“So I imagine you found this by pure coincidence, like the photograph?” said Thórólfur. “You just happened to be down in the basement armed with sledgehammers and thought it would improve the décor if you removed one of the walls?”
Thóra plucked a sliver of wood from her hair and was pleased to see that it was not a tooth, as she had feared. “No,” she said. “I thought I made myself clear. We wanted to be sure we weren’t sending you on some fool’s errand and wasting the taxpayers’ money. There was no way to verify what was down there without checking it. I must admit I didn’t expect this.” She shuddered as two detectives walked past pushing a wheelbarrow full of bones. A stench of burning wafted with them.
The hotel was teeming with police officers from neighboring constabularies, as well as expert investigators from Reykjavík. Thóra suspected that few of them had any genuine reason to be there, but were driven by mere curiosity. She winced. “As I said, I expected to find the skeleton of one child, not bones stacked up to the ceiling.”
“You didn’t realize they were animal bones?” asked Thórólfur. “Maybe it was hard to see properly in the dark down there?”
“The bones I saw first weren’t from an animal,” Thóra said firmly. “Before the heap collapsed, the flashlight lit up a little woolen mitten. A bone was sticking out below the cuff, so I can only assume there’s a dead child in there somewhere. There couldn’t be anything except a hand inside the mitten. It was protruding from the stack before it collapsed, so it presumably won’t be found until all the bones have been removed. In your shoes, I’d tell the men to proceed with caution because underneath there’s a—” She couldn’t finish the sentence.
“As you may have noticed, this is a slow job,” Thórólfur said, gesturing at the men and women working around him. “We follow all the procedures governing the investigation of a crime scene, whether we find human bones or not. We need to establish what happened, because it’s hardly normal to bury half-burned carcasses like this. So don’t worry about us destroying any evidence. You’d do better to keep worrying about Jónas, because this has no bearing on the issue of his guilt.”
“Not even if I told you that under all this lies the skeleton of the illegitimate child of Magnús Baldvinsson, from World War Two?”
“I don’t see why that would make any difference,” said Thórólfur offhandedly, although his interest was clearly aroused. “Or perhaps you mean that he murdered his own child, then slaughtered dozens of animals and threw their bones over the body?” He smirked. “And then came back, sixty years later, to pick up where he left off?”
“It’s up to you what you deduce from all this, but paternity will be provable because a DNA sample must be taken from the child’s remains. Even though it won’t prove who killed her, the paternity test is bound to raise questions and I don’t think Magnús Baldvinsson will come out of it smelling of roses.”
“So you’re back to your theory that Magnús or Baldvin killed both Birna and Eiríkur?” Thórólfur asked.
Thóra picked more debris from her hair. “Not really. Like I told you on the phone I was beginning to think that it could be either Bergur or his wife with a male accomplice,” she said. “Matthew and I saw the wife leave the hotel with a waiter who works here. They seemed very close,” said Thóra. “It occurred to us that Rósa might have seduced him and got him to kill Birna. She could have done that in revenge for the affair with her husband.”
Thórólfur’s eyebrows rose so high they disappeared into his hair. “You’ve met Bergur’s wife,” he said. “Does she seem a likely seductress?”
“No, actually, she doesn’t,” admitted Thóra, “but beauty is in the eye of the beholder, so you never know.”
Thórólfur grinned maliciously. “Does this waiter’s name happen to be Jökull Gudmundsson?” he asked.
“Yes,” Thóra said. “I’m not sure about his second name, but his first name is certainly Jökull. Did you know they were an item?”
“They’re brother and sister,” he said. “That presumably explains how ‘close’ they seemed when you saw them.”
Thóra said nothing. Now she understood Jökull’s antipathy toward Birna; his brother-in-law had been having an affair with her. It also explained his reaction to her question about Steini. His father had caused the accident, so he was bound to be as touchy about discussing it as his sister was. “Ah,” she said finally. “That changes things slightly.”
