Someone to Watch Over Me Read online

  ‘Which filmmaker?’ Thóra had seen no mention of a filmmaker either in the court documents or in anything else she’d read.

  ‘There was a young man gathering material for a documentary about the centre’s work. It was all approved by the Regional Office and was going well, I think. The man was there all the time and I’m sure he has a lot of material you might be able to access. Who knows – maybe there’ll be something of use to you buried in there somewhere. And what’s more, I bet he got a good sense of what it was like there in relation to other similar homes. I’m sure he could reassure you that everything was just fine.’ With this, Einvarður skilfully avoided any further discussion of what might have happened to Lísa. No doubt he realized how callous this seemed because he quickly added, in a graver tone: ‘I hope you find the person who did this to Lísa, and if Jakob is innocent of starting the fire, I would be the first to celebrate if you find the bastard responsible. On the other hand, if Jakob is guilty, I sincerely hope that he’s locked up in Sogn until the day he dies.’

  Chapter 12

  Monday, 11 January 2010

  Thóra left their meeting with Tryggvi’s father feeling reasonably pleased. Not much new information had emerged, of course, but Einvarður had promised to be ready to assist her, which was something of a step forward. If she needed data or information, he’d see that she got it. Thóra reflected that it must be nice being part of that mysterious elite who always seemed to get their own way. Einvarður’s offer wasn’t subject to any provisos that this information would depend on others’ consent, nor was it an offer to explore whether he could help in some way. He simply intended to help them out, and appeared convinced that he’d be able to do so. Thóra was unused to this level of cooperation and thought for a moment that she’d misunderstood him – not because of his being so certain that he could get hold of what she needed, but because he appeared to be prepared to hand the material over unconditionally. Useful information went hand in hand with power, which people were seldom keen to share with others. Thus it could be difficult to extract it from certain people, and it was rare to hear of it being served up on a plate. The more usual scenario would have been for the man to make her chase him before he reluctantly shared the information in order to emphasize his own importance. Maybe Einvarður’s amen-ability was the reason he hadn’t tried to claw his way up the ladder in politics.

  In an additional act of collaboration, before saying goodbye to Thóra and Matthew, Einvarður had called his wife and informed her that she should follow his example and provide Thóra with all the assistance she might need. Thóra sat listening but adopted the expression of someone who, though forced to be in earshot of a couple’s conversation, is so distracted that it goes completely in one ear and out the other. Of course, she heard everything that Einvarður said as well as the faint sound of his wife’s replies, though she couldn’t distinguish the individual words. The message was clearly delivered as an instruction, yet it was completely free of any unpleasant or bullying tone. Nevertheless, it was abundantly clear that Einvarður expected his wishes to be followed. He then informed Thóra and Matthew that Fanndís could meet them whenever it suited them, scribbled her mobile number on a slip of paper and handed it to Thóra. As she took hold of it, instead of releasing his grip on it, he looked resolutely into her eyes. ‘We all want the right man to be convicted – in fact I insist upon it.’ Once he’d made his declaration, he let go of the paper and Thóra sat there unsure about whether his comment was meant generally, or was directed at her alone. As they parted, she muttered something about that being fair enough.

  Matthew hadn’t understood much of what had transpired at the meeting, but he was slowly but surely putting together the main details of the case. ‘What do you suppose it’s like to have such a severely disabled child?’

  ‘Difficult, no doubt.’ The snow crunched beneath Thóra’s feet. In more heavily populated areas, the layer of white had probably already turned to slush, but here few people had been out and about, even though it was nearly noon. ‘Difficult, and sad – but it must be rewarding, too. Small victories become big ones, and it’s amazing how people can adapt to different circumstances and accept their lot in life.’

  ‘You’re sounding quite philosophical.’

