My Soul to Take tg-2

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  Elín was still too angry to answer, so Börkur replied. “It was more to do with their wives. The women fell out, and their husbands followed suit. I don’t think anyone knows exactly what the dispute was between Grandmother and her sister-in-law, but it was serious enough that the brothers were never the same with each other, even when both women were dead. Stubbornness and grudges run in the family.”

  Elín interrupted. “Mother told me that our grandmother Kristrún lost a baby, and in her confusion she blamed her sister-in-law for killing it. The accusation was completely unfounded; the child had been ill, but Grandmother’s mental state was starting to deteriorate at the time. Bjarni was insulted by her accusations against his wife and he and Grandfather had a furious argument, but they had made up by the time Bjarni died—I understand Grandfather treated him well, looked after him during his illness when no one else would go near him for fear of infection.”

  Thóra nodded. “Do you know if there was ever a fire at either of the farms?” she asked, visualizing the drawing of the burning house she’d seen on the child’s desk at Kreppa.

  “A fire?” they said in unison.

  Elín shook her head. “No, I’ve never heard that. Both farmhouses are in their original state.”

  Thóra nodded again. “And do you recognize the name Kristín in connection with the farms?”

  “Not that I can recall,” said Börkur, seeming unfazed by her change of topic. “There must have been a few Kristíns in the area, but I don’t remember having heard of any.” Elín shook her head. Both seemed sincere.

  Thóra carefully formulated her next question, which she expected to be her last. “Do you know whether either or both of the brothers were sympathetic to the nationalists during the war?”

  “Nationalists?” Börkur echoed, reddening. “You mean Nazis?”

  “Yes,” said Thóra.

  “This is quite enough,” Elín said, slamming her hands on the arms of her chair and standing up. “I refuse to waste any more time on this nonsense.”

  Thóra also stood up. “One final question, on a different subject. You have presumably heard about the woman who was murdered last week. Now another murder has been committed, in all probability last night. Did you happen to be around here on the evenings in question?”

  In anger, the brother and sister looked uncannily alike. The expression of fury that appeared almost simultaneously on their faces made them suddenly almost identical. “The only polite answer I can think of to your unpleasant insinuation is no—neither of us is in any way connected with these murders. You should leave now,” spat Elín. “Ghosts, incest, Nazis, and now murder. I won’t put up with this crap any longer.”

  Matthew was leaning casually against a lamppost outside, but stood up straight when Thóra appeared. The door slammed loudly behind her as soon as she stepped on to the porch, and he smiled mischievously. “Did you ask about the young man with the burns?” he said.

  “No,” said Thóra grumpily. “I didn’t get that far.”

  Matthew smiled even more broadly. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Come on, I need to show you something.”

  CHAPTER 22

  What’s the big deal?” asked Thóra, turning away from the little shop window. She didn’t understand Matthew’s glee as he’d shown her the bric-a-brac crowding the dusty white shelves in the window. “It’s just a bunch of old crockery, so what?”

  “Look,” he said, rather disappointed, and pointed at a small object sitting between a ceramic puffin and a vase with a faded rose on it.

  Peering through the glass, Thóra saw a silver shield engraved with a helmet and two swords. Because it lay flat on the shelf, she had to stand on tiptoe to see it properly. “What is it?” she asked.

  “It’s a German medal from World War Two,” said Matthew smugly.

  “So?” she replied. “Do you want to buy it?”

  He laughed. “No, of course not,” he said as he led her toward the entrance. “But I caught a glimpse of the owner and he looked even older than the stuff he’s selling. I thought we might go inside and ask him about Nazis on Snæfellsnes. He’s bound to know a thing or two. That medal will make a good icebreaker.”

  “Ah,” said Thóra. “Now I get it.”

