Yrsa Sigurdardottir - Someone to Watch Over Me

‘Do you think they were into drugs, or were selling them there at night?’

‘Well, I’m no expert in recreational drug use, but I can’t see how IV drips would be involved. But they clearly shouldn’t have been anywhere near the stuff, much less setting up needles, preparing mixtures or anything like that.’

‘Wasn’t it stored in a locked cabinet?’

‘No; that was one of the things that needed sorting out. We were still waiting for a refrigerator that was specially designed for storing that type of drug. The drug could be stored at room temperature, but it was better to keep it in cold storage. While we were waiting for lockable storage it was kept in a little fridge in a room next to Glódís’s office. We kept a stock of needles and other medical supplies there, stuff we had to have quick access to. The room was locked, of course, but the night watchmen had master keys to all the doors.’

‘I understand Friðleifur’s sister and a friend paid him a visit very early one morning. Was this a frequent occurrence?’

Linda scowled. ‘No, I don’t think so. That sounds typical of him, though.’

It was clear that Thóra would have to contact Friðleifur’s sister and the other night watchman, who hadn’t answered any of her calls. ‘There’s something else I’m extremely keen to find out: the name of the girl who lived in Apartment 06. She’d been admitted to hospital shortly before the fire. I’d like to be able to speak to her, in case she has any information.’

‘Oh, God.’ The woman sighed. ‘I might have to disappoint you there. You may not know enough about her condition; she’s got what’s called “locked-in syndrome” and her communication is extremely limited.’

‘It’s my understanding that she can convey messages with her eyes. Isn’t that right?’

‘Not everyone is capable of communicating that way. I hope I’m not insulting you.’

Thóra shook her head. ‘Could you explain this “locked-in syndrome”?’

‘It’s one of the worst afflictions imaginable, to my mind. It’s a brain-stem injury that severs contact with all the muscles controlling voluntary movements, except those that move the eyes. There’s actually an even worse version, in which you lose control of your eyes as well. It’s sometimes likened to being buried alive and it’s very different from a coma, because the person affected is still conscious. In other words, the lower part of the brain is damaged, while the upper part is fine.’

‘What about the nerve endings? Can these people feel anything?’

‘Yes, often, as in this case. The girl’s name is Ragna Sölvadóttir; she ended up like this after falling from a great height several years ago, and she has no hope of recovering. Usually the syndrome is the result of a stroke or accident, sometimes other causes, but luckily it’s rare. I don’t know what’s happened to her, but I imagine she’s been moved to another residence or a similar institution. She can’t just go home while she waits for a place to open up, and her parents have moved out of Iceland. In search of work, I believe.’

Thóra couldn’t think of much to say. The thought of this syndrome sent chills up her spine, but she pushed it out of her mind. Was there any possibility that the person who had impregnated Lísa had also made a move on this girl, who was in a similar condition? Perhaps she could get a description of the man, which might allow them to track him down. ‘You don’t know whether something in Apartment 02 was connected to a hose, a hose that could be described as short, specifically? That was Natan’s apartment. Forgive the odd nature of the question, but I can’t really explain it any better since I received the information in a rather cryptic message.’

Linda shook her head. ‘I can’t remember anything like that. If this is related to the fire in any way, then I would doubt the information, because Natan couldn’t have been involved. If he was, I’d be flabbergasted.’

‘What about the others who lived there? Is it possible that one of them, or one of their relatives, could have done it? I mean, both the fire and this situation with Lísa.’

The woman pondered the question for several moments. ‘I can’t think of anyone, to tell you the honest truth. Although the centre had only been up and running for a short time, I managed to get to know everyone there pretty well, and no one comes to mind. Naturally, I didn’t know their relatives as well, but I seriously doubt any of them would be capable of such a terrible thing. Most parents of disabled children that I’ve known, which is quite a few down the years, only want the best for their child and would fight tooth and nail for them. These people would be the very last to commit murder; I simply can’t see it.’

Few people could imagine someone killing another person, but nevertheless, it happened again and again. ‘I’ve watched some footage from the residence, taken by the filmmaker who spent a bit of time there.’

Linda nodded, clearly remembering the man.

‘In the background I heard some words that have come up in my conversations with Jakob, but I can’t find an explanation for them and I was hoping that you could tell me what they mean.’

‘What were the words?’ The woman seemed surprised.

‘ Look at me … Repeated by a man, I think, quite angrily.’

Linda gave Thóra an indecipherable look. ‘Yes. I’m familiar with that phrase. Tryggvi had a therapist who used rather unorthodox methods to stimulate the boy. He would repeat the phrase over and over in his attempts to reach him. He actually forced the boy to look into his eyes in order to get a response. It made Tryggvi howl; he found the therapy enormously stressful, and the man would react by howling back at him. It was quite distressing to hear.’

‘A therapist? Was he a developmental therapist like you?’

‘No.’ The woman’s expression hardened. ‘Tryggvi’s parents, especially his mother, wanted him to undergo unconventional treatment in the hope of achieving a better result than they were seeing with us. The couple hired this man, Ægir Rannversson, but I never could work out what his qualifications or his educational background were. He’d recently come back from some time abroad, where he’d worked on or studied autism, but it wasn’t at any respected educational institution, that much is certain.’

‘And did his method produce any results?’ The silence was even longer this time, but finally the woman spoke up again. ‘Yes, it did. Whether they would have been permanent, I can’t say, but he did get the boy to express himself more than anyone had dared hope, though he wasn’t about to start speaking or anything like that. He articulated himself more through these incredible drawings he did. I mean, I couldn’t have interpreted them, but the main change was in how much more alert he was to his surroundings. He was highly autistic, and he found lots of everyday things intolerable. He was captivated by strings of lights and candles – he could stare at them for hours at a time. But he hated the sound of the toilet being flushed, for example, or the phone ringing. These things became significantly better after his treatment, however, and who knows how much more he might have improved if the treatment had been able to continue. Mind you, he could just as easily have regressed over time; it had happened before. His mother told me that he couldn’t bear being near a TV that was turned on, and later radios, too, for no obvious reason. But of course no one knows what might have happened. Following complaints from the residents and their families about the noise from his sessions, Tryggvi’s parents put a stop to them and chose not to move his therapy elsewhere, since it was out of the question to try to get the boy into a car. Luckily, the progress he’d made seemed to stick, even after the treatment stopped.’