Yrsa Sigurdardottir - Ashes To Dust

Thóra thanked her and hung up. She was dumbfounded, since she well remembered how sensitive adolescents could be about their hair. She doubted this ugly event could be connected to the case in any way, but you never knew. Yet another detail to ask Markus about, along with what the woman had said about the teenagers’ drunkenness the weekend before the eruption – the night before the blood was found at the pier.

Thóra turned her attention to the doctor’s office where Alda had worked. An Internet search revealed that it was run by two plastic surgeons, Dís Haflidadottir and Agúst Agústsson. Thóra thought she recognized Agúst’s name, having heard it mentioned in her sewing circle when they’d discussed beauty treatments. Those of her friends who thought they were in the know said he was the best breast man in town. There were even unconfirmed stories about people who’d travelled all the way from Hollywood to go under his knife, but Thóra remembered thinking that sounded ludicrous. If you couldn’t find decent breasts in Hollywood you were hardly going to get them in Reykjavik. Surely practice made perfect? Dís hadn’t been mentioned, though; if people flocked to her from the other side of the world for operations, no one in Thóra’s sewing circle knew about it.

The answering machine informed Thóra that appointments could be made before noon on weekdays. Those who needed to speak to the doctors about operations that had already taken place could call the phone number printed in their aftercare pack; this emergency number was clearly not up for grabs. Thóra left a message.

That left only the A &E, whose number Thóra knew off by heart thanks to a long marriage to a doctor who often worked past the end of his shifts. Those nights had always seemed to drag on and on. She recognized the voice of the woman who answered, even though she and Hannes had been divorced for around five years. The woman on the other end clearly had no such recollection: Thóra’s voice appeared to ring no bells with her, nor did her name awaken any friendliness. Thóra tried to console herself with the fact that the staffwas large and her name was quite common. After asking to speak to Alda Thórgeirsdóttir’s supervisor, Thóra was informed sullenly that the phone call would be transferred to the head nurse on call. She tried to thank the woman, but before she could do so the call was transferred and Thóra’s eardrums were assailed by a frightful, tinny tune that sounded like nothing she had ever heard.

Several minutes later a chilly female voice announced itself as belonging to Elin, who sounded as if she had no overwhelming inclination to relieve the suffering of the sick and wounded.

Thóra introduced herself and explained her business. She said she was seeking information about Alda Thórgeirsdóttir, and asked whether she might stop by and speak to her former colleagues about a case concerning a childhood friend of the recently deceased nurse. ‘I’m familiar with the workings of your busy department, and I promise to trouble you as little as possible,’ she concluded hopefully. These people had enough to do, and no one knew this better than Thóra. She fully expected to have to interview the hospital staff over open wounds.

‘Alda Thórgeirsdóttir was no longer working here when she died,’ said the head nurse. ‘She was never actually a full- time employee; she just took shifts on weekends and the occasional evening. She worked at a clinic in town, so perhaps you should try them.’

How helpful, telling Thóra something she already knew. ‘Of course I’ll be doing that,’ she replied, echoing the woman’s frosty tone. ‘But I would also like to speak to your staff.’

‘I can’t see how that would help,’ came the reply. ‘Firstly because there is nothing to tell, secondly because I’m not sure such a thing would be proper, and thirdly because we simply have no obligation to speak to some lawyer who appears from out of the blue. We value propriety very highly here.’

Propriety? How old was this woman – a hundred? A hundred and fifty? ‘Naturally you’re not obliged to speak to me,’ Thóra replied, ‘unless of course I were injured. If you prefer, I could always have you subpoenaed to find out whether you have any information that might count. Might that be the best solution, do you think?’

‘Subpoenaed?’ exclaimed the woman, sounding noticeably less assured than before. ‘That’s completely unnecessary. I told you she wasn’t working here any more.’ She hesitated. ‘What is this about, may I ask? Alda’s death?’

‘It’s a case I’m working on for a man who knew Alda,’ replied Thóra, enjoying holding the cards.

‘Is this about the rape case?’asked the woman, her voice now full of suspicion. ‘We have no comment. We’re not protecting anyone, and you’ll find nothing out by snooping around under false pretences. The case is on its way to court, where guilt or innocence will be determined and our part will be finished. We follow the rules for such cases, and there’s no leeway for letting a lawyer in off the street to chat about God knows what.’

Now it was Thóra’s turn to hesitate. Rape? She had to be careful not to get involved with something unconnected to Markus’s case. Actually, the nurse had been quite correct; the hospital had no obligation to her or to Markus, and the interests of those who came to them for assistance naturally took precedence. ‘No, this has nothing to do with a rape. That I can promise you,’ said Thóra earnestly. ‘Unfortunately it seems as though this can’t happen, so we’ll have to leave it. You have enough to worry about.’

Thóra hung up. She hadn’t given up her efforts to speak to the staff of the A &E out of respect for the hospital or the Hippocratic Oath. She simply planned to make her way in through the back door. Swallowing her pride, she dialled her ex-husband’s number.

As Dís listened to the message on the answering machine the smile she usually wore after a successful operation vanished. Now what? A lawyer who wanted to speak to them about Alda? Not the police, as she had feared, but the lawyer of some childhood friend of Alda, someone Dís had never heard of before. She listened to the message again and tried to read more into it, but without success. The voice was soft and courteous, seeming to suggest neither that the speaker felt Dís and Agúst were hidingsomething nor that this was a formality unrelated to who they were. Dís wondered whether she should fetch Agúst, who was finishing up a consultation with the last patient of the day: yet another young man who wanted to have a scar from a fight removed. She decided not to. Agúst tended towards the melodramatic, and she had no desire to nourish her own anxiety with his paranoia. She felt sick thinking of the one court case their work had involved them in. Agúst had rendered himself almost incapable of working with the stress of the case and his wild flights of fancy about what might happen. By the time a settlement was finally reached, Dís was on the verge of offering up her soul along with the damages they were ordered to pay. It would be a small price to pay for peace of mind at work.

Dís scribbled down the lawyer’s number then erased the message, resolving to phone and arrange to meet her tomorrow, when Agúst would not be at the office. This was undoubtedly something unimportant, probably concerning her estate; whether Alda had had life insurance from the office, or some such. Dís could take care of this herself, and in the unlikely event it was about something else, she would get Agúst involved – but not until she had to.

She went over to Alda’s tidy desk, which was conveniently located behind a partition separating it from the waiting room. Alda hadn’t had an office of her own like Dís and Agúst, since she mainly assisted them in the operating room and only a tiny bit with paperwork. Dís looked over the well-ordered workspace, which in that sense resembled Agúst’s office. However Alda, unlike Agúst, had given her little area a tiny bit of personality: on the table was a framed photograph of a woman whom Dís recalled was Alda’s younger and only sister, and there was also a little daintily painted flowerpot containing a cactus which seemed to be thriving. Poor little thing, thought Dis. Neither she nor Agúst had the ability to keep so much as a weed alive, and it would take a lot for the receptionist to tear herself away from Facebook to look after a plant. Dís was about to throw the plant into the rubbish bin to avoid having to watch it wither away, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it, for Alda’s sake. She would try to remember the plant and nurse it as best she could. At least she would have tried, even if the cactus died. Out of respect for Alda, she didn’t want to throw out something she had cared about.