“I know it’s almost time for you to leave the office, Bella,” Thóra said wearily. “I’m not asking you to do it tonight. You can check it out in the morning.” She shook her head at Matthew as her secretary complained at the other end of the line. “Bella, I just thought it was an ideal job for you since you’re so fond of horses.” As ever, Thóra wondered how the gargantuan Bella would ever manage to mount a horse. “All you have to do is to find out whether there is any connection between horses and foxes, or between foxes and death.” She sighed and closed her eyes when Bella interrupted with another question. “Bella, I don’t know what you’re supposed to look for. Just try and find out whether foxes and horses, especially stallions, have anything in common.” Thóra realized she’d have to explain herself better. “The point is that a man was found in the stables, trampled to death by a stallion. A dead fox was tied to the body. There must be a reason.”
Matthew winked and smiled at Thóra. He was well aware of the friction between her and her secretary, and enjoyed listening in even when he didn’t understand a word. “Say hello from me,” he whispered.
Thóra pulled a face at him. “Yes, yes, Bella. You’ll find something. You did a great job in the cemetery and I’m sure you will now. And Matthew sends his regards.” She smiled sweetly at him as she spoke. “He really wants to go to the stables with you when we get back. We went to one earlier today and he was absolutely enchanted. Now he can’t wait to try mucking out and feeding the horses. The Germans love Icelandic horses.” She said goodbye and turned to Matthew. “Bella has invited you to go with her to the stables when we get back to town,” she said. “She sends her love.”
“Ha, ha,” Matthew said. “Hilarious. I hope you told her about the great welcome you received when we visited the stables. You managed to say—what?—three whole words before Rósa went berserk.”
“You must admit that she reacted very oddly,” said Thóra, “no matter how inappropriate the question. I have to find out what her relationship is with Jökull.”
“She did overreact a little bit,” he admitted, “but I did warn you not to go poking your nose in.”
“The funny thing is that I was trying to be polite because I thought Bergur was so nasty to her,” said Thóra. “Asking about the boy in the wheelchair was all I could think of.”
“More’s the pity,” said Matthew. “Can’t you find anything about it on the Internet? His injuries clearly aren’t congenital; they look like they were sustained in a fire—and fires are generally newsworthy. Especially if someone gets hurt. You must be able to access old stories on newspaper Web sites.”
“Yes, I’m sure I could try,” Thóra said. “It would just be so much easier if I found someone from here who could tell me. I don’t know what I’m looking for; I don’t even know whether it happened a decade or a month ago. The papers seldom report injuries—they tend to say the victim is in critical condition, badly injured, doing as well as can be expected, et cetera. Besides, I don’t even know if it was a house fire or if the lad simply fell into a hot spring.” She sighed. “And I really ought to concentrate on trying to help poor Jónas.”
Matthew grunted. “If you can,” he said. “You have to admit he might be guilty.”
“Yes, unfortunately I do,” she conceded. “But I’m fairly sure that he didn’t commit those murders.”
“Who did, then?” asked Matthew. “Things would look a lot better if there was another suspect.”
Thóra thought about it. “Bergur would be the obvious candidate, but I have no idea why he’d kill Eiríkur.” She bit her lip. They were leaning against Matthew’s rental car in the hotel car park, where Thóra had gone to call Bella. “We can rule out everyone who was at the séance, surely?” mused Thóra. “It was going on at the time Birna was murdered, according to the police.”
“Do we know the exact time of death yet?” asked Matthew.
“Thórólfur said it was between nine and ten last Thursday,” she replied. “He must have based that on the autopsy. That also fits with the text message asking her to turn up at nine.” She sighed. “The séance began at eight o’clock. It took us about half an hour from the beach, so if the murderer left the séance on foot, he would never have got back before the interval at half past nine. The drive to the hotel had been dug up, so no one could have got there by car, and it would have taken too long to walk up to the main road.”
“Do you know who was at the séance?” said Matthew. “There’s not much point trying to rule out a whole group of people if you don’t know their names.”
“No, but I’m sure Vigdís knows who was due to attend. She was in charge of selling tickets,” said Thóra. “And a lot of people would have paid by credit card, so we could find out some of the names.”
“Shouldn’t you be concentrating on the people who might be suspects rather than those who definitely aren’t?” he suggested.
