Thóra was pacing in circles around the parking lot, trying to get a mobile signal. Matthew watched her in bemusement. “Why don’t you use the phone in your room?” he asked, hopping up and down to keep warm. The weather was horrible—Thóra couldn’t tell if they were in the middle of a bank of fog or if it was just low clouds.
She had made a fruitless attempt to contact her son the previous evening, and wanted to start the day by locating both him and her trailer. The boy did not have a valid driver’s license, but he was taking lessons. Thóra was petrified that something bad had happened. The sequence of texts on her mobile had painted a clear picture of the scenario as it unfolded. The first three were from Gylfi. In the first he expressed displeasure at not being able to go home as planned, in the second he said his dad was driving him mad, and the third merely stated, “eye of the tiger—im out of here.” Several texts from her ex followed, declaring Gylfi impossible to live with and blaming her for that. Thóra erased those messages. Gylfi was generally fairly soft-spoken, a keen student, and far from the thug his father described. He was only young, though, and sometimes had trouble holding his tongue, especially on the subject of his father’s dreadful attempts at karaoke. “Eye of the Tiger” had clearly been the straw that broke the camel’s back. Thóra could not recall Gylfi ever being excited about going to stay with his father, even without his sister’s PlayStation SingStar. After their divorce, Hannes had met a woman who was a passionate horse lover and he had been bitten by the same bug. Neither Gylfi nor Sóley shared his interest—in fact, Gylfi was frightened of horses, a fear he had picked up from his mother. He always felt uncomfortable at his father’s house, with the threat of a horse ride hanging over his head. In spite of all Thóra’s efforts to explain, Hannes refused to understand. He always said their son “just hadn’t got the hang of it yet.”
Thóra sighed deeply, waiting for Gylfi to pick up. She wondered whether she should call his girlfriend’s parents, but quailed at the thought. Gylfi had obviously taken her with him on his impromptu trailer journey, because Thóra had received a text from the girl’s mother and didn’t care to recollect the language she had used. As a mother, Thóra could well understand the woman’s fury; she would not be best pleased if it were her daughter, Sóley, on the verge of giving birth in her sixteenth year, absconding with a boy hardly any older in an SUV pulling a trailer. She thanked her lucky stars that Sigga’s parents had not realized that Gylfi was driving without a license.
Eventually her call was answered and Gylfi’s sleepy voice came over the line. “Hello.”
“Where are you?” shouted Thóra, who had intended to remain calm.
“What? Me?” Gylfi asked foolishly.
“Yes, you, of course. Where are you?”
Gylfi yawned. “Somewhere near Hveragerdi, I think. We drove past it yesterday.”
Thóra cursed herself for not having made more effort to travel around the country with the kids. From previous experience she knew that the whole of southern Iceland was “near Hveragerdi” to Gylfi’s mind, just as the whole of north Iceland was “near Akureyri.”
“Are you in the trailer?” she asked, adding in the next breath, “And who’s this ‘we’?”
“ ‘We’ are me and Sigga,” Gylfi said, then muttered, “Oh, and Sóley too.”
“Sóley’s still with you?” yelled Thóra. “Why haven’t you dropped her off at your grandmother’s? You don’t even have a driver’s license yet, and even if you did, you wouldn’t be allowed to tow a trailer. To say nothing of your pregnant girlfriend and six-year-old sister.”
“Driving’s a cinch,” Gylfi said with masculine self-confidence. “And just so you know, Sóley’s here because she refused to tell me where you hid the keys to the SUV unless I took her along. Even she’d had enough of Dad’s caterwauling. She couldn’t use her PlayStation since he wouldn’t get off bloody SingStar.”
Thóra groaned. “Gylfi,” she said as calmly as she could manage, “don’t move the trailer another inch. I’ll come and collect you tonight. Are you at a campsite?”
“Uh, no,” Gylfi replied. “I don’t think so. We’re just somewhere I stopped.”
“I see,” Thóra said. She closed her eyes and shook her head to ward off a scream. “Find out exactly where you are and let me know. Send me a text; the connection’s dismal here. Don’t go any farther. You don’t want to end up injuring yourself or someone else in the traffic.”
After Gylfi had agreed, she ended the call. Thóra could only hope that he would do as he was told. As a rule he was obedient, but if they had parked at the roadside or somewhere equally random, they would surely get hungry and need to move soon. She put her mobile in her pocket and turned to Matthew. “I said it last night and I’ll say it again. Never have children.”
Thóra drummed against the edge of the desk with the pen she was holding between finger and thumb.
“Does that help you to think?” asked Matthew. “I hope so, because I can’t keep a thought in my head with that racket.”
She put down the pen and turned glumly to Matthew. “This is important. I’m trying to keep my mind on this, but I can’t stop thinking about my children in that trailer.” She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “Why on earth did I buy that contraption?”
