, so they must still be around somewhere. Thóra rubbed her hands together as they heard a noise from inside. The door opened and Magnús stood before them. When he saw who his guests were, he scowled, but he looked too exhausted to be intimidating. “What do you want?” he snarled.
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