Yrsa Sigurdardottir - Someone to Watch Over Me

He set off down the empty street, into the wind, and resolved to do the right thing. Nothing mattered any more but taking responsibility for himself and hoping people would see the truth. Even though it would be hard to pin all the blame on him, you never knew; fate was unpredictable. As far as he could see it lulled people into a false sense of security, getting them to believe that everything would be all right and then knocking their feet out from under them when they least expected it. He remembered all the news stories about poor people winning lottery jackpots, only to fritter them away and be left with the knowledge of what they’d be missing for the rest of their lives. He had considered himself to be on the upswing; his life had felt as though it had direction, even though he didn’t know exactly where he was heading or how he would get there. Now that feeling had disappeared and it was clear that his path lay along the baseline, not on an upwards trajectory. For the time being, at least.

Margeir pulled his hood up to protect himself against the cold. What was he whingeing for? There were loads of people much more unfortunate than he was and there was no reason to make things even worse than they actually were. If the worst came to the worst he could move in with his mother; unless, that was, he could actually find some sponsors. While he was pondering possible opportunities in that area his phone rang again and he pulled it hopefully from his pocket. Maybe the station manager had changed his mind, or maybe a sponsor had materialised and Margeir wouldn’t have to come up with one any more. But this wasn’t the case, and sponsorship was no longer Margeir’s biggest concern.

Thóra was in a foul mood. She had returned to her office after her visit to Sogn and had made calls all over town to speak to those who were now most important to the case. But it seemed as though they’d all conspired to ignore her. Ari didn’t answer – neither his office phone nor his mobile – and Glódís hadn’t even replied to Thóra’s first e-mail enquiring about who had been in charge of Tryggvi’s therapy, let alone her second message asking for the name of the surviving sixth resident. Nor had she managed to contact the former director by telephone; the Regional Office said that Glódís was busy and refused to refer Thóra to someone else who could answer her question about the girl in Room 6. The woman on the phone defended herself by claiming client confidentiality, and there was little that Thóra could say in protest. The Ministry of Justice also informed her that Einvarður was busy in a meeting and would not be in his office for the rest of the day. Thóra had intended to go through the list Glódís had given her but when she attempted to do so, she either reached the voicemails of former employees or no one at all. Two of the numbers were out of service.

To make matters worse, Bella had seized her chance to wangle some time off after Thóra had left that morning, so reception was empty. The secretary had left a large note on the table, saying: Gone to the dokter’s . Thóra and her partner Bragi had bought a spellcheck program as soon as they’d seen the first letters their secretary had typed up, and without a doubt it had been one of their best investments. Still, it was quite an achievement for Bella to have managed to squeeze two errors into the same word.

When her phone finally rang Thóra couldn’t work out which of the numbers she’d been trying to reach was flashing up on her screen.

‘My name is Linda, and I have a missed call from this number.’

Thóra reached for Glódís’s list and looked up the name as she explained who she was and gave a brief summary of why she had been calling. It really didn’t matter which of the employees it was, her sales pitch would always be the same. Just as she finished her final sentence she found the woman’s name and her scrawled-down job title, which Thóra had found in the phone book. To her satisfaction she read that Linda was a developmental therapist. Judging from her voice she was older than Thóra, and she sounded calm and measured.

‘I don’t know whether I can be of any assistance, but if you want to drop by I’m happy to talk to you for a bit.’ Then she added: ‘I liked Jakob and I was never completely convinced that he was guilty, not looking back on it, anyway.’

Thóra accepted the woman’s offer with thanks and scribbled down her address, a home for disabled children in the western part of town. She hurried off so as not to miss Linda before she went home, but nevertheless took the time to correct Bella’s message, adding the word brain before dokter’s . Hopefully the note would still be there in the morning.

The home Linda worked in was nothing like the one Jakob had supposedly burned to the ground. That building had been stylish and modern, but this one appeared to have been there since the very start of this well-established neighbourhood. It didn’t look like a public building, except for the fact that the main door was unusually wide and there was a clearly marked parking space for the disabled in front of it. Thóra walked up to the ordinary-looking door and knocked, surprised that there was no doorbell. She immediately recognized Linda’s voice again when the woman greeted her. She had guessed her age correctly; Linda appeared to be approaching sixty, in good shape and with a warm smile. Her salt and pepper hair was clipped into a short bob, but despite her sombre clothes and hair the woman gave off an air of warmth and equanimity. ‘I’m not used to rushing to the door here but since I was expecting you, I was listening out. You don’t need to take your shoes off; the cleaners will be here after supper and the floor is in a bit of a state after all the comings and goings today, anyway.’

As soon as Thóra had crossed the threshold, any similarity this place might have had to a traditional home ended. The hall was much wider than usual for such an old house, and it looked as though a sledgehammer might have been used on some of the panelling. The floor was carpeted and the woman wasn’t exaggerating about how dirty it was. There were black streaks everywhere, probably from wheelchairs, and dirty shoe-prints trailed down the corridor before dis-appearing behind closed doors. ‘I have an office here where we can sit down. There’s often quite a lot of noise though it’s calm at the moment, so it’s better to be somewhere quiet if it all starts up again. Of course the building’s not designed for the type of work we do here, so nothing’s really what we might have hoped for. You get used to it.’

They walked past the open door of a large, bright room. In it were three children: a boy in a wheelchair who appeared abnormally bloated, as if from steroid use, a girl standing up in a kind of steel frame and another who sat upright at a table, staring fiercely at her plate, although it was difficult to tell what was bothering her. The other two looked in their direction as they walked by and smiled widely at Thóra. She waved and gave them her biggest smile in return, then had to hurry to catch up with Linda, who hadn’t slowed down. ‘Is this home like the one Jakob lived in?’ She felt more comfortable coming at it from this angle than starting with the care home that had burned down, even though it sounded a bit artificial.

‘No. This is a day-care centre, and it’s only for younger children. They can’t attend regular preschools or schools, but they still need education and stimulation that their parents can’t provide.’ Linda opened the door to a small but very tidy office. ‘This building is one of several that have been given to the state or the city for a specific purpose. In this case, it was stipulated that it was to be used in the service of disabled children. The couple that lived here had a disabled daughter, so they recognized the need. They died many years ago but the situation isn’t much better now than it was then. Not by a long shot.’