  ‘That’s your question making me think that way.’ They crossed the street towards the car. ‘To be honest, I actually have no idea – I can’t even get my head around it.’ This was the honest truth; since accepting the case, Thóra had frequently, if unintentionally, found herself wondering what Orri’s life would be like if he were trapped inside an undeveloped body or mind – though she always pushed away these thoughts as soon as they appeared. She’d also wondered whether some subconscious prejudice was clouding her vision, but she was pretty certain that that wasn’t the case. In her opinion, prejudice fed on hatred, and in this case she felt quite the opposite: she found it unbearably sad to think about these young, severely disabled people who missed out on so much of life. It was also perfectly clear to her that they must be hurt by this kind of attitude; not to be considered as individuals, but instead defined by their disability. She resolved to cultivate a more informed manner of thinking and was sure this would help her with her investigation. ‘I could really do with something proper to eat.’ She looked up along Hverfisgata Street, hoping to spot a restaurant. ‘I don’t know whether I’m depressed or starving, but I need some sus-tenance.’

  They went over to a little café-restaurant nearby and when Thóra saw on the menu hanging in the window that bacon and eggs were on offer, that settled it. Matthew wasn’t quite as excited. The place was decorated with old books on shelves that appeared even older and on the verge of collapsing. There were very few tables inside. Thóra found the place cosy, but Matthew disagreed, quietly muttering that he doubted very much if the dust was regularly wiped off the books. Thóra hoped for the employees’ sake that this was indeed the case – besides, it would hardly be great from the diners’ perspective if the staff were constantly stirring up dust that could otherwise have lain on top of the old tomes, troubling no one. However, she said nothing, having long ago realized that Matthew preferred the places where he ate to maintain the same standards of hygiene as an operating theatre. ‘Just be sure you don’t bite the books,’ she told him. He gave her a dirty look before studying the menu in search of something boiled to eat.

  ‘I think we should contact Fanndís, Einvarður’s wife, straight away. Strike while the iron’s hot.’ Thóra watched the girl at the counter pour them two cups of coffee. ‘They might change their minds if we wait.’

  ‘Do you want me to go with you?’ Matthew didn’t seem too thrilled at the prospect. ‘I don’t have much to add, and she might find it disturbing, me just sitting there silently between you.’

  ‘It didn’t seem to bother her husband. He spoke freely even though you didn’t say anything.’

  ‘Women are different. I’m absolutely certain she’ll trust you with more information if you go on your own. I don’t quite know where to put myself when these disabilities are discussed. Unfortunately I seem to understand everything that’s said about them, even though I’d prefer not to.’

  The coffee was placed on the table in front of them and they remained politely silent as the waitress served them. When she was finished, Thóra spoke up again. ‘It’ll be fine. You get used to the topic quickly. And maybe she’s the kind of woman who gets all aflutter when there’s a handsome man in the vicinity and says more than she meant to.’ She took a sip of the aromatic coffee. ‘Besides, I don’t want to go alone.’

  They finished their food, which had been served at remarkable speed and had disappeared just as quickly into their bellies. Thóra felt much better afterwards, and it didn’t hurt that the food had been particularly good. Matthew had even cleared his plate, after a cautious start. ‘They won’t have to wash up after us,’ said Thóra, looking at her gleaming plate, ‘so maybe they’ll have time to dust off the books.
’ She smiled at Matthew as she dug out Fanndís’s number.

  Lena watched her mother put down the phone and stare into space. She had rubbed her ear continually as she spoke. After Lena’s brother Tryggvi had died, her mother’s nervousness had increased so much that one ear had turned almost permanently crimson from all the rubbing. ‘Who was it?’ Lena tried to appear uninterested.

  ‘Huh?’ Her mother looked at her in surprise and for a moment Lena had the feeling she didn’t recognize her.

  ‘On the phone. Who was calling?’ Lena bit into the apple she’d chosen from the fruit drawer in the fridge and let the large steel door fall shut.

  ‘Oh …’ The pout her mother’s mouth made to form this pointless word lasted longer than necessary. Her lips, painted a pale red, formed a circle around the cavity of her mouth as Lena waited for more words to tumble out. ‘Yes, you mean that … It was a woman your father wants me to meet.’ Her fingers reached for her scalp and started fussing with her perfect hair. ‘You should wash apples before you eat them, Lena. They’re sprayed with pesticides and you don’t want to swallow that stuff.’

