Someone to Watch Over Me (38 page)

‘Did Tryggvi visit you around the time that you left the residence for the hospital?’

One blink.
Yes
.

‘Did he say anything?’ Tryggvi had reportedly never spoken, but Thóra decided to ask nonetheless. It could be that he’d made more progress than people wanted to admit; similar things had been kept quiet.

Two blinks.
No
.

‘Did he get into bed with you?’ Thóra was looking straight at Ragna, but out of the corner of her eye she saw the therapist turn her head sharply in her direction.

Two blinks.
No.

‘Did anyone else ever get into bed with you?’ The therapist gripped Thóra’s arm firmly, but Thóra shook her hand off and focused on the young woman’s reaction. For a long time nothing happened; they just stared into each other’s eyes. Then the girl blinked.

One slow, heavy blink.
Yes
.

Thóra sat outside in her car in the National Hospital’s crowded car park. The heater was trying to battle the hoarfrost on the window and Thóra put her hands under her thighs to protect them from the cold seat. But it wasn’t the frosty windscreen or her cold thighs that bothered her; her mind was in overdrive and it would be dangerous to launch herself out into the traffic before she’d tried to put her thoughts in order. This was serious stuff, and the conversation with Ragna had ended long before Thóra had received answers to all her questions. There had proved to be a limit to how long Ragna could keep up a conversation. Although it could have continued for some time after it emerged that someone had climbed into bed with the young woman, it came to a natural conclusion when she simply couldn’t go any further. Thóra didn’t know whether it was from agitation or fatigue, but it was difficult to understand how a person might feel who was only capable of expressing themselves one letter at a time. Ragna had made her feelings known very simply: she had shut her eyes and not opened them again until she was asked whether she wanted to conclude the conversation. Then she blinked once.
Yes
.

Thóra was startled by a brisk tapping on the window. Outside stood the therapist, insufficiently dressed for outdoors and shaking like a leaf. It took Thóra a moment to catch her breath and free her hands from beneath her thighs. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you,’ said the woman after Thóra rolled down the window and wrapped her arms around herself to better preserve her body heat. ‘I simply must ask you about what happened in there.’ This came as no surprise to Thóra. Although the therapist had initially been totally opposed to discussing these sensitive matters, she had changed her mind almost immediately and quickly became just as eager as Thóra to know what had taken place. After leaving the girl in the care of the nurse, it was clear that the woman wanted Thóra to tell her everything about the investigation, but Thóra merely thanked her for her help and hurried away. ‘I must point out that the topics of these conversations are usually of no concern to me; I sort of put myself in the role of stenographer, but in this case I find it very difficult.’

‘Hopefully there isn’t generally a need to ask the sorts of questions that I just did.’

‘No. At least I’ve never been at that kind of interview before.’ The woman smiled, but her smile disappeared quickly as her teeth began to chatter. ‘Of course I’d heard of something similar happening at the National Hospital some decades ago, and then again recently at a community residence, but it was completely hushed up. A girl there became pregnant, but she died before further news of it got out. At least that’s how I heard it.’

‘I think the second story you’re referring to relates to the same case we were discussing with Ragna.’ Thóra was in a dilemma: she didn’t really want to speak to this woman, but she might need her services in the near future. It seemed clear that news of Lísa’s pregnancy had spread throughout the Regional Office, but had stopped there, since the woman had only heard secondhand rumours.

‘I’m bound to confidentiality about what I hear in these kinds of interviews. You needn’t worry that it will go any further.’ This sounded credible. The same applied to interpreting in court. Had Thóra been given time to prepare more thoroughly, this was one of the things she would have swotted up on, but now she had to decide whether the woman was telling the truth. ‘I’m trying to find the man who forced himself on one of the inhabitants of the care home that burned down. The woman was pregnant when she died in the fire and I suspect attempts have been made to cover this up.’

‘But what did she mean when she kept repeating the word oxygen?’

‘I have no idea, more’s the pity.’ This was one detail that had perplexed Thóra. When the girl had first spelled out the word, they had both thought she was in respiratory distress, which turned out not to be the case. How oxygen was related to the horrible thing that had happened to her was difficult to understand, but in the girl’s mind clearly the two were inextricably – if inexplicably – linked. ‘Did the description of the man mean anything to you?’ The likelihood that anyone would recognize the perpetrator from the description the girl had given was negligible:
dark hair, blue-grey eyes, slim, straight teeth
. Why couldn’t the bastard have had a wart or a tattoo in the middle of his forehead?

