Last Rituals (33 page)

 

 

Matthew, startled, sent the Jeep into a swerve. "What?"

 

 

"The T-shirt," Thóra said excitedly, tapping hard on the open page. "This is the same T-shirt I saw in the photographs of the tongue operation. '100% silicon.' It says that on the front."

 

 

"So?" Matthew asked, not following.

 

 

"The photographs show a T-shirt with the inscription '100' and 'ilic' or something similar. Here it says that the T-shirt found in Hugi's closet said '100% silicon' in big letters on the front. The blood must have been from the operation." Thóra slammed the folder shut, pleased with herself.

 

 

"He must remember it," Matthew said. "It's not every day you have other people's blood splashed all over your clothes."

 

 

"Maybe not for you and me," said Thóra. "Don't you remember Hugi saying they didn't let him see the T-shirt? Maybe he didn't remember this one."

 

 

"Maybe," Matthew said. They drove on in silence for a while but as they were crossing the bridge over Outer Rangá by Hella he suddenly said: "They're coming tomorrow."

 

 

"They who?"

 

 

"Amelia Guntlieb and her daughter Elisa," said Matthew, not taking his eyes off the road.

 

 

"What? They're coming?" spluttered Thóra. "Why?"

 

 

"You were right. His sister was with him just before the murder. She's going to talk to us—I understood from the mother that he told his sister what he was working on. Admittedly not in detail, though."

 

 

"Well, well," said Thóra. "I understand about his sister—but what about his mother? Is she coming to stand over us while we talk to his sister?"

 

 

"No. She's coming to talk to you. One-on-one. Mother-to-mother—her very words. You knew she was going to talk to you. Did you think she meant over the phone?"

 

 

"Actually, I did. Mother-to-mother? Are we supposed to compare notes about child-rearing?" Meeting that woman was the last thing Thóra wanted.

 

 

Matthew shrugged. "I don't know, I'm not a mother."

 

 

"Christ," Thóra exclaimed, and sank back in her seat. She carefully weighed her words before speaking again. "His sister—could she be involved?"

 

 

"No. Out of the question."

 

 

"If I may ask: why is it out of the question?"

 

 

"Because it is. Elisa's not like that. Also, she says she went home that Friday. She flew from Keflavík to Frankfurt."

 

 

"And you're happy to take her word for that?" Thóra asked, surprised at his gullibility.

 

 

Matthew glanced at her and then returned his attention to the road. "Not entirely. I had it checked and, believe me, she took the plane."

 

 

Thóra did not know what to say. In the end she decided to save further remarks until she had had the chance to meet the girl and talk to her. Perhaps Matthew was right. It might very well be possible to rule her out as the murderer. Thóra spotted a sign saying "Hótel Rangá." "There." She indicated that Matthew should turn right down the drive to the hotel. They headed along the track toward the river and up to a large timber building.

 

 

"You know, I don't think I've stayed at a hotel for two years," she said as she carried her flight bag to the hotel. "Not since I got divorced."

 

 

"You're joking, of course," Matthew said, taking his own bag.

 

 

"No, I swear I'm not," said Thóra, almost enjoying the memory. "We made a final attempt to save our marriage with a weekend in Paris two years ago, and since then I haven't been abroad or had any reason to stay at a hotel. Strange."

 

 

"So the trip to Paris didn't work any miracles?" asked Matthew as he opened the door for her.

 

 

Thóra snorted. "Not exactly. We were making a final effort to save our relationship, and instead of sitting over a glass of wine and talking things over—finding cracks that we could patch up—he was continually asking me to photograph him in front of tourist sights. That was the death sentence really."

 

 

Right inside the door they bumped into a huge stuffed polar bear—standing on its hind legs with glaring eyes, ready to pounce. Matthew walked up to it and posed. "Take a photograph. Please."