  Lena ignored the advice and swallowed a bite of apple. ‘A woman that Dad wants you to meet? Who is she? And why?’

  ‘She’s a lawyer. And it’s nothing that you need to worry about.’ Her mother twisted her mouth into a smile that was anything but convincing. ‘Aren’t you going to spend the day studying? You don’t have many days left until your exams.’

  Lena shrugged. ‘Later. There’s no hurry.’ She went over to the kitchen island and sat on a high stool opposite her mother. ‘Are you two talking about getting divorced?’ She tried to say this nonchalantly, as if she didn’t care. Her father was always at work these days, which was kind of unusual and suggested that something wasn’t right, though Lena hadn’t actually suspected there might be anything to worry about until she’d heard her parents arguing about a woman at the ministry who her mother wanted him to send on leave. Her mother had never involved herself in matters concerning her father’s employees, and it suggested something was up. What did it matter to her mother if one woman was at the ministry or not? The part of the argument she’d heard before they became aware of her presence also suggested that this wasn’t just about work: her mother had said that the woman had made a fool of her, was laughing at her; that her father was a complete idiot to believe her story. No, there was no question that the woman was some slut her father had fallen for, maybe precisely because of how different she must have been from Lena’s perfect mother. Lena couldn’t actually blame her father for seeking out a less frosty embrace.

  ‘Of course not. Come on.’ Her mother let her hand fall away from her bright red ear and put both her palms on the granite worktop between them. Lena could sympathize; the surface was cold to the touch and she’d often done the same thing to steady herself – sometimes with her palms, although several times she’d laid her cheek to the surface. ‘It’s to do with Tryggvi. Something that your father thinks is important but that I don’t completely understand.’

  ‘What about Tryggvi?’ Lena’s mouth went dry. Did she have to open old wounds? ‘I thought that was finished. You promised.’

  Her mother pressed her hands so firmly against the stone that they turned white, and the bones stood out even more than usual. ‘Well, it’s not directly about Tryggvi, it’s about Jakob.’

  ‘Jakob?’ Lena put down the apple. It was no longer delicious, but heavy and awkward in her hand. ‘Are you joking? Jakob who started the fire?’ What was wrong with her father? He could behave oddly sometimes, but this was weird even for him. He knew exactly what her mother had gone through when Tryggvi had died, and now he was going to risk setting that all off again.

  ‘Your father says that this lawyer is investigating whether Jakob is truly guilty. She’s quite certain that there is some doubt.’

  ‘She said some doubt? Not serious doubt?’

  Her mother shut her eyes and it looked to Lena as if she were counting to ten. Then she opened her eyes and stared past her daughter. ‘I don’t know, Lena. Maybe there really is serious doubt over his guilt.’

  ‘Who started the fire if it wasn’t that sicko Jakob?’ Her voice sounded screechier than usual. A new trial and rehashing of Tryggvi’s death would send her mother over the edge and cause her father to retreat behind a protective wall of silence. This time the idea of divorce wouldn’t eventually drift away like it had before. Last time, their marriage had hung by a thread and it wasn’t until recently that they’d begun to resemble their former selves again – except that now family life no longer revolved around Tryggvi’s difficulties. Lena felt a bit guilty. She’d been terribly fond of her brother, maybe not quite as much as her mother, but probably just as much as her father. The problem was only that he’d displayed no affection in return, which had adversely affected the relationship between father and son but appeared to have had no effect on her mother. Maybe what had kept her going all that time was her steadfast belief that it would one day be possible to draw Tryggvi out of his shell. Lena felt sad at the thought that this might actually have happened if her brother had lived longer. ‘Who else could have done such a thing?’

  ‘She didn’t say.’ Her mother was growing annoyed and clearly didn’t want to discuss the subject any further. ‘She’s coming here soon and maybe then things will become clearer. It’s probably just some nonsense that your father took seriously.’