“Because you’re rubbish with money?” He smiled.
They were sitting in the hotel room, Thóra at the desk and Matthew on the bed. He was reclining comfortably against the headboard. She was sitting on a modern-looking chair that valued appearance over practicality or comfort.
“Start by writing down what you know for certain,” he said, making himself even more comfortable. “The rest will follow.”
Thóra picked up her pen and thought for a while. At her suggestion, she and Matthew were going through the details of the case in preparation for meeting Börkur and Elín, the brother and sister who had sold Jónas the land. She had a feeling this would be her only chance to ask them detailed questions, so she wanted to have everything straight. “Okay,” she said, and started writing.
When she looked up, she had filled three pages of A4 paper. Admittedly they were widely spaced, so there was not that much text—she wanted to keep the details she remembered clear. She looked over to the bed, feeling pleased with herself. “Wake up,” she said, seeing that Matthew had dozed off.
Matthew woke with a grunt. “I wasn’t asleep,” he responded. “Have you finished?”
“Yes,” Thóra said, picking up the sheets of paper. “At least, this is all I can remember right now.”
“Tell me,” Matthew said, propping himself back up. His body had slid down from the head of the bed when he fell asleep.
“Firstly, there’s the ghost. I’ve talked to quite a few people and they all agree this place is haunted. Although most of the locals are fairly gullible, I’m inclined to believe something happened here—”
Matthew interrupted her. “Are you kidding?” he asked. “You think there’s some truth in the ghost story?”
“No, of course not,” Thóra said tetchily. “You didn’t let me finish. I was going to say that presumably there’s a natural explanation. Most people here believe in the supernatural and might interpret strange goings-on in those terms—incidents for which there might be other, more normal explanations. I think we ought to try to find out what they are. Ghosts on the lawn, the sound of children crying in the middle of the night, apparitions in the bedrooms.”
“The ghost only appeared in Jónas’s room,” Matthew said, pedantic as ever. “But that might not matter. How can you explain all that? Maybe it’s aliens?”
“Ha, ha,” said Thóra humorlessly. “The thought struck me that it might just have been Birna and Bergur having sex outside. The counselor said they went in for rough sex. Who knows, the wailing sound might have come from them and the ‘ghosts’ could have been them, looking for somewhere to go?”
“I heard the crying, and it had nothing to do with sex,” said Matthew, blushing slightly because he knew Thóra thought he’d imagined it. “Besides, Birna was dead by the time I heard it.”
Thóra regarded him thoughtfully. “I don’t know how to say this, but I don’t think you heard anything. I think you dreamed the whole thing.” Seeing that Matthew was about to protest, she quickly went on, “Anyway, I’m sure there’s an explanation and I’ve resolved to find it, because it could be linked to the murders.”
“Wouldn’t doing that ruin Jónas’s case about the concealed defects in the property?” he asked. “If you can explain the ghosts, you have nothing to base the compensation claim on.”
“No, of course, that would be a major setback—if the case had any legal merit to begin with,” she replied. “I do think Jónas is telling the truth about what prompted him to bring the action, though: these ‘ghosts’ have a negative effect on his employees and therefore on his business. If I can explain the hauntings and prove that they were not supernatural, I’ve achieved his ultimate goal. The employees will be happy, and Jónas can stop worrying about resignations and demands for pay raises.”
“That’s if they believe you,” said Matthew. “Even if people listen, they don’t necessarily hear.”
Thóra put down one sheet of paper and picked up another. “Whatever. Either way, I think there’s a logical explanation.” She skimmed the page and looked up. “Then there’s Birna’s murder. There are several things about it that need closer examination.”
“Such as your weird client?” Matthew smirked.
Thóra resisted a momentary urge to throw the ashtray at him. Instead she said, “Yes, actually. Among others. He may well be more involved in this than he admits. For example, he didn’t tell me the truth about his connection with Birna. It would be good to hear an unbiased account of their relationship and how it ended.”
“What do you think about the message sent to Birna from his mobile?” Matthew asked. “Do you believe it was sent without his knowledge?”
Thóra shrugged. “Damned if I know. Actually, I find it hard to believe Jónas killed Birna, whether he sent that message or not. He’s the type who wouldn’t admit to sending it, because of what happened afterward. He mightn’t have met her there, even if he sent the text. Maybe something came up, or he simply changed his mind.” After a pause she added, “If so, Jónas might have told the murderer where they were going to meet and he saw his chance.”
“Who, though?” asked Matthew.
“I don’t know, but Jónas might be able to tell us something.” Then she shook her head. “No, he won’t, actually. He can’t say anything without admitting that he sent the message. We’ll never get him to do that.”