  As they entered the shop, the bell on the door chimed loudly. Thóra couldn’t see a need for it, because the shop was so tiny that the shop-keeper couldn’t fail to notice if anyone wandered in. Every square inch was loaded with knickknacks, making the space look even smaller than it was. The crammed shelves on all four walls reached almost to the ceiling. A ladder was propped up against one wall. Everything was lightly coated in dust, which suggested trade was not brisk. At the back of the room, a white-haired old man stood behind an old-fashioned cash register, which Thóra doubted would meet the tax authorities’ exacting standards. After browsing for a while, they squeezed their way toward the counter, navigating the various small items of furniture that littered the tiny floor space.

  “Good afternoon.” Thóra smiled at the man when they eventually reached the counter without breaking anything.

  “Afternoon,” the man said calmly, not smiling back. “What can I do for you?”

  “My friend here is from Germany, and he saw a brooch in the window that aroused his curiosity,” Thóra replied. “Could we take a look at it?”

  Nodding assent, the old man inched past the bric-a-brac toward the window. “Ah, yes, this has been with me a long time, I can tell you,” he said as he reached for it. “Actually it’s a medal, not a brooch.” He turned and put it down on the counter. “A decoration for those wounded in battle.”

  “Oh,” said Thóra, picking it up. As she had thought, it was carved with a helmet and two swords, but now she noticed a little swastika on the helmet. A laurel wreath ran around the edge of the medal. “So it was awarded to soldiers who were wounded in the war? Aren’t there a lot of these in circulation?”

  The old man frowned reproachfully, and Thóra regretted her comment. Presumably he now thought she was about to start haggling. He took the medal out of her hands. “A lot of them were awarded, yes. At the height of wartime, it was also given to civilians who were injured in air raids. What makes this one remarkable is that it’s made of silver. There were three different ranks, awarded in accordance with the seriousness of the soldier’s injuries. Regular, silver, and gold. The regular rank was often granted for being wounded in combat. It was by far the most common.”

  “How badly did you have to be injured to get the silver one?” asked Thóra.

  “There were various grounds for winning the silver, including losing a limb or minor brain damage.” He lifted up the medal and allowed the weak sunlight to play across it. “It wasn’t a medal people particularly coveted, I can tell you that.”

  “Not to mention the gold,” offered Thóra. “I don’t think I want to know what you had to sustain to deserve one of those.” She smiled at him. “My friend’s sure to be interested in buying it. Do you know any thing about its background?”

  The old man smiled back. “No, unfortunately. I got it from the estate of someone who died several decades ago, along with some other personal effects. There was no information about how it ended up there.”

  “I thought it might have belonged to an Icelander,” Thóra said. “That would be interesting.”

  “Not as far as I know,” the old man said. “It’s possible, but I doubt it. I think it was awarded exclusively to Germans, especially when it came to civilians.”

  “But didn’t some Icelanders fight on the German side? Could one of them have earned the medal?” suggested Thóra, who was trying to steer the conversation toward Nazis on Snæfellsnes.

  “Very few, I think. A couple of nutcases joined the Germans in Norway and Denmark, but I don’t think any of them ever set foot on a battlefield.” The man placed the medal on the counter. “The Icelanders who went for that sort of stuff at the time were no heroes. Bunch of idiots. I think they were mainly attract
ed by the uniforms.”

  “Really?” said Thóra. “I must admit I know absolutely nothing about the situation in Iceland. So there was a Nazi movement here?”

  “Oh, yes,” said the shopkeeper. “They were nationalists, mainly teenage boys who enjoyed marching with flags and fighting the socialists. I think they were driven more by youthful energy than any political leanings.”

  “Was the movement widespread here on Snæfellsnes?” Thóra asked innocently.

  He scratched his head. Thóra noticed that his hair was unusually thick for such an old man, even though it had turned white. “Happily, it never got a foothold here,” he said, looking at Thóra with pale, watery eyes. “There was one man on the south coast near here who tried to spread the word and recruit, but he fell ill before he made any progress. The local boys he managed to convert to nationalism soon lost interest after he dropped out of the picture, so nothing ever came of it.”