  ‘Why does this lawyer want to talk to you? Can’t they just leave you in peace?’

  ‘You’d have thought so, but apparently not. I have no idea why she wants to meet us. Maybe she’s speaking to all the parents.’

  ‘Maybe she thinks Tryggvi started the fire.’ Lena regretted her words as soon as she’d spoken them, but now there was no turning back. ‘Maybe she knows he liked fire.’

  Her mother opened and shut her mouth twice before saying: ‘Finish your apple. You don’t have to waste the whole thing for one mouthful.’

  Lena wondered whether she should let her mother get away with this, or whether she should repeat the question. ‘I’m not hungry.’ Nonetheless, she picked up the apple, brought it to her lips and sucked juice from it. ‘When is this woman coming?’

  Her mother glanced at her watch, which hung loosely from her wrist. She’d always been slim, but Tryggvi’s death had deprived her of her appetite for several months and she still hadn’t regained her former weight. ‘In half an hour. You should get dressed.’

  Lena looked down at her checked pyjamas. ‘Me? I’m not going to meet any lawyer,’ she retorted, then immediately regretted it, because of course she was dying to know what the woman had to say. It was unlikely that she’d be able to persuade her mother to tell her anything about what they discussed, and if their home life was about to turn to shit again, she wanted to know why. The sooner the better.

  ‘Don’t be silly. Of course you’re not, but she doesn’t need to come to the house and see a teenager hanging around here in her pyjamas in the middle of the day.’

  ‘I’m almost twenty-one, Mum. I finished puberty several years ago, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘Of course I noticed. Everyone noticed.’ Her mother grew angrier with every word. Lena was well aware that it had nothing to do with her; she was simply a conversational punchbag her mother used to calm herself down. When Fanndís spoke again she was calmer; her ear was even almost a normal colour again. ‘Seriously, Lena. Change your clothes.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Lena stood up and took the apple with her. She’d been planning to jump in the shower and get dressed anyway, but had been stubbornly putting it off just because of her mother’s pushiness. Lena had long since grown used to the fact that everything had to look good, no matter how much grief or anger might be simmering underneath. When she was seven she’d dropped a full tin of biscuits on her foot on the Feast of St Þorlákur and crushed the nail of her big toe, but she’d still had to wear patent leather shoes on Christmas Eve even though the pain
made her eyes water with every step. Tryggvi had always been well dressed and groomed even though it hadn’t mattered to him. Once Lena had suggested that she and her mother go to the Kringlan Shopping Centre and buy Tryggvi a tracksuit, which he’d find so much more comfortable than stiff blue jeans. Her mother had got extremely annoyed with her – tracksuits were for gymnastics, she’d said, not for everyday wear. Maybe her mother had been completely different before Tryggvi had come into the world; Lena didn’t know, because she was younger than him.

  The shower perked Lena up; she’d made it slightly too cold to be comfortable. Her lethargy was washed away, leaving behind a clear, alert mind in a body that broke out in goose bumps when she emerged from the shower – everywhere except on her calves, where she’d had a skin graft. The patch was just as smooth and shiny as when the skin had been fixed there. She’d been ten years old at the time. She didn’t know whether it was because the new skin didn’t react to cold or whether goose bumps simply didn’t form there. Maybe it was a combination of both. Lena hurried to dry her calf. She didn’t want to remember it, didn’t want to relive being burned, didn’t want to think that because of it she wouldn’t ever be able to wear a short dress on a night out like her friends. And least of all she didn’t want to remember how Tryggvi had liked fire; fire that had hurt her so badly. Her parents had forbidden her ever to mention his fascination with it. That ban must still be in place. It had been introduced when the community residence caught fire.

  Downstairs the doorbell rang. Lena hurriedly wrapped a large, full-length towel around herself. Of course the lawyer couldn’t see through the ceiling, but any protection was good. The woman mustn’t find out about this. For Lena’s sake, and for her parents’, but most of all for the sake of their memories of Tryggvi.