“Yes, doesn’t it?” replied Thórólfur. “But there’s no harm in telling you that we’re still investigating Bergur’s possible involvement,” he added mildly, giving her no hint as to whether he was a suspect along with Jónas. “I can also tell you that his rifle is being cross-matched with the shell found in the fox’s carcass. We don’t have the facilities in Iceland, so it was sent abroad. Unfortunately, it takes a few days to get the results from there, but in the meantime we’ve got a few things to look into.” The police inspector took his leave of her, and headed down to the basement to see what progress was being made.
Thóra went over to Matthew, who was reaching the end of his statement to the police. This had taken a considerable time because the officer insisted on using an interpreter.
“Do you reckon we’re off to join Jónas in prison?” Matthew said, grinning, as they walked away. “The way I look right now I’d fit right in there,” he added. His clothes were covered in dust and earth, since he hadn’t had time to change since the bones had fallen on them.
Thóra looked him up and down, amused. “How long is it since you’ve got this dirty?” she asked, removing what turned out to be a fragment of bone from his sweater.
“Ages,” he replied. “We don’t break down many walls at the bank, and I’ve never encountered a heap of bones the size of that one downstairs.”
Thóra shuddered. She told him about the connection between Rósa and Jökull—hardly the Bonnie and Clyde they’d imagined. “You know,” she said, “I bet the person who put up that inscribed rock out here knew what was underneath it. It must have been intended as a kind of gravestone. A secret memorial.”
“Which presumably means the child didn’t die a natural death. Otherwise why would it be disguised?” said Matthew, as they arrived at Thóra’s room. “Besides, no one in their right mind would put a dead child in a place like that unless they had something to hide.”
“I think Magnús laid that gravestone,” she replied, opening the door. She went straight over to the telephone on the bedside table. “I’m going to call Elín and ask if she knows anything about it. Maybe she and her brother remember when it was put up, and by whom.”
“Do you think she’ll want to talk to you?” he asked.
“I doubt she’ll slam the phone down on me this time,” she said. “Not when I tell her the skeleton of a child has been found on land where her grandfather and his brother lived, and which has been owned by the family for decades.” She looked up Elín’s number. “And I’ll trick her by using the hotel telephone in case she happens to recognize my mobile number.” She turned back to the telephone. “Hello, this is Thóra Gudmundsdóttir,” she said when it was answered.
“What do you want?” snapped Elín peevishly. Thóra could hear that she was in a car.
“Firstly, I wanted to let you know that a huge stack of bones has just been found at the farm.”
“And what business is that of mine?” cried Elín. “It’s the same old story. There seem to have been dozens of bodies found in the area since Jónas bought the land. I heard on the radio this morning that he was taken into custody.”
“Yes, that’s right,” said Thóra, trying to conceal her annoyance that the media had got hold of Jónas’s case. “However, these bones have nothing to do with him, as they were probably there long before he acquired the property. If memory serves, your family built the current farm buildings, and have always owned them. Isn’t that right? I’m afraid this could be far worse for you and your brother than for Jónas. Most of the bones are from animals, but in all probability a child’s skeleton will also come to light.”
“What?” Elín exclaimed shrilly. “A child’s skeleton?” She seemed genuinely shocked and confused. “What child?”
“We don’t know yet,” said Thóra. “The police will be speaking to you very soon, so it’s probably best I don’t tell you too much. I just wanted to ask you one thing.” She paused, but Elín said nothing, so she continued. “Behind the house, on the eastern side, is a large rock carved with a verse that I think comes from a folktale. Someone must have put it there, because it’s not a work of nature. Do you know anything about this rock, or do you know who put it there?”
“The rock?” said Elín, astonished. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Maybe nothing,” said Thóra untruthfully. “I’d just like to find out what it is, in order to rule it out as evidence.” She crossed her fingers, hoping Elín would believe her.
