My Soul to Take: A Novel of Iceland (12 page)

A muffled creak was heard from the floor above. It was followed by what sounded like a low groan.

"Did you hear that?" whispered Thora. Mathew nodded. In a louder voice she called out in the direction of the landing. "Hello! Is someone there?" Sheer silence greeted them from above.

"It's probably just the boards rotting away." Matthew appeared nonchalant while Thora knew her face was ashen. This house was eerie in a way that she could not pinpoint. Who leaves their home in such a rush that they can't take the time to box up their belongings? This was a bad place and she could not suppress the feeling that the former inhabitants had wanted so badly to depart the premises that their stuff had not mattered.

Before heading upstairs they peeked through a door leading down to the basement, but because there was no light inside, Thora decided it was not imperative for them to go down there and they went up instead. The house was creepy enough as it was and Thora had no longing to enter its underbelly. She would rather move on to the second story where the groan had originated. On the landing they found five doors, all closed. The first one Matthew tried turned out to be locked. Gripping the handle of the next, he suddenly stopped. "Take a quick look at the drawing and tell me which one is the bathroom."

After checking Birna's diary, Thora proposed they examine the room marked "Kristin?" "I think that interested Birna most," Thora said, pointing out the door.

"I'll never forgive you if you're playing a trick on me and this is another bathroom," he said before he opened it.

"You'll see," Thora said, and pushed open the door the moment he turned the handle. She made sure that he did not notice that her eyes were closed while the door swung inward. If there was something awful behind it she did not want to see it. When he did not yell out she opened them and acted natural.

They walked into a child's bedroom, presumably a little girl's. At the head of a white-painted bed sat a scruffy teddy bear with one eye missing. It was covered in light brown fur, apart from the chest, which was made from gray material. Its limbs were attached by black steel buttons at the shoulders and hips, and Thora was moved to see how the faded red ribbon around its neck had yielded to gravity and now dangled down to the middle of its chest. A tatty doll sat beside the teddy bear, its painted eyes staring at the wall opposite the bed.

"There's something really weird about this," said Thora, disturbed.

"Yes," answered Matthew. "Someone clearly left in a hurry. Look." He went up to a shelf where a few dusty books were arranged. Beneath the shelf was a white-painted desk and a sheet of paper with a half-finished drawing on it. Crayons were spread across the desk. He picked up the drawing to examine it more closely. The corners were curled, and a layer of gray dust covered the surface. He blew on it, sending up a cloud that he batted away. Then he handed the drawing to Thora. "The child didn't even have time to finish her drawing."

Thora scrutinized the picture. It would have been by a child only slightly older than her daughter, Soley, who was six. It showed a burning house, with thick flames climbing skyward through the roof. Roughly half the picture had been colored in.

"An odd subject," Thora said, putting it down. "Do you suppose it's a drawing of this house?"

Matthew shook his head. "No, I don't think so. Although it's a child's drawing, it clearly only has one floor." He frowned. "The door's unusually large as well."

Thora pointed to the window. "Are those eyes?" She stooped for a better view. "I'll be damned. The kid's drawn someone inside the house. Look, there's an open mouth but no nose."

Matthew bent down. "Charming subject for a picture. Maybe the child was a bit strange."

"Or had seen something disturbing," Thora said, turning away from the desk. "I think we should find out about the family who lived here and why they moved away. I know the man who lived here was called Grimur, and I think he had only one daughter, who was so young when she died that she couldn't have drawn this picture. Another family may have lived here after them." She went over to a small door set into the wall. Opening it carefully, she saw that it was a closet. There were several hangers on the rail. Two still had clothes hanging from them, a small sweater and a thin cotton shift dress. Both were too large to belong to Edda, who had died in her fourth year, according to the album in the hotel basement. The dress swayed slightly on the hanger and Thora took a step back. "Did that dress just move?"

"Looks like it. Maybe there is a draft entering from the back of the closet. What's behind there?" Matthew asked, pointing inside the wardrobe.

