Yrsa Sigurdardottir - Someone to Watch Over Me

Before they parted, Matthew had told Thóra everything he’d heard from the daughter, Lena, in the driveway. She was adamant that the truth concerning her brother’s death should be brought to light, but feared her mother was trying to whitewash the image of the community residence, its staff and residents, damaging their investigation. She told him that her mother was fixated on everything being neat and pleasant and that she wore rose-tinted glasses. Of course it was impossible to judge whether either one of them was telling the truth; perhaps they’d had different experiences of the place, but Lena confirmed at least that the atmosphere at the home had been unpleasant, the staff quite unfriendly and the residents noticeably despondent. This was consistent with Jakob’s admittedly slightly odd account, but Lena hadn’t explained things to Matthew in any more detail, except to say that the residents didn’t seem to want to live there, and few of them seemed happy. Lena did recall Jakob from the residence, and according to Matthew had shrugged her shoulders when he asked whether she thought he was guilty. I don’t know, he seemed all right, you know? I never saw him start a fire or even heard him talk about doing it. She’d then tried to get Matthew to reveal why Jakob’s guilt was now in question, and seemed very interested in whether any of the residents or staff were suspects. She said the latter had been incredibly strict and were capable of anything, apart from some of the younger staff members who’d been OK. Matthew thought he had skilfully deflected the girl’s questions, while still encouraging her curiosity.

Another thing she’d mentioned was her parents’ differing opinions about Tryggvi. They’d argued about how best to take care of him and had had different expectations of his improvement. Her father had long ago given up all hope, but her mother had been very interested in his therapy and was always reading about the newest miracle treatments. About a year before Tryggvi had moved to the centre, her mother had found some charlatan, transparent to everyone but her, who claimed to be able to cure autism. That had been the last straw, and her father had put his foot down and declared that things had gone far enough. They’d had a blazing row after this man’s visit, which Lena didn’t describe in any detail other than to say that it had been awful, and that afterwards her mother had started to succumb completely to her conviction that though trapped behind the bars of autism, Tryggvi was of completely sound mind. At the end of the argument her father had demanded that Tryggvi be placed somewhere where specialists could take care of him without her emotional state affecting his treatment. Six months later Tryggvi was moved into his new apartment. Lena had wanted to make clear to Matthew that her father was a good man. He had made the decision out of concern for Tryggvi’s well-being, not a desire to get him out of the house. After her brother was moved away from home her parents’ relationship had improved greatly and Lena had felt hugely relieved. He wasn’t a bad person, but he wasn’t like, really alive, do you know what I mean? You couldn’t tell that he had any feelings, he was just like a robot. You know, badly programmed .

Lena hadn’t said any more, as far as Matthew could remember, but before he went into the house he asked whether Thóra could call her to ask her a few more questions. She mustn’t call me, Lena had told him, but she can send me a text and I’ll call her back. I really don’t want my mother to know that I’m talking to you. She can be so weird . Thóra wasn’t sure whether she’d get in touch with the girl; she still had so many other people to speak to and she knew from personal experience that teenagers’ viewpoints could be coloured by strong emotions. Of course, it could be that Lena was the only one who would speak to her completely honestly. Whatever the case, Thóra didn’t need to make a decision about it tonight. It could wait.

After meeting her client, Thóra contacted the relatives of some of the other residents. She’d been apprehensive about these phone calls and had put off making them, but now that she’d visited Fanndís there was no sense waiting. There was a danger that Fanndís would get in touch with them before she did, since it seemed likely that the parents had all got to know each other while their children were living under the same roof, and had kept in touch in the wake of their shared tragedy. Ideally Thóra’s calls would catch the relatives off-guard. People replied differently if they’d already mentally prepared themselves, even if it was only to make sure they came across satisfactorily.

No one seemed to have known about her or to have expected her to call. She actually spent a large part of each conversation rattling off the same spiel about the reason for her call, and convincing people that her aim wasn’t to free a guilty man but an innocent one, but she’d expected that. Few parents would be overjoyed to hear from the lawyer of a man believed to have killed their son or daughter, and Thóra was actually surprised she’d been able to hold a conversation with relatives who were still grieving. Perhaps it was because Jakob had been acquitted of criminal charges, even though this was because he was unfit for trial.

Thóra had her work cut out digging up the right names of the victims’ parents, because it transpired few of them had been questioned by the police or called as witnesses in court. But with the help of the obituaries she eventually managed to make a list of the requisite names. However, no obituaries appeared to have been written about Natan Úlfheiðarson, and of the three Úlfheiðars in the phone directory, only two were old enough for him to have been their son. In the end, Thóra found his mother by Googling the boy’s name. Her search brought up a blog to which Natan’s aunt had uploaded photos of a family reunion, and in one of them Natan, his mother, and his maternal uncle were named in the caption. Thóra spent some time looking closely at the young man in the photo, as well as at his mother. She couldn’t escape the thought that perhaps this was a picture of the man who had had sex with Lísa, although in the photo he looked as innocent as could be. He and his mother sat at a cloth-covered table with white coffee cups and matching plates in front of them. Natan’s mother, Úlfheiður, appeared slightly older than Thóra, and if the photo was anything to go by, she was quite a solemn person. Her brother didn’t seem any livelier; neither of them looked like the life and soul of the party, and the empty chairs on either side of them seemed to confirm this. Perhaps the entire family was cast from the same mould.

Natan was more difficult to work out than his mother and uncle. The helmet on his head made him look a bit odd, even before you got to the huge grin that stretched from ear to ear – in marked contrast to his tablemates – or noticed that he only had one eye open. Thóra’s understanding of epilepsy was limited, but the helmet was probably meant to protect his head if he suffered a seizure. The young man’s expression suggested that he was also developmentally impaired, either as part and parcel of his epilepsy or yet another burden that he’d been born with. Of course it was also possible that the photographer had told a joke the boy found hilarious, then had clicked the shutter at an unfortunate moment. Natan’s jolliness was incongruous, anyway, against the sadness on his mother’s and uncle’s faces.

Finally Thóra had drawn up a list containing the phone numbers and addresses of the relatives of the four residents who’d died in addition to Tryggvi. In one case it appeared that the parents were divorced, since the mother and father of Sigríður Herdís Logadóttir lived in separate locations.