 

 

Thóra made a face and went up to the reception desk. Behind a computer screen sat a middle-aged woman wearing a dark uniform and white blouse. She smiled at Thóra, who informed her that they had booked two single rooms and gave their names. The woman made an entry in the computer, found two keys, and gave them directions to the rooms. Thóra reached over to pick up her bag and was about to leave when she decided to ask the woman if she remembered Harald as a guest. He might have asked for directions or information that could give her and Matthew a lead. "A friend of ours stayed here this autumn. Harald Guntlieb. You wouldn't happen to remember him?"

 

 

The woman looked at Thóra with the patient expression of someone accustomed to all manner of unlikely questions. "No, I don't remember the name," she answered politely.

 

 

"Could you check, he was a German with rather unusual facial piercings?" Thóra tried to smile, to pretend this was merely routine.

 

 

"I can try. How do you spell the name?" the woman said, looking back at her computer screen.

 

 

Thóra recited the letters one by one and waited while she called up the details of Harald's reservation. From where she stood, Thóra could see a succession of menus appearing on the screen. "Here it is," the woman said at last. "Harald Guntlieb, two rooms for two nights. The other guest was a Harry Potter. Does that fit?" If she found the other name odd, she did not show it.

 

 

"Yes," said Thóra. "Do you remember them at all?" Peering at the screen, the woman shook her head. "No, sorry. I wasn't even working here then." She looked at Thóra. "I was on holiday abroad. In this line of business it's difficult to get away in the summer," she said apologetically, as if Thóra might reproach her for being a slacker. "Maybe the barman remembers him. Ólafur, or Óli as we call him, must have been here. He'll be on duty tonight."

 

 

Thóra thanked the woman and she and Matthew walked off to their rooms. As they turned the corner in the corridor, the woman called after them: "I see here that he borrowed a flashlight from reception."

 

 

Thóra turned back. "A flashlight?" she asked. "Does it say what for?"

 

 

"No," the woman replied. "It was just noted to make sure he returned it when he checked out. Which he did."

 

 

"Can you see whether this was in the middle of the night?" Thóra asked. Maybe Harald wanted to look for something he dropped in the driveway.

 

 

"No, the day shift lent him the light," the woman replied. "Excuse my curiosity, but isn't that the name of the foreign student who was murdered at the university?"

 

 

Thóra said it was and thanked her again for her help. She and Matthew proceeded to their rooms, which turned out to be side by side.

 

 

"Should we rest for half an hour or so?" Thóra asked when she looked inside the nicely furnished room. The big bed was tempting and aroused an urge within her to stretch out for a while—the quilts were big and thick and the linen looked ironed. It was not a sight Thóra saw every day. Her own bed normally greeted her at night in the same state of chaos she left it in when she rushed off to work in the mornings.

 

 

"Sure, we're not in any hurry," Matthew replied—clearly with the same idea. "Just knock when you're ready. And remember, you're always welcome to drop in on me." He winked and closed the door before Thóra could respond.

 

 

After putting down her belongings and peeping into the bathroom and at the minibar, Thóra flopped back onto the bed. She lay with her arms in a crucifixion position and relished the moment. It didn't last long, however—a ring tone came from her handbag. With a groan she sat up and took out her phone.

 

 

"Hi, Mom," said her daughter Sóley cheerfully.

 

 

"Hello, sweetie," said Thóra, glad to hear her voice. "What are you up to?"

 

 

"Oh," she said, slightly less cheerfully. "We're on our way to the stables." Then she whispered so softly that Thóra had trouble making out the words, especially since her daughter seemed to have pressed her mouth right up against the phone to avoid being heard. Her voice came out muffled. "I don't want to go at all. Those horses are nasty."

 

 

"Hey!" said Thóra, trying to pep up her daughter. "They're not nasty; horses are really kind actually. It'll be fun for you—isn't the weather nice?"

 

 

"Gylfi doesn't want to either," Sóley whispered. "He says horses are old-fashioned and outdated."

 

 

"Tell me something fun: what did you do today?" asked Thóra, well aware that she was not the best advocate for horses.

 

 

Her daughter brightened up. "We had ice cream and watched cartoons. It was real fun. Hey, Gylfi wants to talk to you."

 

 

Before Thóra managed to say good-bye to Sóley, her son was already on the phone. "Hi," he said glumly.