Thora stuck her head inside and noticed that at the back of the wardrobe there was a frame around a rectangular board, not quite flush with the wall surrounding it. She pressed the board and it fell inward. "Oh, look!" she exclaimed. "It's a little door on hinges and there are some stairs leading up."

They took turns peering into the dark hole and Matthew took out his car key. There was a tiny light on it that he could use as a flashlight. He illuminated the stairs. "Look," he said, gesturing toward one of the steps that he had lit up, "a footprint in the dust. Someone's been up

here."

"Birna. It's bound to have been Birna," Thora said firmly. "She recorded the condition of the beams in her diary and wanted to see the state of the rafters. This must lead up to an attic. Shall we go up?"

Matthew looked amused. "Sure, just wait here while I go and fetch a knife. I just need to chop off my arm, and maybe the shoulder for good measure." He pointed to the hole. "There's no way I could get through there."

"Give me your key, then," Thora said with more bravado than she felt at the thought of going alone into the attic. She put the key in her mouth while she clambered into the closet and squeezed from there through the narrow hole. Before heading up the steps, she turned to Matthew, grinning. "See you. I'll kill you if I trip over a rat." She went up the first step. Then a thought occurred to her and she leaned back through the hole. "Or a mouse. I'll also kill you if there's a mouse."

The attic was completely empty. When Thora aimed the weak beam of the torch along the floor, she could see Birna had been walking around up there. She was apprehensive about stepping on to the floor in case it wouldn't take her weight; Birna was much smaller than her, judging by the clothes Thora had seen in her room. Thora would have preferred to examine the attic from the steps where she was standing, but when the light caught something glittering by one of the wooden posts supporting the beams, she couldn't resist temptation. She inched her way cautiously out on to the floor. It creaked and groaned with each step she took, and she half expected to plunge through onto Matthew in the room below. Or, far worse, into the bathroom. She aimed the tiny torch farther across the attic and saw that Birna—or whoever's footprints they were—had also been there. Thora slowly began to make her way to the post but every step she took away from the opening increased her apprehension. It wasn't so much falling between floors that caused her anxiety but a feeling of not being alone. A feeling she could not shake despite common sense telling her that no one was thin enough to hide behind the many slender posts that held up the roof. At one point she could have sworn she heard someone breathing behind her and the goose bumps that crept up her neckline into her scalp did nothing to dampen the effect. It was as if a tiny stream of cool air had been blown into her neckline. The breath of a dead child. Thora froze in her tracks but did not dare turn around. "Matthew? Are you there?" She heard his muffled and puzzled voice call back to her. She relaxed a bit, mustered up the courage to peek behind her, and kept on going when she saw nothing.

When she finally reached the post, she breathed a sigh of relief. She bent down and brought the light closer to the object she'd seen.

Gold. Or gold-plated, anyway. With a smile, Thora picked up a winged brooch. Thora squinted at it in the dim light—it looked like it might be a pilot's badge. She put it back and picked up a cracked china cup. Inside were a silver spoon that had turned black, two white milk teeth, and a crucifix necklace. A few curling photos of film stars lay in a neat pile nearby. Thora began to straighten up but stopped dead halfway. She shone the light on to the vertical beam and leaned right into it.

An inscription had been scratched into the wood. She twisted around to read it.

"Matthew!" she called out. "Kristin's name is here!" "What?" she heard him reply.

She bent down again to reread the inscription and memorize it for Matthew, since he obviously couldn't hear her properly.
It said, "dad killed kristin. i
hate dad." As soon as the words left her mouth Thora jolted up ramrod straight. She could have sworn she heard a child's giggling coming from the deepest and darkest corner of the attic. Even though she knew full well that her imagination was running away with her, Thora made a hurried exit, not caring at all if she fell through the rotting floorboards.