“I can assure you it’s nothing to do with this,” declared Elín. “My mother put that rock up many years ago. It was an advance wedding present to herself, or so she said. Don’t ask me why—she never explained it any further—but you can be quite sure it has nothing to do with any dead child.”
Thóra was surprised to hear that Málfrídur, Grímur’s daughter, had placed the rock there, but she carried on. “One last thing. What were you and your brother, Börkur, doing over this way on Sunday evening? I have a printout from the police showing the vehicles that passed through the tunnel that day and you were both there.”
“We came to meet you,” answered Elín irritably. “Don’t you remember? You came to see us on the Monday. We’d decided to beat the morning traffic and go up to Stykkishólmur the previous evening. Surely you don’t imagine Börkur and I are involved in this murder case?”
Thóra demurred awkwardly. “It’s just one of a number of points I want to be able to tick off,” she explained.
“Well, you can tick this off too: Börkur didn’t go west to kill anyone on Thursday either,” snapped Elín.
Thóra said nothing, not wanting to reveal that she’d had no idea Börkur had been on the move that day. Elín obviously thought Thóra had a list of cars for each day. “So why did he come?” she inquired cautiously.
“He won’t be pleased that I’ve told you,” replied the other woman. “I had a hard enough time getting it out of him.” The loud screech of a horn cut her off, and when she came back on the line, she was swearing. “Stupid old bastard! Why don’t they take their driving licenses away before they go senile at the wheel?” she said crossly, before continuing. “The only reason I’m telling you what he was up to is to get rid of you, and prevent any more unfounded allegations against us.”
“I really don’t mind why you’re telling me,” retorted Thóra. “So what was he doing?”
“He went to see a real estate agent who was very keen to see the remaining farming properties, with a view to selling them,” said Elín. “He knows I want to wait, and he did it against my wishes. The real estate agent can confirm it, if you want to check.”
Thóra said goodbye and hung up. “Börkur and Elín’s mother had the rock placed there,” she told Matthew. “They’re very odd people, which is hardly surprising in view of their family medical history— both the grandparents had mental problems—but they’re probably innocent of both murders. She gave me reasonable explanations for being here, at any rate.”
Thóra stood up and picked up the bags containing Jón Árnason’s folktale collection. “If I can find the verse, there may be some further explanation of it in the accompanying text. That might tell us why their mother had the verse carved into the rock, and had it put there.” She put the bags on the desk. “I must remember to return the books on our way back to Reykjavík,” she said. “My fines are already enough to pay for a whole annex to the library at home. I don’t want to do the same all over the country.”
“You’re not going to read all those, are you?” asked Matthew as he watched Thóra extract one weighty volume after another. “Maybe I’ll have a shower in the meantime.”
“It won’t take long to look it up,” said Thóra. She turned to the contents page in volume I and found the entry for “abandoned children.”
“Here it is,” she exclaimed eagerly and looked up from the book. “Here’s a story with the title ‘I Should Have Been Wed.’ That must be it.” Thóra rapidly scanned the brief story, then placed the open book in her lap.
“What is it?” asked Matthew. “I can’t tell if that expression means good news or bad.”
“Nor can I,” said Thóra. “It’s the story of a mother who left her infant outside to die. Some years later she had another daughter, whom she raised. When the girl reached marriageable age, a young man asked for her hand and they were betrothed. In the midst of the wedding ceremony, there was a banging at the window, and the guests heard this verse chanted: ‘Kerns I should have cast, a farm was meant for me, I should have been wed, just like thee.’ ” She looked at Matthew. “It was the ghost of the dead child, speaking to her sister.”
“So the verse is a reference to the fact that the sister is enjoying what should have been the lot of the child left to die?” asked Matthew.
“Yes, that’s the obvious meaning,” said Thóra. “Could Gudný have had another child?” She was shaking her head even as she said it. “No, I don’t think so.”
“But who got what should have belonged to the child?” asked Matthew. “Presumably the child was her mother’s heir?”