“The other possibility, of course, is that the murderer stole his mobile and sent the message in Jónas’s name. He said he never has his phone on him,” Matthew reminded her. “There are plenty of people who’d have had the opportunity. Guests at the hotel, staff, and of course the audience at the séance. The problem with this theory is that no one at the hotel, or at least no one attending the séance, could have made it down to the beach to kill Birna—not if the murder was committed around nine, as the text message suggests.”
“Agreed,” said Thóra, looking back at her notes. “Then there’s this farmer, Bergur. I put him at the bottom of the page because he’s doubly involved through the man who was found dead at his stables. I think that’s a hell of a coincidence. Two bodies in three days, one his mistress, the other on his property. I’d really like to know the identity of that man.”
Matthew’s eyes narrowed. “Have you considered Bergur’s wife? She would seem to have ample reason for getting rid of Birna, if their marriage meant more to her than to her husband.”
Thóra nodded slowly. “You’re right, of course. Maybe we ought to pay her a call. What pretext should we use?”
“We could offer to muck out the stables,” suggested Matthew, laughing. “She’s bound to need that done.”
Thóra smiled. “Yes, that might work—if she’s blind and stupid. No one would believe you’re a shit-shoveler. You might as well offer her Icelandic lessons.” She inspected his neatly pressed trousers and crisp white shirt. “Perhaps you could say you’re a Mormon missionary. You wouldn’t even need to change your clothes.”
Matthew ignored her. “Why don’t we tell them the truth?” he suggested. “We could meet them both separately.”
“And what’s the ‘truth?’ That we suspect her of murder?” Thóra shook her head. “That won’t work.”
“The truth has many sides,” Matthew said. “You just say you’re investigating the hauntings. That’s no lie.”
Thóra pondered. “Actually, that’s true. Also, they might know something about the history of the farm and the area. That’s not such a bad idea.”
“What else have you got?” asked Matthew. “Surely you don’t have only three candidates?”
Thóra read quickly down the page. “No, of course not. I find that canoeist, Thröstur Laufeyjarson, very suspicious. We need to talk to him.”
Matthew shrugged, unconvinced. “What, just because he paddled away when he saw us on the beach?”
“Among other things, yes,” she replied. “And I thought the Japanese father and son were quite odd, although that’s probably just my imagination.” She looked back at the page. “That waiter, Jökull, was very negative about Birna as well. Then there’s the old politician, Magnús. He was definitely hiding something. Why wouldn’t he admit asking after Birna when he checked in, for example?”
“You’re kidding, right?” said Matthew. “He’s so ancient he couldn’t kill a potted plant. He may well have something to hide, but I can’t quite envisage him sending a text and then scrambling down on to the beach to kill someone. And why are you just focusing on men? The murderer could just as easily be female.”
“Like who?” Thóra asked. “Vigdís the receptionist? Or that drunken sex therapist, Stefanía?”
“Why not?” retorted Matthew. “Or Bergur’s wife, as I said earlier? I’m just pointing out that you know far too little to rule anyone out.”
Thóra sighed. “I know. Unfortunately.” She picked up the last page. “Then there are things that I want to look into even though they may have nothing to do with Birna’s murder.”
“Fire away,” said Matthew. “This is fun.”
“I’d like to know who Kristín was,” Thóra said. “Her name’s in Birna’s diary, so it’s possible that she’s linked with the murder.”
Matthew snorted with laughter, but stopped when Thóra glared at him. “Go on.”
“Also, I’d like to take a look at Birna’s studio. I’ve been in her room, and although I’m not an architect, it’s obvious that she did only a limited amount of work there. There was no computer, for example.”
“Have you asked Jónas?”
“No, I haven’t. It only occurred to me just now when I was making notes. But I will. Since someone went to the trouble of tearing her room apart, there must be something worth having in it.”
“I agree,” said Matthew. “But if her studio’s in Reykjavík, the police are practically certain to have sealed it.”
“I’m almost positive she did some work out here. Jónas seemed to think so,” said Thóra, turning the page over. “And there’s more,” she continued, reading through her last few notes. “I’d like to know where Grímur is buried.” She looked up from the sheet. “Plus I’m dying to find out what happened to that young man in the wheelchair.”
“My God,” Matthew said. “Don’t start that again.”
“I have to know,” insisted Thóra. “If only because the waiter acted so strangely when I mentioned him. It was very odd.” Looking back at the page, she added, “We also need to find out why the police asked Jónas about foxes and pins, and of course what ‘RER’ stands for. And, as I said, I’d like to know more about the second victim.”
“It’s good to know exactly what you want,” teased Matthew. “That on its own is enough for some people.”
Thóra wasn’t listening. “I also need to know a bit more about Nazi activity in Iceland,” she said as she gathered up the papers.
Matthew gave such a mighty groan that Thóra thought for a moment he was in pain. “God, the bloody Nazis,” he grumbled. “They always turn up sooner or later.”