Chapter
11

YES, THEY
F
I
NALLY
decided to remove that stuff, like I said," said Jonas, leaning back in his chair. They were relaxing by the fire in an alcove beside the bar, where old pictures adorned the walls. Out of courtesy to Matthew they were speaking in English, and the hotelier's almost accent-free pronounciation reminded Thora that he had made his money abroad. "I asked Birna to inform them that work on the annex was pending, so they should take anything they wanted before construction began. In the end the plans for the annex fell through, but they started clearing it all the same. I have no idea what progress they've made. At least, no one has notified us that they've finished."

Matthew took a sip of his beer. "Have they ever stayed here?"

"No, they've never asked for a room, but they've been here several times and dined in the restaurant."

"Have they both been here to clear the farmhouse, or just Elin?"

"I have no idea," Jonas replied. "I remember quite a few of them coming once, the brother and his wife, the sister and two kids, his son and her daughter. I don't know whether they were just visiting for the day or if they stayed somewhere in the area. Vigdis told me the young girl had come to reception once or twice to ask us for cardboard boxes. They still own some land out here on the peninsula, I seem to recall, so they might have stayed there. I think they also own a house in Stykkisholmur or Olafsvik, which they use as a summer house. Neither place is far away."

"could any of them have had anything against Birna?" Thora asked. "Not as far as I know," Jonas said. "I know that she talked to the brother, but I believe it was all on very friendly terms. She was looking for local information from back when the farms were inhabited. I think she was hoping he had old maps or something." "And did she find any?" asked Thora.

"No, I don't think so," Jonas replied. "I seem to recall that he didn't have anything like that, or possibly he gave her something that turned out to be of no use. I know he let her look through the old stuff in the basement at Kirkjustett, and on the other side at Kreppa."

"Do you remember Birna ever mentioning the name Kristin?" Thora asked. "Did she ask them about her?"

Jonas shook his head. "I don't think so. Who's this Kristin?"

"No idea," Thora replied. "I'm sure she has nothing to do with this. We found her name in—" Thora just managed to stop herself before she mentioned Birna's diary "Carved on a beam at the farmhouse. Maybe it's just the name of a pet—a cat, a lamb even. We think it was written by a child."

"Kristin's quite a strange name for a cat," Jonas said. "But I don't remember Birna ever mentioning any Kristin, human or animal."

They fell silent for a while. Thora sipped the white wine Jonas had ordered for her, and contemplated their surroundings. The snug was cozy, with old-fashioned decor despite being in the modern annex.

"Are they local?" Thora asked, pointing to the old photographs on the walls.

"No, I bought them at an antique shop. I have no idea who those people are. It was Birna's idea." Jonas looked around. "Quite a good one,

I think."

Matthew and Thora nodded in agreement. "Maybe you should ask the family for permission to use some of the photos in the boxes down in the basement?" suggested Thora. "There are several albums and a few in frames, and I think they show the former inhabitants. They might look quite charming here. I took most of them up to my room to take a better look at them, so I can show you if you like."

Jonas shuddered. "No, thank you, but thanks for the offer. The less I know about them, the better."

"Which photograph was it, exactly, the one you recognized the ghost from?" Thora asked. "I've been through them and there are a number of candidates."

"It was a framed photo of a young girl," replied Jonas. "Blond. The spitting image of the creature that appeared in my room."

"So it wasn't a child?" asked Thora. "I was under the impression it was a child." The only framed picture that Thora had come across was of Gudny, the one she had put on her bedside table. Gudny was not a child in the photo, but well into her teens.

"Child or not," Jonas said, "a young girl, much younger than me—a child in my eyes."

"And you're positive that this happened?" interrupted Matthew. His expression spoke volumes. "You didn't dream it?"

"No," snapped Jonas. "That's out of the question. I was tired, which explains a lot. When you're in that state, the mind's defenses are down and you're more receptive to otherworldly phenomena. It happened, I promise you."

"Okay, then," Thora said briskly. "Let's leave that for the time being. How are you getting on with remembering where you were on Thursday evening?"

"Oh, that," said Jonas. "Not so badly. I remember I was here when the seance was about to begin, then decided not to go to it. I was afraid of what might come out of it."

"Afraid?" exclaimed Matthew. "Afraid of what?"