Thóra puffed out her cheeks, then slowly let the air escape. “It depends when Gudný died of TB. If the child predeceased her, of course the child couldn’t inherit anything from her mother. If the child died after Gudný’s death, that changes things. Gudný’s father died first. Since he was a widower, and she was his only child, Gudný would have been his sole heir, so the child would have inherited all her mother’s assets on her death.”
“And if that’s the case, someone would have profited from the child’s death,” said Matthew, “inheriting all Gudný’s assets, which would have gone to the child. Who would it be, in this case?”
“The mother’s closest relative,” said Thóra. “Grímur, Gudný’s uncle and the child’s great-uncle.” She closed the book. “Lára, Sóldís’s grandmother, said he had money troubles, so he could have killed her to prevent her reaching adulthood. As soon as the girl married or had a child of her own, Grímur would lose his claim to the inheritance.”
“That’s incredibly callous,” said Matthew. “But he wasn’t the one who put the rock there. His daughter, Málfrídur, Elín and Börkur’s mother, must have known of the body under there. It’s no coincidence that she placed a stone with that inscription in that very location.”
“Málfrídur,” said Thóra thoughtfully. “Málfrídur inherited what should have belonged to the child when her own father died years later in Reykjavík. If there is indeed a child, and if it’s Gudný’s.”
“There are a lot of ‘if”s in this story,” commented Matthew, “but I have to admit it sounds plausible. Could she be the murderer, rather than her father, Grímur?”
“Hardly. She was just a little girl during the war. When Lára came back here after the war, Gudný’s child had vanished from the face of the earth. It’s a reasonable assumption that Gudný’s daughter, Kristín, is the Kristín mentioned in the message scratched into the post upstairs. If so, it’s more than likely that it was Málfrídur who carved ‘dad killed kristín. i hate dad’ in the attic. It was in their house, after all. Perhaps she found out about it, or witnessed the murder, or maybe he even told her.”
“You’re probably getting close to solving this old case,” said Matthew, going into the bathroom to wash the dirt from his hands. He called over the noise of the running water, “It’s a pity it doesn’t help Jónas. I don’t suppose this is why Birna and Eiríkur were killed?”
“Well, I don’t know,” Thóra called back. “Maybe Birna found out about it and that led to someone wanting her dead—someone who didn’t want the truth to come out. She was going through that old stuff, as we know from the photo of Magnús. Maybe she’d found something that gave her a clue.”
Matthew appeared in the doorway with a towel and dried his hands. “But who would want her dead because of it? Elín and Börkur?”
“Unlikely,” said Thóra. “They would scarcely have sold the property if they’d been desperate to keep the secret.”
“Maybe they knew nothing about it,” said Matthew, putting the towel back in the bathroom. “Birna may have told them about it and tried to blackmail them. She seems to have already tried to blackmail Magnús and Baldvin, so we know she was capable of it.”
“Maybe,” said Thóra, “but I have a feeling she didn’t know. From her diary I’d say she suspected something odd had been going on in the house, but there’s no indication she was on the right track.” She fetched the journal and slowly turned the pages. “Do you remember where the annex was located in the plans on the walls at Kreppa?” she asked. “Did it include the area of the rock and the hatch?”
Matthew tried to visualize the sketch. “I think it did,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
“Could Birna have been killed to stop the design of the annex to the hotel?’ Thóra speculated. “As soon as construction work began, the hidden part of the basement would have been excavated. Perhaps it was preventive action. Someone had been digging here and there in the field, remember. Maybe they were trying to find the hatch, and the child’s remains, before construction began, but they couldn’t find them and resorted to the desperate measure of killing Birna.”
“Which brings us back to the question of who would want to keep it a secret,” said Matthew. “The last thing Elín and Börkur would want was for the truth to come out. Nobody wants unnecessary attention drawn to the fact that their grandfather was a child killer, but it’d hardly be normal to commit murder to conceal it.”
