My Soul to Take tg-2

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  “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 dow n 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 staffroom 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 looked 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.”

  Matthew looked dubious. “Are you saying she would blackmail Baldvin into swaying the committee, just to win this project?” He shook his head. “I’m not sure I believe that.”

  “For an architect in Iceland, that sort of project is like a lottery win,” she said. “It’s a large public building in a busy place, and the designer becomes a household name at once. People queue up with new projects for them. That’s the way it works here, and surely in other countries too.”

  “But how can one member of a committee sway its choice?” he asked. “The others must have some say as well.”

  “Of course,” said Thóra. “But he has access to information that isn’t available to the other architects competing for the project, so he can find out the other members’ priorities and so forth. Although all design competitions usually have to stipulate the basic requirements, the winning proposal often deviates slightly from the original specifications. For instance, if an architect knows that the committee actually wants a larger building than they’re asking for”—Thóra shrugged—“he or she has a definite advantage. And I’m positive that one person can swing the rest of a committee if he’s a smooth talker who knows what he wants. I saw on one Web site that when Baldvin was at school, he was the debating champion two years in a row. He must be a very persuasive speaker.”

  “So what are you going to do?” asked Matthew. “This isn’t watertight, and it doesn’t explain Eiríkur’s murder either.”

  “Do you remember Baldvin’s e-mail in Birna’s diary?” Thóra asked.

  “Yes,” Matthew said. “Are you going to mail him?”

  “No,” Thóra said. “I’m considering taking a little chance.” She picked up the telephone. “I’m going to ask the police to search her computer for e-mails to Baldvin. They must have it in their custody, and it’s by no means certain that they would have been looking for e-mails to him.”

&
nbsp; When the telephone was finally answered after a long wait, Thóra introduced herself and tried to sound as official as possible. “Could you put me through to Thórólfur Kjartansson, please? I know it’s late, but this is in connection with the murders on Snæfellsnes. I need to pass on an urgent message, or preferably speak to him in person.”

  She whistled along with the Muzak on the line as she waited to be connected. After a while it stopped and a weary Thórólfur said, “What?”

  Thóra lay on the bed with her arms around her daughter. She had carried her—fast asleep—out of Gylfi and Sigga’s room and into her own, more from fear that Sigga would give birth all over her daughter than anything else. Matthew had moved back to his room without protest, and she was extremely grateful because she had quite enough to occupy her mind. Mainly she was apprehensive about the following morning, afraid that Thórólfur would not take the bait, which would leave her little more to do for Jónas than put up a standard defense. That was an awful prospect.

  More thoughts plagued her, though. If either Magnús or Baldvin had murdered Birna, there was no visible explanation for their wanting to kill Eiríkur, nor any link with them. Was he Birna’s accomplice? What purpose did the fox serve, and what did “RER” mean, if anything?

  Kristín was bothering her most. Thóra had discovered that she was Gudný’s daughter, but that seemed irrelevant to the case. More thoughts crowded her mind but she was too tired to focus on them and they soon merged into one amorphous mass: coal, walls, horses, deeds of sale, lapsed claims, a broken leg . . .

  She woke with a start to the sound of a baby crying. In a daze, she freed her arm from beneath her sleeping daughter’s head and sat up. The sound came again and she got out of bed and went to the window, but could see nothing in the half-light. Somewhere out there, the strange wailing resumed, then stopped as suddenly as it had started. Thóra shut the window and arranged the curtains securely to block the view outside. A newborn infant dragging itself along by one arm in bloodstained swaddling clothes suddenly did not seem as preposterous as it had when she was teasing Matthew. She jumped back into bed with her daughter, determined not to mention this to anyone. She must have imagined the whole business. Through the closed window, she vaguely heard the pitiful crying start up again.