"Of what might be revealed. This place is turning out to be full of evil, and I don't feel the need to have that confirmed by departed souls," Jonas explained, as if it were a normal thing to say. "So I decided to go for a walk and regenerate my energy centers. There was a low fog, which is always conducive to that."

Thora spoke quickly, before Matthew had time to ask him about energy centers. "Did you meet anyone on your walk?"

"No," replied Jonas. "No one. The weather was foul and it's low season, so there wasn't a soul about apart from me."

"You're forgetting Birna," said Thora. "And the murderer. They must have been out at the same time." She looking imploringly at Jonas. "Please tell me you didn't go down to the bay where Birna's body was found."

"No, I didn't go there," he said. "I only walked part of the way. I was pretty wound up; I was just roaming around, really. I'd called in a local guy to mend the drain under the drive, and that very day he'd dug up the road, then just gone home without finishing the job. The guests at the seance had to leave their cars by the main road and walk the rest. Two kilometers. I'm sure a lot of people turned back, and you can only imagine how irritated the other hotel guests were at discovering their cars were blocked in."

"When was it mended?" asked Matthew.

"First thing the next morning," Jonas said, still grumpy at the memory of the road digger. "He didn't dare do otherwise after I gave him a piece of my mind."

"So no cars would have been able to go between the hotel and the bay, where Birna was probably murdered that evening?" Thora asked.

"No, that would have been impossible," Jonas said. "There was a huge hole in the road."

"Did you have your mobile phone when you went for the walk?" asked Matthew.

Jonas didn't hesitate. "Definitely not. It emits waves that disturb me when I'm regenerating my energy centers."

Matthew's brow furrowed. He seemed about to ask Jonas to explain when Vigdis came over carrying some printouts.

"These are the lists you asked for," she said, handing Jonas two sheets of paper. "These are the names of the guests staying at the hotel on Thursday and Friday nights, and these are the people with reservations who either didn't turn up or canceled." She flashed Thora and Matthew a fake smile. "I must get back to reception to man the phones." She strode off and Jonas called his thanks after her.

After scanning the lists, he handed them to Thora. "This is a print-out from the reservations system, although it's probably not much help. I can't imagine that one of the hotel guests would have murdered Birna. That seems quite unbelievable to me."

"You never know," Thora admonished him. She began reading. It was not a long list. "Are these bookings quite low? There aren't many names here."

"No, not at all," Jonas replied, looking wounded. "You can't expect the hotel to be fully booked except right in the middle of summer. The tourist season is so short it can hardly be called a 'season.' I've been thinking of arranging events here this winter to attract people. Otherwise it will be rather bleak."

Thora nodded without taking her eyes off the list. "According to this, eight rooms were occupied on Thursday night and ten on Friday."

"That fits," said Jonas. "Of course, I don't memorize the figures, but that's probably about right." He reached for his beer and took a sip. "This is organic beer," he said as he put the glass back down and wiped the froth from his upper lip.

Thora noticed Matthew's eyebrows twitching. He sniffed suspiciously at his glass. Before he could grill Jonas about brewing methods, she showed Jonas the list and said, "Do you know any of the guests? Are there any regulars here, for example?"

"We opened so recently that we haven't established a regular clientele unfortunately, but I must be able to remember them." Jonas put his finger against the name at the top and began there. "Let's see, Mr. and Mrs. Brietnes—no, they were an elderly couple from Norway and are very unlikely to be involved in the fatality." He moved his finger down. "Karl Hermannsson—I don't remember him; he seems to have stayed just the one night. But I remember this couple, Arnar Fridriksson and Asdis Henrysdottir—they've been here before. They're interested in what we're doing and take lots of treatments. They can't be involved in any way. Hang on. Who's this? Throstur Laufeyjarson?" Jonas thought to himself. "Oh, yes, the canoeist. He's been paddling around here, training for a race. He's booked until Wednesday. Very quiet, very moody. Could well be a murderer."