‘No, but I didn’t know anyone there. I never set foot in the residence, I’m afraid.’ The woman hopped from foot to foot. ‘What about the police? Shouldn’t you let them know?’

‘Yes, absolutely – I’ll contact them as soon as I get back to my office. It’s too cold to do it now.’ Even though the police had honoured Lísa’s parents’ request to keep her case quiet, the rape had taken on a different aspect now that it was clear there had been two victims – especially since one of them was still alive.

‘Sure, of course.’ The woman stood up straight and prepared to leave, even though she was obviously itching to ask Thóra more. It was probably as difficult for her to formulate her questions as it was for Thóra to digest what had happened.

‘One question before I go.’ Thóra sat on her hands again, this time to heat up her fingers a little before driving off. The wind blew into the car and the heater couldn’t compete. ‘Do you think you might have misread any of the cards? Might she have been trying to say something else? Those symbols are pretty close to each other, and it must be difficult to read them with absolute precision.’

‘No, that’s highly unlikely. I asked her about all of the symbols, as you saw, and she specifically agreed to those I pointed at. Obviously it’s harder to communicate through the cards than through standard spoken language; it’s impossible to have icons for everything in the world and communication becomes stilted when we have to spell out each word. But what I told you was what she indicated. I’ve been doing this long enough to assure you of that.’

‘I’m sorry. I was just hoping there would be some simple explanation for her bizarre responses. This thing about the oxygen is completely incomprehensible, and I have no idea what she was getting at when she mentioned the radio.’ Just before the girl had given up she had spelled out
radio.
‘Of course she was probably trying to say something more about it, but I was hoping it might have been something else. Something clearer.’

‘No, sadly.’ The woman had turned blue from cold in the exposed car park. ‘But if I think of something, I’ll be in touch, of course.’ She gathered herself to leave again, but before she sprinted in the direction of her car she added: ‘You shouldn’t delay in contacting the police. People with locked-in syndrome usually die young, and she may not have long left. Death can strike quickly if the patient gets ill, and I know investigations and hearings take time. The person who did this mustn’t get away with it. She deserves to live to see him sentenced.’ And with that she ran off into the wind.

With the woman’s words ringing in her ears Thóra drove back up Skólavörðustígur Street, immensely relieved to have taken her car instead of walking the short distance, as she’d thought about doing. It wasn’t the north wind that made her jog in from her parking space, however, but the overwhelming desire to report what she’d learned to the authorities. With the same haste she called the police, before even removing her coat. She introduced herself and asked to speak to the person who had led the inquest into the fire. It would be best to speak to him so that she wouldn’t have to waste time explaining the facts of the case; he must have been aware of Lísa’s condition and the results of the investigation. After something of a wait, which at least gave her time to take off her jacket, a man came on the line, introducing himself in a deep voice as Úlfar. Thóra gave him her full name and was just about to tell him why she was calling when he interrupted her.

‘Did you say Thóra Guðmundsdóttir? Lawyer?’

Thóra was surprised. ‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Has someone been in touch with you?’

This didn’t make things any clearer. ‘Er … no.’

The man was silent, apparently thinking things over. ‘Your name is on a list I have here in my office, in connection with a case that came up yesterday.’

‘I’m extremely busy, I’m afraid – I don’t have time to take on new cases at the moment. Could you take me off the list for the time being?’ A while ago Thóra had asked for her name to be added to a list of lawyers whom police suspects could contact when they needed a defence solicitor. This had been part of a plan that her partner Bragi had cooked up in response to the recession, although it hadn’t led to anything – until now, apparently.

‘It’s easier said than done to take you off the list that I’m talking about. No one here has requested legal assistance from you – this is to do with a very serious case that you seem to be linked to.’

Thóra was too taken aback to fully absorb the implications of what he was saying. ‘I don’t really understand. I actually called to report a serious crime. Perhaps we’re talking about the same thing?’ Had the therapist beaten her to it in reporting the rape?

