‘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?’
CHAPTER 26
Monday, 18 January 2010
‘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.