“Yes, but this way I can eliminate a lot of people. Also, it would give me a list of people who may have seen Jónas hanging around in the interval and could give him an alibi,” Thóra said. She watched as a seagull flew above them. “Unless the murderer flew,” she said idly, then suddenly straightened up. “What about by sea?” she said. “Could he have had a motorboat and sailed into the bay?”
Matthew was unconvinced. “Isn’t that a bit tenuous?” he said. “I’ve been to the bay and I don’t much fancy trying to land on the beach. It would take the bottom of the boat out.” But then a thought occurred to him, and he added thoughtfully, “Actually, there was a concrete jetty not far from there. That might be a possibility.” He paused, still thinking. “In that case, the boat would have been tied up at the hotel jetty before the séance and someone might remember it. Let’s go and check it out.”
They walked down past the hotel to the jetty, which lay in a small cove east of the main hotel building. When they reached the end of it, Matthew turned around and looked back at the hotel. “We’re not very visible here,” he said, pointing. They could see the roof of the hotel from where they stood, but no windows or doors. “You could do pretty much anything here without being disturbed. I guess someone could have left the building and sailed from here out to the cove where Birna was murdered. It’s probably not that far by sea.” He looked around. “But I don’t see any evidence that the jetty gets much use. There aren’t even any ropes or mooring posts.”
Thóra leaned over the side of the jetty but saw no rubber tires padding the edge, or any other sign that the jetty was in regular use. “I agree,” she said, “but I’m still going to ask Vigdís if she remembers seeing a boat that evening.” The wind changed, and the stench from the beached whale engulfed them. “Jesus!” exclaimed Thóra, staring along the beach. “There’s the whale’s carcass, look!” She pointed at a huge black mound, some distance away.
Matthew put his hand over his nose and mouth, but squinted in the direction Thóra had pointed. “What on earth is that? This must be the worst smell in the world.”
“Should we take a look?” Thóra said. “If we just follow this cove around, it won’t take us a minute.”
Matthew looked at Thóra in disbelief. “Honestly? You’re serious. You want to go and look at a disgusting pile of rotting blubber.”
“Yes, of course I do. It’s right there,” said Thóra, but then her mobile phone rang. She groaned when she saw the number. Why couldn’t they have been farther along the beach where there was no reception? “Hello,” she said.
“Were you planning to answer my texts, or were you just going to ignore them?” said her ex-husband angrily. “I don’t know where the hell you are, but I’m a little tired of playing hide-and-seek with you. I wasn’t born yesterday; I know you’ve turned your phone off because you’re off somewhere with some man you only just met.”
Thóra didn’t dignify that with a response, but she had to say something after a speech like that. “If you’ll shut up for one minute, Hannes,” she said, “I’ll be able to tell you that I’m out here working, and if you had ever ventured outside the big city you would know that not everywhere has good mobile reception.” She had no qualms about saying this, although she’d only known it herself for a few days. “All I have to say is that Gylfi and Sóley are just outside Selfoss and they need to be collected. Sigga is with them.”
“What am I supposed to do about it?” yelled Hannes. “I work too. I can’t just come and go at your beck and call.”
“Can you fetch them or not?” Thóra asked. “If not, I’ll phone my parents and ask them to do it. But I’d like to remind you that technically this is your fault. If you hadn’t sung ‘Eye of the Tiger’ over and over again, he wouldn’t have left.” Thóra realized she could hear music in the background. “I can hear ‘Final Countdown,’ ” she said, shocked. “Are you still playing SingStar?”
In the end Hannes agreed to collect the kids and Thóra hung up, annoyed at herself for being annoyed at him. She called Gylfi to tell him that his father would collect them. Then she shook herself. “Just a family drama,” she said to Matthew, who was looking at her inquisitively. “Let’s go over to Kreppa and try to find Birna’s office.”
“By all means,” he replied. “I’d do anything except look at a dead whale. And who knows? Maybe we’ll find more names of murdered people carved into the house somewhere.”
They were walking back toward the hotel when Thóra saw a man waving at them. It was the travel photographer, Robin Kohman. Thóra waved back and he came over.
“Hi,” he called as they drew close. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Really?” she called back, quickening her pace. “We’ve been rushing around a bit.”