  Thóra could have cheered, but she kept her voice light and disinterested. “Yes, of course. Wasn’t it Grímur Thórólfsson, the farmer from Kreppa?” she said, crossing her fingers and praying she was right. If it had been Börkur and Elín’s grandfather, that would explain the Nazi paraphernalia she had found in the box.

  The old man squinted at Thóra suspiciously. “I thought you said you didn’t know anything about it,” he said. “You’re not far off, considering.”

  “I only know the family,” Thóra mumbled evasively. “I don’t know anything about the nationalist movement.” She turned to Matthew and shot him a conspiratorial wink the old man couldn’t see. “Well, aren’t you going to buy the brooch?”

  “Medal,” he corrected her as he pulled out his wallet. “How much does it cost?”

  The shopkeeper named his price, and judging from Matthew’s expression, it was no bargain. He paid in silence, then turned to Thóra while the man was wrapping it up and asked, “When’s your birthday? I’ve got the present.”

  Thóra poked out her tongue, then turned to the old man to take the wrapped medal. “Thank you,” she said, and they threaded their way toward the door. There, she turned around, determined to ask who the nationalist farmer was, but she didn’t need to say a word.

  The old man was still standing behind the counter, resting his hands on it. He stared long and hard at Thóra, then spoke before she could get the question out. “It was Bjarni,” he said, slowly and deliberately. “Grímur’s brother. Bjarni Thórólfsson, from Kirkjustétt.”

  “Bjarni sounds like a pleasant chap,” Matthew said, putting the medal on the table between them. “Abuses his daughter and spreads Nazi propaganda.” He turned the medal so that the helmet and swords pointed away from Thóra. “I think this’ll look great on you.”

  Thóra pushed it away. “What’s wrong with you?” she said. “I’d never wear that. It’s bound to bring bad luck, and it might make people think I’m mentally impaired.” She gestured at the plate in front of Matthew. “Eat up—it’s not often I take a man out to lunch.” They were sitting in a little restaurant, where Thóra was treating Matthew as compensation for what he’d had to buy. “It goes toward the medal, remember?”

  She loaded her fork with pasta and put it in her mouth. After swallowing, she said, “But I still don’t have a clue whether this has anything to do with Birna. I’m really in the same position as before.”

  “I’d have to say that the swastika you mentioned being sketched in her notepad isn’t very much to go on.”

  “No, maybe not,” Thóra replied. “I just have a hunch that it’s all connected.”

  “Sometimes hunches are worth paying attention to,” said Matthew, “but unfortunately not always.” He sipped his water. “It would be best if you could support this hunch of yours with actual arguments. Preferably logical ones.”

  Thóra poked at her pasta with her fork. She looked up, pleased. “Do you know what I should do?”

  “Um, I don’t know, forget all about this and leave the investigation to the police?” said Matthew hopefully.

  “No,” Thóra retorted. “I just need to get on the Internet, and

  also study Birna’s diary a little more closely. I didn’t read it properly because I felt guilty. I may well have overlooked something.” She clinked her glass of lemonade against Matthew’s water. “Let’s drink to that.”

  Thóra sat in reception at the computer that provided Internet access for guests. She had a laptop in her room, where there was supposed to be a wireless connection, but after ten fruitless attempts to connect she had given up and dragged Matthew out with her. “This must be him: ‘Grímur Thórólfsson, born in Stykkishólmur in 1890, died in Reykjavík in 1957.’ ” She was browsing Reykjavík cemetery records on the Internet and had found Grímur’s name. Clicking it, she read from the screen: “ ‘Fossvogur Cemetery. Plot H-36-0077.’ ” She looked triumphantly at Matthew.

  “I don’t want to spoil your fun, but what good is that to us?” he asked.

  “I’m curious to know what his gravestone says. Who knows, Kristín might be lying by his side. Unfortunately you can’t search by the plot references, so I’ll have to send someone in person.”

  “Who?” asked Matthew. “Hopefully not your fugitives in the trailer.”

  “No,” Thóra answered. “Our very own Wonderwoman—Bella.”

