Someone to Watch Over Me tg-5 Read online

  She also found a report on the number of developmentally disabled people in Iceland: it was around half a per cent of the population, which was not small. Thóra also looked specifically for information about sheltered community residences and discovered that the implementation of this form of living had begun in 1980, so there had been time to gather some experience regarding how they could best be run. According to the information she found, these units were homes for small groups of disabled people, generally not more than six, all aged sixteen or older and each under the one-on-one supervision of at least one staff member. The staff’s responsibility was to provide support and therapy, with a view to advancing the residents’ independence and life skills. The administration and setting up of these homes was at the expense of the state, although the money came from various of its budgets: construction costs were paid out of the Disabled Investment Fund, staff salaries from the Treasury, and communal expenses were taken from the residents’ insurance benefits, accounting for up to seventy-five per cent of the amount. All in all there were almost ninety such establishments in Iceland, totalling around four hundred and fifty residents.

  The telephone on the desk emitted a peculiar sound, start-ling Thóra. The ring tone was very loud and high-pitched – their secretary Bella must have changed the setting, probably just to annoy her. Thóra suppressed her anger and lifted the receiver. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Your parents are here to see you; should I show them in, or tell them you’re not here?’

  Thóra knew her parents were standing in front of Bella as she spoke. The girl was a lost cause. ‘Show them in.’ There was no point telling her off, if only because once Thóra started she wouldn’t be able to stop.

  Her parents appeared in her office doorway, and after greeting them she invited them to sit down. They seemed ill at ease, and small talk about the weather did nothing to loosen them up. Finally her father got to the point, and the reason for their agitation became clear.

  When he had finished explaining, Thóra stifled a sigh and took the paperwork her father was holding out to her. ‘So you don’t think you’ll be able to pay back the loan? Did this eventuality never occur to you when you bought the house?’ The property her parents had financed with a massive foreign-currency loan was a rather grand summer home in Spain; the purchase price looked high to Thóra, even without the doubled exchange rate of the euro. ‘The monthly payments would be crippling, even if you weren’t retired.’

  ‘We were advised that we could let it out, and the rent would cover the mortgage payments. The former owners said they were going to take care of it for us,’ said Thóra’s father, as her mother nodded vigorously beside him.

  Thóra ground her teeth. ‘Of course they did.’ She flipped to the clause in the agreement that specified the payment amounts. ‘According to this, the property was purchased entirely on credit. A one hundred per cent mortgage is pretty risky, whatever the exchange rate, and I doubt that the rent would ever have covered the payments, even without the global financial crisis and a decline in the Spanish tourism industry.’ She looked up at them. ‘So you started renting it out? Did the rent pay off the mortgage, initially?’

  They both looked sheepish, shifting in their chairs. ‘Well…’ said her father.

  ‘How much of the monthly payment did it cover? All of it? Half? A third?’ She hardly dared go any lower. ‘How do you think I can help you with this? And why didn’t you tell me that you’d bought a house in Spain? You’re in a very tight spot, it’s almost impossible to default on a mortgage.’

  ‘We didn’t want to get you involved at the time, but we were hoping you might know a way to get it converted to a bullet loan?’ He smiled weakly, clearly realizing this was not a viable option. Thóra’s mother still seemed hopeful, though, and was nodding her head even more energetically than before.

  ‘That can’t be done.’ Thóra didn’t want to waste their time pretending to entertain the idea. ‘Your position is even worse than it was, since you haven’t paid anything for several months. It’s probably been flagged as a bad debt at the bank, and if you don’t make a payment very soon you could wind up bankrupt.’

  ‘Is there nothing that can be done? Some sort of legal trick?’

  ‘Nothing I can think of. The lawyers who draw up these mortgages are no fools, and the bank loaned you the money in good faith. The sellers who conned you into buying this place also seem to have protected themselves pretty well, since it states quite clearly here that they offer no guarantee that you’ll be able to rent it out.’ Thóra gently laid the papers on her desk and tried to keep her composure. ‘This is a very tricky situation, and I’m sure you’ve tried to come up with a solution. The house is up for sale, which is good, but I doubt it will sell quickly and you’re very unlikely to make your money back on it. Whatever you do make should shrink your debt, at least. But the property market is as dead there as it is in Iceland, so the house is unlikely to sell any time soon.’ Thóra sighed. Her parents weren’t the first to show up in her office looking for a magic solution to insurmountable financial difficulties. ‘How were you planning to get yourselves out of this?’

  ‘Well, we do actually have an idea,’ said her father. Her parents exchanged a glance. ‘We can’t rent out this bloody place in Spain, except for a week here and there, but what we have done is put our house here in Iceland up for sale, and we’ve had a good offer that will allow us to pay off the other mortgage monthly until we can realistically put that house on the market. We’ve also found a nice flat we can afford without endangering the Spanish payments. The thing is, we’d have to hand over the house immediately, but we can’t move into the flat for two months. That is, if we decide to do it.’

  Thóra’s mother had stopped nodding along with her husband and was watching her daughter’s reaction closely.

  ‘And where would you stay until your flat is ready?’ Thóra swallowed hard, just resisting the temptation to cross her fingers. She was an only child.