 

 

"Hello, sweetheart," replied Thóra. "How are things?"

 

 

"Useless." Gylfi did not even try to whisper—if anything, Thóra thought he raised his voice.

 

 

"Oh, is it the horses?" she asked.

 

 

"Yes and no. Just everything." After a short pause he added: "I need to have a little talk with you when I get back tomorrow."

 

 

"By all means, darling," Thóra replied, not knowing whether to feel happy that he was opening up at last or afraid about what he would say. "I look forward to seeing you both tomorrow night." When the call was over she made another attempt to take a nap—in vain. In the end she got up and took a hot shower.

 

 

While she was drying herself with the thick, snow-white towels, Thóra noticed a guide to the local tourist attractions. She browsed for places that might have appealed to Harald. There was plenty to choose from but few possible links with the case. Three places did catch Thóra's attention, however. The see of Skálholt received a two-page spread and had a clear connection with Harald through his interest in the bishops Jón Arason and Brynjólfur Sveinsson. Two other sights were possible candidates, as well: Mount Hekla and some caves from the days of Irish monks at Aegissída on the outskirts of Hella. What surprised her most was that she was fairly sure she had never heard of them before. Thóra wondered whether the name Hella was from the same root as
hellir,
the Icelandic word for "cave." She folded down the corners of the pages describing these three places. Then she dressed, taking care to put on warm clothes—and plenty of them—even though they weren't exactly attractive. If they were going to stroll around some caves, it would help to be dressed for the task. In her mind's eye she saw Matthew clambering over boulders in his dancing shoes. Out of sheer spite she decided not to tell him about the caves until they had left the hotel. Besides, it was going to be dark out soon, and Thóra figured he'd be more likely to give in if she sprang the idea on him last minute. She put her hair in a ponytail, slipped on her coat, and left the room.

 

 

No sooner had her knuckles left the door than Matthew opened it. Thóra smirked when she saw his clothes. "That's a nice suit," she said in a jolly tone. "And nice shoes." Judging from the well-polished leather, his shoes must have cost a pretty penny, and Thóra stifled a momentary pang of conscience about not warning him. He was bound to own plenty of other pairs.

 

 

"It isn't a suit," Matthew said tetchily. "It's a sports jacket and trousers. There's a difference. Not that you're likely to realize."

 

 

"Oh, sorry, Mr. Kate Moss," teased Thóra, now quite at ease with her conscience, and the pending mistreatment of his footwear.

 

 

Without answering, Matthew closed the door behind him and jiggled the keys to the Jeep in his hand. "Well, where to?"

 

 

Thóra took her phone from her coat pocket to look at the time. "I suppose it's best to start at Skálholt. It's almost four and we'll see from there."

 

 

"Fine, Madam Guide," Matthew said, scrutinizing her getup. "You know there's a restaurant at the hotel, don't you? We don't actually have to go out to hunt for our dinner."

 

 

"Ha-ha," Thóra said. "I'd rather be warm and cozy than worry about looking cool. Though you might end up cool in more than one sense of the word, dressed like that in this weather."

 

 

When they reached Skálholt it was beginning to get dark. The church was open and they hurried inside and began looking for someone to talk to. Soon they found a young man who greeted them and asked if he could help. They explained they were hoping to meet someone who might have spoken to their friend some time before. They described Harald's appearance.

 

 

"Hey," the young man said when Thóra was halfway through an account of the studs along Harald's right eyebrow. "Aren't you talking about that student who was murdered? I met him!"

 

 

"You wouldn't happen to remember his reason for coming here?" asked Thóra, smiling encouragingly.

 

 

"Let's see—if I remember correctly he wanted to talk about Jón Arason and his execution. Yes, and Brynjólfur Sveinsson." He looked at them and hastened to add: "There's nothing unusual about that—a lot of our visitors have heard their stories and want to find out more. They're tragic but do have a macabre attraction. People are particularly interested in the fact that it took seven blows of the axe to behead Jón Arason. His head was literally split from his body."