“I’m leaving tonight,” the photographer said when they had exchanged greetings, “and wanted to give you Birna’s photographs.” Then he added gloomily, “I’ve heard what happened, and I really want to hand this over to someone who knew her. I was hoping you could maybe help me out.” He shook his head mournfully. “This is all so tragic, and so unexpected in a country like Iceland.”
“Yes, it’s awful,” said Thóra. “We just have to hope that they catch whoever did it.”
“Have the police talked to you?” asked Matthew. “No doubt they’ll want to talk to all the hotel guests before they leave.”
Robin nodded. “Yes, I spoke to them this morning, but I couldn’t tell them anything.”
“So you didn’t want to give the photographs to them?” Thóra asked. “Not that we don’t want them, of course. I’ll make sure they end up with someone close to her.”
“No, I didn’t think they were relevant,” Robin said. “It’s out of the question that they could be connected with Birna’s murder in any way. They’re just normal, innocent photographs.” He smiled. “Although there is a slightly weird one of a dead fox.”
Matthew put down the photo. They were sit ting at the bar with Robin and on the table in front of them lay a pile of pictures that Robin had taken from a large envelope marked with Birna’s name.
“Where was this taken?” Matthew asked, pointing at the dead fox in the middle of the picture. The scrawny creature lay on its side in the grass. Its tongue was hanging out of one side of its mouth and its rich brown pelt was tattered and bloody.
“It was lying beside the path, down toward that old abandoned farm near here. The one called Kreppa,” Robin replied. “Birna asked me to go with her to take some photos and we came across this poor thing. Birna asked me to take a shot of it; she thought it was rather sad. You can’t tell from the photograph, but the signs all around suggested that the fox had dragged itself there after being badly injured.” Robin pointed to a wound on the animal’s side. “It must have got away from the hunter, but the shot turned out to be fatal.”
“Did you take the fox with you?” Thóra asked.
“No, are you crazy?” Robin said. “We didn’t touch it. It was giving off a dreadful smell and we didn’t want to touch it.”
“Do you think anyone else could have come along after you and taken it?” Thóra asked.
Robin looked from her to Matthew, startled. “I don’t quite understand your interest, but of course it’s possible. The fox could be seen by anyone who walked past.” He grimaced. “But I just can’t imagine anyone being interested in taking a dead animal. Unless the skin is valuable.” He turned to Thóra. “Are Icelanders particularly fond of foxes?”
She smiled. “No, not to the extent of taking home dead ones. We’re interested in this for completely different reasons, which would take too long to explain.” She picked up the pile of photographs and started flicking through them. “Did Birna tell you why she chose these specific subjects?” she asked him. “I see that many of the photos are of the old farm Kreppa and the area behind the hotel, but here’s one of a steel trapdoor, and another of an inside wall, as far as I can tell. Did she explain this at all?” She handed the photographs she was talking about to Robin.
Robin examined the pictures and nodded. “If I recall correctly, this trapdoor was in the meadow by the old farm, on the other side of the hill,” he said. “The photo of the wall was taken in the basement here, in the old part of the hotel. She asked me to take it the day after we’d been shooting, but offered no further explanation, any more than she did about the trapdoor. I thought it was something to do with architecture, but I still couldn’t quite work out why she wanted these photos.”
“And did she say anything about this rock?” asked Matthew, showing him three photographs of the engraved rock they had found behind the hotel.
Robin looked at the pictures. “Yes, funnily enough. I asked her about this rock while we were shooting it from all angles. She translated the verse for me, and because I thought it was rather unusual, I asked her whether it was an Icelandic tradition to write verses on rocks.” He put the photographs down. “She said it wasn’t, and seemed quite surprised to find an inscription there.”
“She didn’t offer any explanation for this, or say what she thought the rock was doing there?” asked Thóra hopefully.
“Not exactly,” Robin replied. “She was wondering whether the verse could have been written by the occupants of the farm, or whether a poet had lived there. Then she speculated that it might have been a pet’s grave, although she didn’t think the verse was appropriate. She didn’t reach any conclusion that I remember.”
Matthew tugged at Thóra’s sleeve. “Here’s an interesting one,” he said, handing her a picture of Birna talking to an old man in front of the hotel entrance. Thóra snatched it from him. “Maybe they were talking about converting his vacation home for year-round use,” Matthew said slyly.