  ‘Well, we were thinking maybe we could just bunk in with you.’ Now they were both smiling eagerly. ‘We wouldn’t be any bother, and we’d even help out with the housework.’

  Thóra was struggling to stay calm. Of course she wanted to help her parents out of the financial hole they’d dug for themselves. They had been very good to her throughout her life and she was more than grateful for that. Her problem with the idea stemmed from her own domestic situation. Her house was a decent size, but there were quite enough people living there already. Besides herself, there were her two children, ten-year-old Sóley and nineteen-year-old Gylfi; Gylfi’s girlfriend Sigga; and their son Orri, now two and a half. Thóra’s partner of several years, Matthew, had also recently moved in. The addition of a fourth generation to the household would eat away even more at their limited amount of private time. ‘I see,’ was all she could say.

  ‘It won’t be for long, probably not even the full two months,’ said her father cheerily. ‘I’ll find work and then we can go to a hotel or get another short-term rental somewhere.’

  Clearly nobody had broken the news to him about the unemployment figures. She didn’t want to discourage him by pointing out how much had changed since he’d retired, or that right now the one thing the market didn’t need was a career banker, even one who had ended up as a branch manager. As far as she knew his only saleable skill was managing other people’s money, which made it even harder to understand how they’d been duped. In fact they’d been doubly cheated: tricked into putting their savings into equity funds which, according to the sales patter, made you a handsome risk-free profit on the interest; and then advised to take out loans against their property portfolio to buy everything their hearts desired. The original amount her parents had put into this fund would have covered the bulk of the price of the summer home when they’d made the decision to buy it, but now it had been whittled down to a third of the size and things looked dire for them. Their life savings were as good as gone, and their debt to the bank
– the same one that ran the stock exchange – had been too much for them even before the crash of the króna had doubled the size of the loan.

  Now that she understood this depressing situation, Thóra could see why her parents had been so embarrassed. At first she’d thought they’d come to write their wills and were unsure how to broach the subject. That seemed a rather comical thought now that it was clear how little they had to divide up.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll sort something out,’ she murmured, forcing out a reassuring smile.

  ‘I know it’s crowded at your place, but maybe we could stay in the garage,’ said her father brightly. ‘I think I could make it quite cosy. I bet Gylfi would help me, and maybe also your… friend, the German.’ Thóra’s parents weren’t overly fond of Matthew, which she thought stemmed from two things in particular: firstly, they spoke no German and rather patchy English, and secondly, Thóra was pretty sure they were convinced he’d take their daughter, grandchildren and great-grandchild back to Germany with him. Maybe it was this that had pushed them into buying a summer home abroad. They were even less impressed when Matthew wasn’t offered work in the new bank that was built on the ruins of the old one; he was a foreigner, and was considered too expensive to retain. He still hadn’t found suitable work and his prospects were looking less than rosy. Actually, he was in pretty much the same boat as her father.

  Her father smiled again, this time with more conviction. ‘As I say, it won’t be for long. I have complete faith that the króna will get stronger, and then maybe we can go to Spain and spend some time at the house. But as things stand right now, we can’t afford it.’ In other words, when he found a job he planned to celebrate by going on holiday.

  Thóra smiled back at him, trying to put her heart into it despite her mixed feelings. ‘And even if it doesn’t happen and you’re with us the whole time, that’s fine. Of course you’re welcome to stay.’ She decided that for now she’d stop nagging them about making a payment on the mortgage. There would be plenty of time for that. ‘It gets quieter every other weekend, when the kids go to their father, so there will be more room for us.’ As she said this she realized how much she’d miss the few days a month she spent alone with Matthew. She certainly wasn’t looking forward to breaking the news to him.

  Bella barged into the office, and Thóra wondered, not for the first time, whether it wouldn’t be wiser to lock the door when she had clients or visitors. She always came to the same conclusion – that Bella probably wouldn’t let it stop her.

  ‘Have you taken my stapler?’ Bella planted her hands on her hefty hips, glaring at Thóra.

  ‘No, Bella, I haven’t,’ replied Thóra calmly. ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘It’s been stolen, and you’re the most likely culprit.’

  ‘Well, legally you can’t steal your own possessions. I own this firm, which means I can’t steal anything here.’ Thóra met Bella’s narrowed eyes levelly. ‘Please knock before entering next time, and shut the door behind you when you leave. Now.’ Thóra hoped the girl would leave before she spotted the stapler on Thóra’s desk. She had borrowed it that morning before her secretary arrived and forgotten to return it, though she had no intention of admitting this.

  Bella turned on her heel without another word, but left the door open behind her by way of getting in the last punch. Thóra’s parents had watched the whole thing open-mouthed, and when the secretary had stomped out of earshot her mother whispered, ‘Can’t you get rid of that girl? She’s terribly rude.’

  Thóra shook her head. ‘It’s complicated.’ The firm was stuck with Bella because she was the landlord’s daughter and her employment had been part of the terms of the lease.

  ‘That’s most unfortunate,’ tutted her mother, picking up her handbag and holding it tightly as if Bella might sneak up and pluck it off the back of her chair.