"Not necessarily," said Thora, who didn't believe murderers were any more reserved or secretive than the rest of us. "What about these foreigners?" She pointed at the next names.

"Mr. Takahashi and his son." Jonas looked up at Thora and smiled. "Far, far too polite to kill anyone. Both very quiet, and the father's recovering from cancer treatment to boot. His son never leaves his side. You can rule them out." He looked at the next line. "I don't know who these two are, Bjorn Einarsson and Gudny Sveinbjornsdottir—I can't place them. But you ought to recognize this one, Thora: Magnus Baldvinsson, an old left-wing politician."

When Thora heard the name, it clicked with the face of the man she had seen in the dining room at lunchtime. "Yes, of course. I saw him at lunch. I read an article about him in the paper the other day. He's the grandfather of that city councilor Baldvin Baldvinsson, quite a rising star in politics. What's he doing here?"

"Just relaxing, I think. He's not exactly chatty, but he did tell me he was brought up in the countryside around here. I suppose the heart and mind return to childhood haunts when people grow older," Jonas said. He carried on down the list. "I don't recall this Thordis Robertsdottir, no idea who she is. I remember this one, though, Robin Kohman—he's a photographer shooting for an article in a travel magazine about western Iceland and the West Fjords. There was a journalist with him for a while, but he's just left. On Tuesday or Wednesday, I think. This Teitur Jakobsson is a stockbroker who's been here for a few days; he seems pleasant enough in a slightly snooty way. He was injured in a riding accident after he arrived and I was certain he'd leave, but he's still here. The rest of the names, I don't recognize. No one arrived on Friday, and no one canceled." He put the papers down on the table, and Thora picked them up.

"Is it okay if I try talking to these people?" Thora asked.

"Of course," Jonas said. "But try to treat the guests with consideration. Don't offend them." With a sideways glance at Matthew, he whispered in Icelandic, "Don't let him interrogate anyone. Just make it look like a chat." He straightened up and slapped his thigh. "I'll go and check on the cops. They're examining Birna's room now; I don't know what they think is hidden there."

Matthew winked and grinned at Thora. "Nope, they definitely won't find anything there," he said, deadpan.

"And they've got my mobile-phone handset now," Jonas said, "so at least they can keep themselves busy writing down everything on it."

STEINI SAT AND BROODED, STARING OUT AT THE DRIVEWAY THROUG
H
the window. For all the traffic that passed, he could have been alone in the world. No cars, no people. He had already watched enough TV to last a lifetime, and he was only twenty-three. If his life had unfolded properly, things would have been different. It wasn't supposed to turn out like this; in fact, he was still waiting for someone to come and tell him that it was all a misunderstanding, that it hadn't happened to him, but to someone else. Anyone, he didn't care who, as long as it was someone else. "Sorry we put you through all this unnecessarily, mate, but these things happen sometimes. You can stand up. Go on. It was all a misunderstanding. Your car isn't in the scrapyard; someone else's is. And you weren't in it." A harsh, bitter laugh escaped him. Fat chance.

As he shifted in his seat, the reflection of his face appeared in the window. He flinched and pulled his hood farther over his head, leaving as little of his face visible as possible. He would never get used to this. Never. With practiced hands, Steini grasped the wheels of his wheel-chair and rolled away from the window.

Where was Berta? She had promised to come, and she always kept her word. Dear, wonderful Berta. Without her, he did not know how he'd manage. Therapists, doctors, psychiatrists, whoever, they never stopped nagging him to go to Reykjavik, enroll at the university and do something with his life. It wasn't over just because he was in bad shape. With proper therapy he might be able to get along okay without the wheelchair most of the time, although it would be a slow and painful process. Those people didn't understand him. He had to stay here. He belonged here; this area was his home. There weren't too many people, and most of them knew him. No one recoiled in shock at the terrible mask where his face should have been. In Reykjavik that would happen to him a hundred times a day. He would wither and die in no time. He was infinitely grateful to Berta. She was largely responsible for enabling him to stay here in such a helpless condition.