‘If the crime you were going to report involves a death, then it’s possible. If not, then we’re talking about two unrelated cases.’

‘A death?’ Thóra’s heart skipped a beat; maybe Jakob had died of his wounds. He hadn’t seemed to be anywhere near death’s door the day before, but what did she know about medicine? ‘What’s the name of the person who died, may I ask?’

Rather than answering her, he changed the subject, or so it seemed. ‘Do you know a young radio host named Margeir?’

‘I’m not making this up, Halli. I would have thought you’d understand that.’ Berglind clamped the phone between her shoulder and ear so that she could fold the washing. ‘The clothes smelled disgusting; I washed them three times using more and more detergent but the smell won’t go away.’

‘Please, Begga, not now.’ Halli sounded tired. ‘Of course I believe you, but there has to be some explanation. Maybe a neighbour’s cat just sprayed the clothes?’

‘Didn’t you hear what I said? This isn’t the odour of cat urine. I don’t know what it could be. Something spoiled or rotten.’

‘Then maybe the cat just ran into the washing with a dead animal, I don’t know.’

‘The washing doesn’t hang down to the ground, Halli. And even if it did, cats don’t carry prey that’s rotten.’ Berglind immediately regretted having said this. She realized how unreasonable she must sound to her husband.

‘Begga. I’ve got to go to work. I know nothing about this and it seems anything I say will just annoy you more. Throw the damn stuff in a bag and I’ll take a look at it when I get home. If the stink is as bad as you say, then it’ll still smell this evening.’ He didn’t heave a sigh as he said this, but he might as well have done.

‘Fine.’ Berglind put down a white T-shirt that was spark-lingly clean but smelled as if it had recently been dug up from a damp grave. ‘See you later. Sorry to disturb you.’ This wasn’t meant to sound bitter or sarcastic, but it did anyway.

‘Okay,’ said Halli. There was a brief silence, which she found herself unable to fill. ‘Don’t hang the clothes outside, Begga. Use the dryer.’

‘I will.’ There was such a lot that Berglind wanted to say to him, but she could neither put it into words nor expect him to appreciate the timing. ‘Come home early.’ He didn’t acquiesce immediately, as she had hoped he would. ‘Please.’

‘I’ll try.’

‘
I’ll try
’
was the same as ‘
maybe
’. Both were polite ways of saying no. The smell seemed worse when the conversation finished; Berglind turned from the table, grabbed a plastic bag and hurriedly stuffed the washing into it. Then she tied a knot at the top and put the bag into a corner of the little utility room. She hurried out and shut the door behind her, determined not to think about the stench any more or to let it put her off her chores. There was plenty to do and it would soon be time to feed her son. ‘Pési, darling? Are you hungry?’ she called. No answer. The silence made the house seem empty, as though she wasn’t even there herself. ‘Pési? Where are you, sweetie?’ Still no answer. Berglind rushed to the hallway on the ground floor where she could see into the kitchen and the living room, but Pési wasn’t in either of them. Upstairs also appeared to be empty, but that didn’t really mean anything: Pési was still so little that he didn’t make much noise. He was probably doing a puzzle in his room or messing around with something. All the same, Berglind dashed up the stairs, two steps at a time. Her worries weren’t assuaged when she found her son’s room empty – as, it transpired, were all the other upstairs rooms.

On her way back down the stairs it crossed her mind that Pési might have wandered outside while she was on the phone; maybe he got bored in the house and missed preschool. Berglind’s decision at the end of last week to let him stay at home for a while had, in retrospect, perhaps not been a good one, and every time he asked to be allowed to return she’d had to face the fact that Pési’s absence from class wasn’t just for his sake but for hers as well. She felt so much better having him at home and not being alone in the house while she was on this ludicrous so-called sick leave. It was an absurd thing to call it. Physically she was perfectly healthy, and mentally she was a little bruised at worst. No holiday from work was going to heal those particular wounds, and sometimes she thought her absence was mainly for her colleagues’ benefit. She felt guilty at this thought; her boss’s suggestion had been made out of concern. An unusual level of concern, come to think of it. It would have been nice if her closest relatives had been as understanding and had displayed as much genuine interest in her problems. Her disappointment at Halli’s reaction on the phone still smarted. ‘Pési?’ Silence. He must have gone outside.