  ‘Well, Thóra, we can’t stay.’ Her father stood up. ‘You’ve probably got enough to do and we’ve got to get over to the estate agent to finalize the paperwork on the offer.’

  Thóra gulped. ‘Of course.’ She followed them out and said goodbye, and when they were gone she hurried back to her office to call Matthew and tell him about the latest additions to their household. He would be so pleased. As she was dialling, her mobile beeped, indicating she’d received a text. Curious, Thóra hung up the landline and reached for her mobile. The message was from the Internet message service ja.is, so it could be from anyone. She opened it, thinking either the contents or the sign-off would identify the sender, but the one-word message didn’t make any sense to her; perhaps it had come to the wrong number?

  Pregnant

  She felt a sudden surge of panic. Was Gylfi’s girlfriend pregnant again? She hurriedly called her son, who thankfully had no clue what was going on and reassured her that Sigga was neither pregnant nor planning to be. Thóra was relieved, but something about the mysterious text still made her uneasy.

  CHAPTER 3

  Wednesday, 6 January 2010

  It was no wonder the briefcase Jakob’s mother had left was falling to bits. One more Post-it note would probably have finished it off, it was so full. Thóra would probably need to transfer the contents to a new case when she returned them to Grímheiður; it would be easier than stuffing all the files back into this one. But for the moment it was empty, the papers that had previously stretched it to bursting point scattered across the desk. Thóra leaned back in the top-of-the-range office chair she’d bought when the company’s fortunes had finally appeared to be looking up, about a month before the economy imploded. There was simply reams of information here, and she obviously wouldn’t have the luxury of going through all the files before deciding whether or not to take on Jakob’s case. She would have to pick out the ones that seemed most likely to contain useful information. She started two piles on her desk, sorting the papers by apparent relevance. Admittedly, her criteria were governed mostly by her desire to keep the ‘yes’ pile under half the height of the ‘maybe’ one. By the time she’d sorted through most of the papers, her plan seemed to have worked.

  Although Thóra had only skimmed the files, she was filled with dread. She didn’t need a long-winded report to tell her that the events of that night had been horrific. Five people had died tragically; four residents and a night watchman. The centre admitted disabled people aged eighteen to twenty-five, and residents were not moved to another facility when they hit the maximum age. It was a new build, meaning all the residents who perished were young, which made the whole thing even sadder. And to make matters even worse, the watchman unlucky enough to be working that night, one of twelve staff members, was just as young at twenty-three. Fire can be merciless, and in the residence it appeared to have burned out of control and rendered everything and everyone in its path unrecognizable. Thóra couldn’t believe somewhere like this hadn’t had a decent fire alarm fitted, which might have saved some, if not all, of the victims. She also found it odd that neither the residents nor the night watchman had been able to escape and raise the alarm. Maybe the fire had spread too fast, but that seemed unlikely.

  Thóra gathered the remaining papers, put them on top of the larger ‘maybe’ pile and turned her attention to the smaller pile. As soon as she started reading the first file, she regretted not having put them in any particular order, either by date or likely relevance. She set aside the file – a report about technical aspects of the fire – and flipped down through the rest until she found the verdict in Jakob’s case. Soon most of her initial questions were answered, and she could see a clear sequence of events.

  Shortly after 3 a.m., petrol that had been spilled that night along the corridors and into the living quarters was set alight. The fire doors had been propped open with chairs and other objects, but only the ones leading to occupied apartments; the rooms with no one inside had been left alone. It would be difficult to argue that this had been an accident; it was a clear example of malice aforethought. The report stated that the night watchman,
Friðleifur, had been attacked and struck at the base of the skull. Although the autopsy and other evidence could not be conclusive, he was probably unconscious before the petrol was trailed through the building. His body was found melted onto a chair in the duty office, and there was nothing to suggest that he had moved or tried to escape. The cause of death was listed as suffocation from smoke inhalation. So Friðleifur had been unable to keep his charges safe, and the building’s electrics had failed them too; because the home was so new a few of its systems, including the fire alarm and sprinklers, were yet to be connected. This had been raised as a concern, but with the work so behind schedule the excitement of moving everyone in overcame common sense and the residents were installed before all the loose ends were tied up. The concerns raised were quickly forgotten and the sensors – which would have saved lives – sent their messages into space instead of alerting the sprinkler system.

  In a further twist of fate, a second watchman who should have been covering the night shift had called in sick at short notice, and no one could be found to replace him. In his statement he said that Friðleifur had called him at home an hour before the time the fire was estimated to have started. At that point there had been nothing much to report; the other man was only calling to ask about a key he couldn’t find. The files also mentioned another phone call, but this one to the centre, not from it. This call, which was brief, had occurred just before Friðleifur called his sick colleague. The caller, a young man not named in the files, claimed to have been drunk at the time and to only vaguely remember making the call; it must have been a wrong number, as he did not know anyone at the residence. His explanation was not questioned, since the other staff testified that drunk people often seemed to accidentally call the centre on weekend nights. They had always assumed the home’s telephone number must be one digit off the number of a club or bar, although they hadn’t looked into it as it hadn’t seemed that important.