Last Rituals

HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

Chapter One

December 6, 2005

Thóra Gudmundsdóttir brushed a stray Cheerio from her trousers and quickly tidied herself before entering the lawyers' office. Not so bad. The morning's challenges of getting her six-year-old daughter and sixteen-year-old son to school on time were over. Recently, Thóra's daughter had started refusing to wear pink, which would not have been a problem if her clothes had not been more or less all in that color. Her son, on the other hand, would gladly have worn the same tattered clothes year in and year out provided there was a skull and crossbones on them somewhere. His great achievement was to wake up in the morning in the first place. Thóra sighed at the thought. It was not easy bringing up two children alone. Then again, it hadn't been easy while she was still married either. The only difference then was that, coupled with the morning chores, she and her husband had constantly bickered. The thought that this was a thing of the past cheered her up, and a smile crept over her lips as she opened the door.

"Good morning," she chimed.

Instead of returning her greeting, the secretary grimaced. She did not look up from her computer screen or stop thumping at the mouse. As much fun as ever, Thóra thought. Deep down inside she never stopped cursing their secretarial problems. They had doubtless cost their firm business. Thóra could not think of one client who had not complained about the girl. She was not only rude but also exceptionally unattractive. It was not being in the super-heavyweight bracket that was the big issue, but her general carelessness about her appearance. Plus, she was invariably angry at everything and everyone. And, to top things off, her parents had named her Bella. If only she would quit on her own initiative. She seemed far from happy at the firm and showed no signs of improving. Not that Thóra could imagine any job that would cheer her up. The trouble was, it was impossible to sack her.

When Thóra and her business partner, the older and more experienced Bragi, teamed up to open a legal firm together, they were so taken with the premises that they let the landlord add a proviso to the rental agreement: the firm would employ his daughter as a secretary. In their defense, they had no way of knowing what they were getting themselves into. The girl had a glowing recommendation from the estate agents who had rented there before them. Now, however, Thóra was convinced that the previous tenants had moved from the ideal location on Skólavördustígur solely to rid themselves of the secretary from hell. They were surely still howling with laughter at how gullible Thóra and Bragi had been about those references. Thóra was equally convinced that if they took the matter to court they could have the proviso overturned on the grounds that the references were dubious. But that would cost the firm the small reputation Thóra and Bragi had built up so far. Who would consult a legal firm that specializes in contractual law yet messes up its own contracts? And even if they could get rid of Bella, it was not as if good secretaries were lining up at the door.

"Someone phoned," Bella mumbled, glued to her computer screen.

Thóra looked up in surprise from hanging up her coat. "Really?" she said. "Do you have any idea who it was?"

"No. Spoke German, I think. I couldn't understand him anyway."

"Is he going to call back?"

"I don't know. I cut him off. By accident."

"In the unlikely event that he does ring back, would you mind putting the call through to me? I studied in Germany and I speak German."

"Hmph," Bella grunted. She shrugged. "Maybe it wasn't German. It could have been Russian. And it was a woman. I think. Or a man."

"Bella, whoever calls—a woman from Russia or a man from Germany, even a dog from Greece that speaks in tongues—put them through to me. Okay?" Thóra did not wait for a reply—didn't expect one—but walked straight into her modest office.

She sat down and switched on the computer. Her desk was not quite as chaotic as usual. The day before she had spent an hour sorting the papers that had piled up over the past month. She logged on to her e-mail and began deleting junk mail and jokes from friends. All that was left were three e-mails from clients, one from her friend Laufey with the subject line Let's get wasted this weekend, and one from the bank. She had probably exceeded her credit card limit. And she was bound to be overdrawn as well. She decided not to open the e-mail, to be on the safe side.

Her telephone rang.

"Central Lawyers, can I help you?"

"Guten Tag, Frau Gudmundsdóttir?"

"Guten Tag." Thóra searched for a pen and paper. High German. She made a mental note to address the woman with the formal "Sie."

Thóra squeezed her eyes shut and hoped she could rely on the good command of German she had gained while getting her law degree at the University of Berlin. She put on her best pronunciation. "How can I be of assistance?"

"My name is Amelia Guntlieb. I was given your name by Professor Anderheiss."

"Yes, he taught me in Berlin." Thóra hoped her phrasing was right. She could tell how rusty her pronunciation had become. There were not many opportunities to practice German in Iceland.

"Yes." After an uncomfortable silence the woman continued: "My son was murdered. My husband and I need assistance."

Thóra tried to think fast. Guntlieb? Wasn't Guntlieb the name of the German student who was found dead at the university?

"Hello?" The woman seemed unsure whether Thóra was still on the line.

Thóra hurried to reply: "Yes, sorry. Your son. Did it happen here in Iceland?""Yes."

"I think I know the case you're referring to, but I must admit I've only heard about it on the news. Are you sure you're talking to the right person?"

Excerpted from Last Ritualsby Yrsa Sigurdardottir Copyright ©2007 by Yrsa Sigurdardottir. Excerpted by permission.
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