‘What about the others who lived there? Is it possible that one of them, or one of their relatives, could have done it? I mean, both the fire and this situation with Lísa.’
The woman pondered the question for several moments. ‘I can’t think of anyone, to tell you the honest truth. Although the centre had only been up and running for a short time, I managed to get to know everyone there pretty well, and no one comes to mind. Naturally, I didn’t know their relatives as well, but I seriously doubt any of them would be capable of such a terrible thing. Most parents of disabled children that I’ve known, which is quite a few down the years, only want the best for their child and would fight tooth and nail for them. These people would be the very last to commit murder; I simply can’t see it.’
Few people could imagine someone killing another person, but nevertheless, it happened again and again. ‘I’ve watched some footage from the residence, taken by the filmmaker who spent a bit of time there.’
Linda nodded, clearly remembering the man.
‘In the background I heard some words that have come up in my conversations with Jakob, but I can’t find an explanation for them and I was hoping that you could tell me what they mean.’
‘What were the words?’ The woman seemed surprised.
‘Look at me… Repeated by a man, I think, quite angrily.’
Linda gave Thóra an indecipherable look. ‘Yes. I’m familiar with that phrase. Tryggvi had a therapist who used rather unorthodox methods to stimulate the boy. He would repeat the phrase over and over in his attempts to reach him. He actually forced the boy to look into his eyes in order to get a response. It made Tryggvi howl; he found the therapy enormously stressful, and the man would react by howling back at him. It was quite distressing to hear.’
‘A therapist? Was he a developmental therapist like you?’
‘No.’ The woman’s expression hardened. ‘Tryggvi’s parents, especially his mother, wanted him to undergo unconventional treatment in the hope of achieving a better result than they were seeing with us. The couple hired this man, Ægir Rannversson, but I never could work out what his qualifications or his educational background were. He’d recently come back from some time abroad, where he’d worked on or studied autism, but it wasn’t at any respected educational institution, that much is certain.’
‘And did his method produce any results?’ The silence was even longer this time, but finally the woman spoke up again. ‘Yes, it did. Whether they would have been permanent, I can’t say, but he did get the boy to express himself more than anyone had dared hope, though he wasn’t about to start speaking or anything like that. He articulated himself more through these incredible drawings he did. I mean, I couldn’t have interpreted them, but the main change was in how much more alert he was to his surroundings. He was highly autistic, and he found lots of everyday things intolerable. He was captivated by strings of lights and candles – he could stare at them for hours at a time. But he hated the sound of the toilet being flushed, for example, or the phone ringing. These things became significantly better after his treatment, however, and who knows how much more he might have improved if the treatment had been able to continue. Mind you, he could just as easily have regressed over time; it had happened before. His mother told me that he couldn’t bear being near a TV that was turned on, and later radios, too, for no obvious reason. But of course no one knows what might have happened. Following complaints from the residents and their families about the noise from his sessions, Tryggvi’s parents put a stop to them and chose not to move his therapy elsewhere, since it was out of the question to try to get the boy into a car. Luckily, the progress he’d made seemed to stick, even after the treatment stopped.’
Now it was Thóra’s turn to be silent. Neither Einvarður nor Fanndís had mentioned this; if anything, they’d implied that Tryggvi had made no progress. Sometimes what was left unsaid had the most significance. Given how concerned they’d been about their son’s development, it was extremely odd – and even odder to hear that they had actually paid attention to the complaints to such an extent. Might it not have been possible to tone down the screaming and conduct the therapy in a quieter manner? ‘So if he’d started to open up, would he have been a lot more likely than before to leave his own apartment? Was he perhaps even capable of roaming around at night?’
‘Maybe, yes.’
CHAPTER 21
Saturday, 16 January 2010
For once, the weather was glorious. Nevertheless, Thóra was thankful to be wearing a coat long enough to protect her bottom from the cold plastic benches in the stands. Out on the AstroTurf, Sóley ran around with the rest of the team, none of them showing any sign of following either the rules or the ball, which as a result was nearly always on their half of the pitch. This practice match had been set up at short notice and Thóra thought the coach had probably decided the cold conditions might benefit his team, allowing them to lose by fewer points than usual or even to manage a draw. This was rather optimistic, particularly in light of the fact that there was no risk of the team’s opponents mixing up the goals or losing sight of the ball in a flurry of snow.
‘Turn around, Sóley! Wrong way!’ called Matthew, cupping his hands around his mouth. Sóley stopped, turned to them and waved, smiling. As she did so, a group of girls ran past her after the ball. ‘She’s getting better,’ he said to Thóra, somewhat unconvincingly.
‘Isn’t it bad for the pitch to let them play in winter?’ Thóra knew less about football than Sóley, but she did know the pitch was new and she didn’t want the 6th Girls’ Division damaging it if they were only going to lose.
‘They’re so light it hardly makes any difference,’ Matthew replied. To further emphasize their minuscule stature, they were playing against a backdrop of the magnificent sparkling sea on the other side of the pitch and the Reykjanes mountain range. ‘Go on, Sóley! Go on!’ Again Thóra’s daughter stopped to wave; the game was forgotten, and had been lost long ago.
‘It might not be a good idea to encourage her.’ Thóra glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes left. ‘It looks to me like her concentration can’t handle it.’ Her phone rang in her coat pocket and Thóra took it out. She didn’t recognize the number but the voice was familiar. It was Grímheiður, Jakob’s mother. At first Thóra seriously regretted answering, preferring not to let work interrupt her on the weekends, but after she’d spoken to the woman, she felt differently. She thanked Grímheiður and said goodbye.
‘What is it?’ Matthew was startled when he saw Thóra’s expression.
‘Jakob is being moved from Sogn. He was taken to the National Hospital with serious injuries last night, and underwent surgery on his eye.’
Matthew turned back to the match. ‘What happened?’
‘Jósteinn attacked him. With a knife and fork in the middle of their meal. He’ll be lucky to keep his eye, and he has multiple other wounds, so I’m told.’
This was enough to draw Matthew’s attention away from the ball. ‘What? I thought Jósteinn was his benefactor or something? Isn’t he paying for the investigation because he likes Jakob so much? Were they fighting about something?’
‘No, not as far as I understand. The attack was completely unprovoked, according to Jakob’s mother.’ Thóra put the phone back in her pocket. It was clear that this attack would have a decisive effect on the issue of reopening the case; surely Jósteinn was unlikely to continue paying for the investigation after what had just happened. ‘I really don’t know why I’m surprised. The man is ill, capable of anything, and I should probably be grateful that I didn’t leave my meeting with him with a fork in my temple or something.’