Robin leaned over to see what had aroused their interest. “Yes, this one,” he said. “I just took it for fun. We were setting off from the old farm when this man came out from the hotel and started talking to Birna. I know he’s a guest here because I’ve seen him in the dining room several times.”
Thóra nodded. “Do you know what they were talking about?”
“No, I have no idea,” Robin said. “They spoke in Icelandic, but actually I didn’t need to understand in order to realize that it wasn’t a friendly chat. I only took the one photograph because they soon started arguing and it didn’t seem appropriate.”
“Did she tell you what they’d been arguing about?” asked Matthew.
“Well, she muttered something about people having to take responsibility for their actions,” Robin said. “She was quite annoyed, so I didn’t press her.” He thought a little longer. “Then she said something about old sins bearing fruit, just like old debts. I couldn’t figure that out, so I changed the subject.”
Thóra and Matthew exchanged a glance. Magnús Baldvinsson. Old sins?
The nurse walked over to the old woman’s bed and gently nudged her shoulder to wake her. “Malla, dear,” she said gently. “Wake up. It’s time to take your medication.”
The old woman opened her eyes without saying a word. She stared up at the ceiling above her, blinked a few times and coughed weakly. The nurse waited in silence. She knew that sometimes it could take the old lady a while to get her bearings. She stood calmly beside her, one hand resting on her skeletal shoulder and a little plastic cup in the other. It contained the white and red pills she was supposed to administer. “Come on,” she said kindly. “You can lie back down afterward.”
“She came,” said the old woman suddenly. She was still staring up at the ceiling and had not yet looked at the woman who was patiently standing at her bedside.
“Who did?” the nurse answered vaguely. She was well accustomed to all kinds of nonsense from the old people, especially when they were only half awake. It was as if they traveled back to times long past, when they were younger, fitter, and not completely helpless.
“She came,” the old woman repeated, smiling. “She’s forgiven me.” She looked up at the nurse for the first time, still beaming. “She wasn’t angry. Always so sweet.”
“That’s nice,” soothed the nurse. “It’s not good to be angry.” She shook the cup of tablets. “Well, let’s sit you up and give you your medication.”
Instead of looking at the pills, the old woman continued to stare at the young nurse. “I asked her if she was angry,” she said, “and she just said, ‘Why should I be angry?’ ” With difficulty she lifted herself on to her elbows. “Always so sweet.”
“Do you want me to hold the water, or can you do it yourself?” asked the nurse, reaching out for a beaker on the bedside table. She handed the water to her patient.
“Of course I told her why she ought to be angry,” the old lady said, completely ignoring both water and pills. “And I thought she always knew I was there.” She shook her head in surprise, her white curls bouncing. “Apparently she didn’t,” she said, closing her eyes. “But she forgave me all the same.”
“That’s great,” the nurse said, putting down the container of pills and the beaker. “Come on,” she said, and gripped under the woman’s arms. “You need to sit up more.” She lifted her into a better position. Her back was crooked and she couldn’t be expected to sit up straight, but this would do. “Now, let’s take some tablets.” She picked up the pills. “There are more people waiting, so we have to be quick.” She held the glass to the woman’s thin, pale lips.
The old lady opened her mouth and allowed the nurse to pour the pills into it. She knew the routine by now and didn’t swallow until she had been given the water. The pills disappeared with loud gulps that seemed not to embarrass her.
When she was done, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and looked up at the nurse. “She was so good, so sweet. Just imagine.”
“Imagine what, love?” the nurse asked politely, privately wondering if the old woman was in full possession of her faculties.
“She forgave me,” she said, sounding even more surprised than before. “And I’d done nothing to help her.”
“Oh, are you quite sure about that?” The nurse smiled. “I’m sure you did a lot for her. You just don’t remember.”
The old woman glared. “Of course I remember. She died. How could I forget that?”
The nurse gently stroked the woman’s white hair. Just as she’d suspected, the poor old dear was rambling. A dead woman visiting her? Taking care not to smile, she laid her back down in a comfortable position. “There, there, Malla. Just try to go back to sleep.”
The old woman closed her eyes the moment her head touched the pillow. “Murdered. Evil is everywhere.” She smacked her lips, then muttered sleepily, “My sweetheart. My sweet Kristín.”