Yrsa Sigurdardottir - Someone to Watch Over Me

The reckoning is coming. Is there someone outside?

Monday mornings were frequently chaotic at the office. It was as if they all had difficulty registering that the weekend was over and a new work week was starting. They wandered in and out of their offices as if they were trying to remember what they were supposed to be doing, or hoping that one more cup of coffee would get their brains in gear. Thóra was no exception, least of all this Monday; work was the last thing she wanted to do.

She had realized when she started awake at the sound of the alarm that she was alone in the bed. That hadn’t particularly surprised her; generally Matthew woke long before she did, went out for a run and was nearly halfway through it by the time she came to her senses. Today, however, he had not only already returned but had also taken a shower and was neatly dressed and ready for the day. He stood at the end of the bed, staring pleadingly at her. ‘You have to take me with you to work. I’ll do anything. I’ll even help Bella.’ Thóra rubbed the sleep from her eyes and muttered something garbled that could have been interpreted as neither yes nor no. ‘I simply cannot bear another minute of your father’s whistling. I’ll get used to it, I know, but right now it’s driving me nuts.’

She let him come with her to work. Thóra’s parents saw to getting the kids up, giving them breakfast and sending them to school, so she managed to get ready more quickly than usual. The expansion of the household did have its advantages, and Thóra bid her parents goodbye with a kiss, feeling exceptionally happy with life despite the whistling that drifted out after them as they left the house. It didn’t hurt that Matthew had already got the car ready. This was one of Thóra’s least favourite jobs, maybe because she usually ended up with her arms full of snow. Although the garage had been full of boxes and there had been no immediate plans to tackle the clearing-out project, she’d always held onto the notion of parking the car in it one day. This distant dream, which frequently popped into her head on cold winter mornings, was now a thing of the past – for the next two months at least.

Thóra’s restlessness couldn’t, therefore, be attributed to the morning having started badly. She simply hated the fact that the weekend had somehow unexpectedly turned into a new work week. Until she could properly get into gear, she would just have to occupy herself with something; the only question was what that might actually be. She couldn’t get started on any of the cases awaiting her so she scrolled through her e-mails in search of messages that she’d forgotten or had left to answer later. But even that was problematic and in the end she gave up and shut down her e-mail altogether. She still had to go over the firm’s unpaid bills, but that would have to wait until the afternoon, or even tomorrow morning. She needed to do something more creative, or more exciting, until midday, by which time she would have regained her vigour.

Thóra turned away from the computer and the stack of bills. Matthew lay on a little sofa at the other end of the office, his feet hanging over one of the arms and a laptop on his knees, doubtless reading the news from home. After the weekend, it had crossed Thóra’s mind that perhaps they should shut themselves in the office in order to have a little time to themselves, but looking at how Matthew’s frame filled the sofa, the idea seemed suddenly less feasible. Besides, the lock on the door would never keep Bella out if she were in the mood to disturb them.

Thóra crumpled an empty, torn envelope into a ball and threw it gently at Matthew to draw his attention away from his computer. ‘How would you like to pop up to the Ministry of Justice with me to check whether the father of the autistic boy can be persuaded to tell me something? We can stop off at a café and have a restorative drink.’

Matthew caught the ball and looked as though he was considering tossing it back, but eventually decided against it. ‘Coffee sounds wonderful. That swill you serve in the lobby is completely undrinkable.’ Matthew grimaced at the cup resting on the coffee table in front of him. It had stopped steaming soon after the first sip. ‘If I didn’t know any better I might have thought you’d used the grounds twice.’ He stood up. ‘Not that that would be completely unheard of in this office.’ He tossed the crumpled paper at Thóra, hitting her on top of her head. ‘One-all.’

The ministry was located on Skuggasund Street – from skuggi , ‘shadow’ – and it was impossible not to wonder how the street had got its name. The area didn’t look particularly dark or shadowy, and besides, the street had been given the name before the buildings were put up. Maybe the namer had had the foresight to realize that the buildings on both sides of the street would shed prominent shadows across the site where the ministry stood. Or perhaps the name had been given because the street had been condemned to stand in the eternal shadow of the National Theatre. In any case, as soon as they entered the ministry’s interior, things brightened up, but as they moved further into the building, a peculiar sensation descended on Thóra again; now it felt as if they’d gone back many decades in time, since the building’s architecture bore such strong witness to the middle of the previous century. However, this feeling vanished when they were shown into the office corridor after the boy’s father had told the receptionist that he would see them. In the corridor, they could have been standing in absolutely any contemporary building; they walked past one office after another, all kitted out in the same style: a desk with a computer and a clunky telephone, the walls lined with stuffed IKEA bookshelves. When they reached the right office they expected it to be like all the others, but they were wrong; this one was much larger and more luxurious.

‘Please come in.’ Einvarður Tryggvason rose from his massive office chair and walked over to them. His voice was gentle and deep, his handshake firm and his hands soft. His whole appearance was spotless, in fact: his dark, elegant suit appeared to shine and it was as if he’d just got up from the barber’s chair after a haircut and a close shave. His smile revealed white teeth that weren’t completely straight, but which gave him a character that defined the difference between a good-looking ‘real’ person and a model. Strange as it might have seemed, it was precisely this imperfection that made him appear perfect. It struck Thóra how well this man would fit into politics and she wondered why he’d chosen the bureaucratic system rather than parliament or a ministerial position.

‘I was extremely glad when they told me you wanted to see me,’ Tryggvason continued, ‘because I’d heard that Jakob’s case was being reinvestigated, and your name was mentioned in connection with that.’ He smiled politely at Matthew. ‘But I’ve heard nothing about you.’

Thóra introduced Matthew by saying that he assisted her with various assignments and was bound to the same confidence as she was. She then added that in both their cases, however, that confidence came with the caveat that if anything came to light demonstrating or supporting Jakob’s innocence, it would be used in the report she’d submit with her petition to reopen the case. The man’s expression didn’t change and he said he had no objections to that; everyone surely wanted the case to be resolved and for the right man to bear the responsibility. Thóra did notice a shadow cross his smooth face when he spoke of the criminal and realized that behind the formal, polished courtesy lay an individual who, naturally, felt anger, happiness, sorrow and all the other emotions that shape a personality. ‘Have a seat and I shall answer whatever I can, as long as the questions are within the bounds of propriety.’ He followed this with yet another Colgate smile, but his eyes were no longer twinkling. ‘I’ve requested coffee for us, but if you would rather have tea I can fix that.’