Yrsa Sigurdardottir - Someone to Watch Over Me

‘Which could indicate that the culprit wanted to take the opportunity to do it before she was moved.’

‘As I said, we have no idea who the father was, so any theories are nothing more than that – theories. The care home was full of people and it’s impossible to imagine how Lísa’s pregnancy could have happened.’

‘You say that there were always a lot of people around in the daytime, but what about at night? There was only one person on duty the night of the fire, and perhaps not only that one time. The night shift must have been under suspicion.’

‘There were always two staff members on duty at night, with two exceptions. On the night of the fire, and once during the first week after we opened. The timing of that particular occasion doesn’t fit with Lísa’s pregnancy, and in any case, it’s clear that the night watchmen had nothing to do with it. There were four of them in total, two different shifts, two on each shift. They worked every other week and were off in between. It’s difficult to invert your body clock like that at regular intervals, and it’s certainly true that only a particular type of person chooses to do such work. But none of them was the perpetrator in this dreadful case.’

‘Why not? Because they said so?’

‘No.’ Glódís looked slightly annoyed. ‘The coroner demanded that their DNA be compared to that of the foetus, and the analysis cleared all four of them – including the one who died.’ She shut her eyes. ‘I’d give a lot to know who did it, and how. It makes me furious to think something like that could happen somewhere where I am responsible.’

‘Were others tested? What about the male residents?’

‘Yes, but it ended there. Each individual test costs around two hundred thousand krónur, I understand, so it was never going to be possible to test every male who had ever set foot through our door. But as far as my boys go, neither Natan nor Tryggvi nor Jakob turned out to be the father. I should mention, perhaps, that I haven’t seen their results myself, although I did get a copy of the test results on the night watchmen sent to me because I was their boss at the time. But I heard from someone in this office that the other results were negative, and I don’t see any reason to doubt that. In any case, the bastard who forced himself on Lísa has yet to be found.’

‘So you agree that it’s impossible for her to have given consent?’

Glódís looked up quickly. ‘Of course it’s impossible. She was comatose; she was never conscious. It’s out of the question that she consented to intercourse. This was a criminal act, however you look at it.’

‘Wasn’t the matter referred to the police, then? You can’t look past the fact that this was rape, and under the most appalling circumstances.’

‘No, it wasn’t reported.’

‘Why not?’

‘It wasn’t me who didn’t want to. But when it came down to it, her parents didn’t want the police to know about it and they got help to prevent them finding out. They said they didn’t want to see newspaper articles discussing their daughter in this context, and they knew the details would get splashed everywhere. It was too late for her, in any case, and sentences for sexual offences aren’t heavy enough to amount to any real justice. Even if the guilty party had been found, they thought it would be just as likely that he would receive a paltry sentence that they would have found hard to accept.’

‘But what about public institutions? The police or prosecutors? Didn’t they carry out a proper investigation? Rape is not a private matter, once it’s discovered.’

‘No.’

This all sounded most odd. ‘How can that be? It’s a serious violation of criminal law. Her parents shouldn’t actually have had any say in how the case was handled.’

‘They got help, as I told you. The father of Tryggvi, the autistic boy at the residence who died that same night, is high up in the Ministry of Justice and they turned to him. He prevented the matter from going any further.’

‘I see.’

Glódís nodded. ‘After that, our hands were tied.’

Thóra had an appointment with a client back at the office that afternoon. The man was divorcing his wife; the process had begun before the financial crash but had been delayed because the couple had had second thoughts in the middle of it. In the wake of the disaster, they had cosied up to each other in search of the good old days when everyone in the banking and business world had been honest and the authorities respectable. This sudden affection, however, turned out to be merely the death throes of youthful love, and after two months of renewed intimacy they came to the conclusion that nothing had changed – they weren’t made for each other after all. The divorce was put back on the agenda but now under entirely different conditions; their rather sizable assets had gone up in smoke, leaving only their debts to divide up. Their civility seemed to have evaporated along with their assets and the couple, who’d previously seemed to get along quite well, had changed into ravenous vultures in each other’s presence. Thóra and the woman’s lawyer had their hands full preventing them from coming to blows in their joint meetings. Fortunately the husband was meeting Thóra alone that afternoon.

The hot dog Thóra had bought for lunch was on the large side and the last bite went down with a bit of difficulty. She licked mayonnaise off her lower lip and took a gulp of the flat fizzy drink that came with the lunch special. She was feeling quite pleased with herself after her conversation with Glódís. She ran her eyes down a printout of the names of all those who had worked at the centre; the former director had given her the list after Thóra had informed her that she could just as easily find the staff members’ names in the court records. That was perhaps not entirely true, since such a list was unlikely to be exhaustive and there would be no easy way for Thóra to fill in the gaps. From Glódís’s list she saw that there had been fourteen full-time staff and a total of ten substitutes and specialists, which meant that, in truth, even finding all the names in the police reports would have proved a Herculean task. It would be impossible to speak to each and every one of these people, but with insight and a good measure of luck she could hopefully filter out those who she most needed to speak to. Glódís had also let her have the names of the residents’ parents, which would doubtless have proved simpler to find, but it spared Thóra the trouble of going through all the obituaries and death notices from the period following the fire. She was certain that some of these people, staff or family members, must know how Lísa’s child had been conceived, but the name of the father was probably not on either list.

Although Lísa’s rape was a vile act, it wasn’t unprecedented. Thóra had read on the Internet that morning about necrophiliacs, people whose fetish was to have sex with the dead. Nor was this sort of repulsive sexual deviance anything new. The ‘father of history’, the Greek Herodotus, told of how Egyptians let the corpses of beautiful young women rot for three to four days before they were handed over to those who were to anoint them, to prevent them from being disgraced in this way. Of course, Herodotus was also called ‘the father of lies’, so Thóra didn’t know how much this story could be trusted. It was clear, however, from other articles that she skimmed over, that this was a not uncommon modern-day fantasy. Around seventy per cent of those who suffered from this fetish said that they dreamed of sex with people who neither resisted nor gave any sign of rejecting them. A comatose person would certainly fit into this category.