  “Yes, Bella, I’m asking you to go down to Fossvogur Cemetery to find a grave for me.” Thóra mimed a groan and rolled her eyes at Matthew, who grinned.

  “Then I need you to tell me what the gravestone says, and whether anyone named Kristín is buried either there or close by.” She paused to listen to her secretary’s protestations, then interrupted her. “Of course I realize that you can’t be at the office at the same time as you’re in the cemetery. It won’t take long. You can forward the switchboard calls to your mobile, and before you know it you’ll be back at your desk.” Thóra clutched her forehead as she listened. “Great. And let me know what you find out.” She hung up. “Bah. Why can’t I have a normal secretary who jumps at the opportunity of getting out into the fresh air? Even if it is in a churchyard.”

  Matthew smiled. “She’s okay. You just need to give her a chance.” He was lying in bed, pleased with everything and everyone, including Bella. It was thanks to her that he and Thóra had had some time to kill, and he’d made full use of it. Bella hadn’t answered when Thóra first tried to telephone her, or the second time, or the third. Thóra had then decided to give Bella half an hour before making the fourth attempt.

  Wearing a dressing gown, Thóra sat sipping the coffee that she had made in the tiny machine in the hotel room. In front of her on a small side table lay Birna’s diary. She tapped one page. “This is strange.” She looked over at Matthew, who was half dozing under the duvet in the large bed.

  “Are you trying to make absolutely certain that your fingerprints will be on every square inch of that book if it ever ends up in the hands of the police?” he asked drowsily.

  “No, listen,” Thóra said excitedly. “On the pages before the swastika, she’d been going through the boxes that I looked at in the basement. I recognize the description of some of the things in them.” She held up the page to show Matthew. “Look, she’s listed some of the contents. Maybe she made some notes. She must have come across the same objects I did, including the Nazi flag. I opened that box first, but she didn’t necessarily open them in the same order.”

  “So?” asked Matthew. “What does this brilliant discovery of yours mean?”

  Thóra put down the diary. “I’m not quite sure,” she said, turning to the page with the swastika on it. “It’s obvious that it meant something important to her, considering how carefully she drew the symbol and colored it in. Look.” She held up the diary again for Matthew to inspect. It was obvious that he could not make out the drawing from where he was lying so Thóra handed the diary over with a comment about his failing eyesight.

  “Just wait until you’re forty,” he said, propping himself up fo
r a better look. He squinted at it, then returned the diary to Thóra and put his head back down on the pillow. “It’s a very carefully produced drawing, you’re quite right. What has she written around it?”

  “This and that,” Thóra said. “Parts of it are illegible because she’s scrawled over it, but I can make out ‘Swastika??’ and ‘So where was he?’ This is followed by a couple of phone numbers that I can’t read properly because she’s crossed them out.”

  “Maybe she crossed them off after calling them?”

  “Five, eight, something …” said Thóra, her nose almost touching the page. She straightened up and slapped her thigh. “Hang on, I wrote down the numbers that Birna dialed from her hotel room. I could try calling them.”

  She fished a piece of paper out of her pocket, went to the phone and dialed the first number. Eventually it was answered. “Kaupthing Bank. May I help you?” said a voice on the other end.

  Thóra put the receiver down. “No luck there,” she said to Matthew and dialed the next. She put a finger to her lips to indicate to Matthew to keep silent when it answered.

  “Reykjalundur Rehabilitation Clinic. Can I help you?” said a cheerful female voice.

  Thóra, who had hoped it would be the private number of someone who would remember Birna, was caught unawares. She decided to get straight to the point. “Hello. My name’s Thóra.”

  “Hello, how can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for information about Birna Halldórsdóttir, an architect. She jotted down this number and I was wondering if you knew her, or could check who she knew at your establishment.” Thóra could have kicked herself—there was no way this approach would work.

  The woman on the other end of the telephone took the inquiry in her stride. “Unfortunately we don’t keep records of visits or calls. There are so many patients here that it’s impossible.”