“If they’d wanted to keep it secret, though, they’d never have sold the land,” Thóra reminded him. “And I quite agree: it’s a bit extreme to kill someone just to avoid a scandal.” She closed her eyes. “I’m missing something. It’s something really obvious, but I can’t put my finger on it.” She reached for the police file and flicked through it. “I don’t even know what I’m looking for.” She sighed.
Matthew came up to the bedside table and picked up the list of cars that had driven through the Hvalfjördur Tunnel. “What if the killer isn’t directly involved? What if it’s someone who wants to protect the family?”
Thóra looked up from the file and tilted her head curiously. “Who do you mean?”
Matthew handed her the list and pointed out one of the registration numbers. “While you were out this morning, I asked Sóldís if she knew Steini’s full name. Since he can drive, it occurred to me to check whether he was on the list, and he was.” He pointed out the entry that a car had been driven through the tunnel from the Reykjavík direction: owner Thorsteinn Kjartansson. “You remember he said he couldn’t give Sóldís a lift because he wasn’t going to Reykjavík,” Matthew added, “but he did go, and he appears to have driven back here via the tunnel about an hour before Birna was murdered.”
“What, you think he killed her so that Berta wouldn’t be traumatized by the scandal?” asked Thóra. “That’s ridiculous. And he’s disabled. Would he have been capable of that?”
“I feel like we keep on hearing things that prove he’s less handicapped than we thought,” said Matthew. “If you look at the other list, the vehicles driving through the tunnel from here toward Reykjavík, you’ll see that Berta’s car left here at about the same time. Maybe Steini wanted to ensure she wouldn’t be a suspect, which is why he carried out the murder in her absence. There wouldn’t be much point in killing Birna and Eiríkur, and getting Berta into even more trouble than he was trying to prevent.”
Thóra frowned. “Even if he’s less disabled than we realized, I somehow can’t see him manhandling someone into a stall with a wild horse.”
“What if Eiríkur wasn’t quite unconscious?” said Matthew. “Maybe the drugs just made him confused—confused enough to do as Steini said. Perhaps he was taking his revenge for the accident by planting Eiríkur in Bergur and Rósa’s stables—revenge for her father causing the accident. He may have assumed Bergur or his wife would be suspects. He needn’t have been motivated only by wanting to protect Berta.”
Thóra nodded, deep in thought. “But what about the rape?” she asked. “Steini would also have had to rape Birna, and she wasn’t drugged.” She looked up the autopsy report. “The theory is that she was attacked from behind and hit on the head with a rock.” She read a little further. “You don’t happen to know what A. barbadensis Mill, A. vulgaris Lam is?” she asked when she came across the reference to the substance found in Birna’s vagina.
“I can’t say I do.” Matthew smiled ruefully. “I think ‘vulgaris’ means ‘common,’ but that’s not much help. Can’t you find it on the Internet?”
“Yes, I’m sure I can,” said Thóra. “I just haven’t had time. Perhaps I’ll ask Gylfi to look it up for me. It’ll do him good to think about something else, after the shock of finding the bones.” She phoned Gylfi’s room and asked him to look it up on the guests’ computer in reception. “He says he’ll do it in a minute,” said Thóra, hanging up. She looked over at Matthew and smiled. “When children reach the age of twelve, they stop being able to do things when they’re asked. It always has to be in a minute. My dad says I was just the same, and that Grandpa said the same about him. Maybe it’s genetic.”
“Shall we try to get hold of Steini, or even Berta?” asked Matthew. “She might be able to tell us something to corroborate my theory. Although she’s his friend, I’m not sure she’d cover for him under these circumstances.”
“You may be right,” said Thóra, and went to stand up. “Let’s do it. You broke down a wall for me. The least I can do is repay you by investigating your crazy theory as well as mine.”
“You could always find another way to repay me,” said Matthew with a smile.
Thóra didn’t answer. She stood with the book of folktales open in her hands. “Hang on,” she said excitedly. “What’s this?”