‘How do you mean? The photocopier belongs to the office.’
‘No, that’s not what I was suggesting.’ The man’s mouth twitched disapprovingly. ‘The vomit – you know. Your home insurance might pay for the damage you caused when you… you know…’
Thóra flushed dark red and folded her arms. ‘Me? How could you possibly think I was responsible for this? It has nothing to do with me.’ Nothing she had said since showing him the machine had implied that she was in any way responsible. But then again, no one else had owned up and it was unlikely anyone would now.
The engineer seemed surprised. ‘Really? Then I must have misunderstood. The girl in reception mentioned your name.’
Thóra was livid; she might have guessed. Bella. Of course. ‘Did she, indeed?’ She couldn’t say any more since there was no point arguing with the engineer. It wasn’t his fault he had been misled by her malicious secretary. She plastered on her best smile, smothering a desire to storm out to reception and throttle Bella. ‘Well, you needn’t take any notice of her – she’s a bit slow on the uptake. It’s not the first time she’s got the wrong end of the stick, poor thing.’
Judging by the man’s face, he thought they were both mad. ‘Right, well, I’d better get on. I’ll have the copier picked up later today. I expect that would be the best solution.’ He picked up the toolbox and clasped it to his chest, apparently eager to return to other, more conventional jobs. Thóra couldn’t blame him.
She escorted him to reception where Bella sat grinning behind her desk. Thóra shot her what she hoped was a meaningful look, but saw no sign of apprehension in the secretary’s smirk. ‘Oh, Bella, I forgot to tell you – the chemist rang earlier. The colostomy bag you ordered has arrived. Size XXL.’
The repairman stumbled over the threshold in his haste to leave, almost knocking down an elderly couple who had materialised in the doorway. Flustered, they apologised in unison, then dithered outside the door; either they expected someone else to land in their laps or they were getting cold feet. If Thóra hadn’t swooped on them with profuse apologies for the collision, they might well have turned away, using the incident as an excuse to back out. She recognised the look on their faces: she had lost count of the clients who’d worn that expression the first time they walked into the office. It was a combination of surprise at being compelled to seek out a lawyer and fear of having to leave the office, humiliated, when the subject of the fee came up. Ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances.
When the awkwardness occasioned by the repairman’s departure had passed, Thóra asked if she could help, moving to block their view of Bella behind the reception desk, in a black T-shirt with a picture of the devil emblazoned over her ample bosom and a coarse English epithet underneath.
‘We wondered if we could speak to a lawyer.’ The man’s voice was as colourless as his appearance; it was impossible to tell if he had noticed the foul reek. Both looked around retirement age. The woman was clutching a faux leather handbag, the reddish-brown surface worn through here and there to reveal the white canvas beneath. The man’s shirt cuffs were a little frayed where they were visible under his jacket sleeves. ‘I tried to call but there was no answer. You are open, aren’t you?’
Bella seemed to think the phone in reception had been connected so she could spend all day gossiping with her friends, especially if they lived abroad, judging by the bills. At other times she generally left it to ring unanswered so she could go on surfing the Internet in peace. ‘Yes, yes, we’re open. Unfortunately our receptionist is ill, which is why no one answered.’ At worst this was a white lie, since no one could claim Bella was fit for work, though unfortunately in her case the condition was chronic. ‘I’m glad you decided to come by anyway. My name’s Thóra Gudmundsdóttir and I’m a lawyer. We can have a chat now if you like.’ As they exchanged greetings, she noted that both had decidedly limp handshakes.
The couple introduced themselves as Margeir Karelsson and Sigrídur Veturlidadóttir. Thóra recognised neither name. On the way to her office she observed their puffy features and although she couldn’t detect any alcohol on their breath, their appearance hinted at drink problems. Still, it was none of her business, at least not at this stage.
Declining coffee, they came straight to the point. ‘We don’t really know why we’re here,’ said Margeir.
‘Well, that’s not uncommon,’ Thóra lied, to make them feel better. Generally her clients knew precisely what they expected of her, though their expectations were often far from realistic. ‘Did someone recommend us to you?’
‘Sort of. A friend of ours has a business delivering coffee to offices and he mentioned you. We didn’t want to go to one of those big, swanky firms because they’re bound to be far too pricey. He thought you’d almost certainly be on the cheap side.’
Thóra forced a polite smile. The office clearly hadn’t made much of an impression on the coffee delivery man and she would stake her life on Bella being the main reason. ‘It’s true that our rates are lower than the large legal practices. But won’t you begin by telling me what the problem is? Then I can explain what it’s in our power to do and perhaps discuss a fee for the service you’re after.’
The couple stared at her in silence, neither willing to take the initiative. Eventually it fell to the woman, after she had adjusted the handbag in her lap. ‘Our son has disappeared. Along with his wife and twin daughters. We’re at our wits’ end and need help with the stuff we simply can’t cope with ourselves. We have enough trouble getting through the day as it is and dealing with the basic necessities. Their two-year-old daughter’s staying with us…’
They were not alcoholics: the bloodshot eyes and puffy features had a far more tragic cause. ‘I see.’ She could guess the context, though in general she paid little attention to the news. For the past two days the media had been full of the unexplained disappearance of the crew and passengers of a yacht that had crashed into the docks in Reykjavík harbour. Among them had been a family, a couple with two daughters. Like the rest of the nation, Thóra had been glued to reports about the baffling case, though her knowledge was limited as little of substance had been released as yet. But she did know that the incident was linked to the resolution committee appointed to wind up the affairs of one of Iceland’s failed banks. When the luxury yacht’s owner proved unable to pay back the bank loan with which he had purchased it, the committee had repossessed the vessel. As a result the yacht had been on its way from the Continent to Iceland, to be advertised for sale on the international market, but this process would presumably be delayed now by repairs and other matters arising from the dramatic manner of its arrival. Apparently there were no clues as to what had happened to the people on board, or at any rate none had found their way into the media. The disappearance of the seven individuals had shocked the nation to the core, but the case had attracted even more attention since the young Icelandic woman married to the yacht’s bankrupt owner was a regular in the gossip columns. To judge by the coverage, the reporters possessed almost no hard facts, but this didn’t prevent them from speculating, the most popular theory being that the crew and passengers had been washed overboard in a storm. ‘Are you the parents of the man from the resolution committee who was supposed to be on board the yacht?’
‘Yes.’ The woman gulped. She looked close to breaking down, but managed to carry on. ‘You mustn’t think we’ve given up all hope of finding them alive, but it is fading. And what little the police can tell us doesn’t give us any grounds for optimism.’