Someone to Watch Over Me (46 page)

‘So who do you think tipped them off?’

‘I have no idea, but I’m curious about how little attention Ari, Jósteinn’s lawyer, paid to this detail of the case; he could at least have mentioned the doubt that must have existed about whether the photographs were actually Jósteinn’s. Jósteinn isn’t in any of the pictures, although his fingerprints were found on several of them. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying he’s not guilty, I’m simply wondering whether this flaw in the defence is the reason Jósteinn’s got it in for his former lawyer – who also ended up as his supervisor, in fact.’ She started towards the door. ‘It’s not a crucial detail; I’d just feel happier knowing what the man’s up to.’

‘No problem. I’ll see whether I can find anything out.’ Bragi pulled a telephone book from one of his desk drawers, but it was stuffed in so tightly that he had huge difficulty getting it out.

‘Have you never thought of using ja.is?’ asked Thóra from the doorway. He shook his head and opened the thick, battered book.

The report was now four pages long and although Thóra could easily have added more information, it would be counterproductive to make it too comprehensive or include too many minor details. That would draw attention away from the main points of the case, which were that the defence lawyer had omitted to mention that he was related to one of the victims, and that a sex crime had been committed at the residence, which the perpetrator had had every reason to hide. It was also important to clearly convey how many people had regularly visited the place, most of them in the middle of the night – the same time of day the fire had been started – and some of them in an intoxicated state. These facts were relevant to the original investigation and therefore should have been taken into consideration; if they had been, they might very well have persuaded the judge to reach a different conclusion concerning who started the fire, or even to send the case back for further investigation. The only thing Thóra needed before submitting the petition was the full name of the person who had raped Lísa.

Thóra wondered whether she should call the police to check whether they’d got the name yet. It would hardly be much of a surprise, given that Thóra had all but handed them a description of the man, along with a photo, on a silver platter. Her visit to Ragna the previous evening had gone very well. After explaining to the girl what she was looking for, she’d sat down at her bedside and gone through the photos on the Facebook page. Matthew watched the girl’s eye movements and interpreted her reactions. She said
no
to one face after another until Thóra clicked on a photo of Margeir, Friðleifur and a young man who appeared to be absolutely paralytic – like most of the visitors, in fact. Ragna blinked again and again, which made it hard for Matthew to work out whether she meant yes or no, but she appeared to be very affected by the image. She then shut her eyes tightly and Thóra had to ask her three times whether this third man was the person who’d raped her, each time in a more gentle voice. Eventually the girl opened her eyes, stared at the screen and blinked once.
Yes
. Then she’d closed them and kept them closed until Thóra and Matthew said goodbye. Before they did, Thóra had told her slowly that she was going to go straight to the police station, and promised her that this man would get what was coming to him. It wouldn’t matter if he denied it, since a DNA sample existed that could confirm his guilt regarding Lísa. Ragna would doubtless need to answer some questions from the police, but the burden of her secret abuse would finally be lifted from her shoulders. Before they left the hospital Thóra had let the duty nurse know what had happened and asked her to keep an eye on Ragna in view of the agitated state that she must now be in.

They’d gone straight from the National Hospital to the police station, and for the third time that day Thóra opened her laptop and logged onto the Facebook page. Unfortunately the officer with whom she’d been in contact regarding the case was otherwise engaged. They either had to come back later or speak to his assistant. She chose the latter option. She felt that she had to report her discovery immediately; the crimes that the bastard in the photo had committed had been hushed up for far too long. As a result she had to tell the story from beginning to end, though she got the impression that the man had already heard some of the details. She was slightly relieved by this, since it meant that the case was at least on the police’s agenda, even though Ragna had responded negatively when Thóra asked whether the police had spoken to her. Nevertheless, the officer did his best not to give anything away, having no doubt studied and practised the technique of letting an interviewee speak uninterrupted in the hope that he or she would say more than he intended. Of course in this case, it was a pointless tactic; Thóra had no desire whatsoever to hide anything from the police. It wasn’t until they came to Thóra’s second visit to Ragna that the police officer’s poker face slipped, in the moment when she showed him the photo of the man Ragna had indicated was guilty. Luckily, the photo had a caption:
Good times – Margeir, Friðleifur and Bjarki
. Bjarki’s appearance gave no indication that he was a pervert; he looked like a perfectly normal young man, albeit a drunk one. Often the worst of human nature can hide behind the mask of ordinariness.

But now it was the police’s job to find out who this Bjarki was; the name was too common for Thóra to be able to locate him herself. She’d checked to see whether he belonged to the Facebook group; he didn’t, but it was possible to see who had uploaded the photo – a woman who was listed under her full name. Although Thóra had this information, she decided to leave it to the police to contact the woman; there was no point Thóra calling her if it meant that she might ruin the investigation, which would now surely shift into top gear.

Bragi appeared in the doorway. ‘I spoke to the prosecutor but I didn’t get much out of him. The police were given the photos during the last stages of the investigation and there was no clue to the sender’s identity on the envelope. It was covered in fingerprints, since it had gone through the postal system, but none of the prints were in the police database. So no one knows who sent the pictures, although it’s clear that it wasn’t Jósteinn, both because he had no reason to strengthen the case against himself and because he was in custody when they were posted. His mother knew nothing about it. Apparently she came across as extremely unsympathetic in court. In fact the prosecutor thought she’d have had no hesitation in sending the photos herself, since she scarcely seemed to care about her son at all – and probably would have admitted as much. When she testified, it left most people feeling distinctly uneasy. Jósteinn is clearly the product of an abnormal upbringing – if you can call complete indifference an upbringing.’

‘But did this guy know anything about Jósteinn’s relationship with his lawyer; whether they had any conflicts or disputes while the case was being prosecuted?’

‘He said it was impossible to tell. Jósteinn showed no reaction in court; he always stared at his lap and said little or nothing. In fact, he said that he noticed that they never appeared to communicate.’

Thóra thanked him, but sat there thinking for some time after he left, announcing that he could no longer bear the lack of caffeine and had to pop out for a coffee. Maybe Jósteinn’s support of Jakob was nothing more than an act of decency. Nonetheless, she couldn’t shake her conviction that all was not as it seemed when it came to his role in this whole affair. She stood up and walked over to the window in the hope that some fresh air would revive her. The traffic below the window passed by slowly. There seemed to have been an accident; two cars had stopped in one lane and the drivers were bent over their bumpers, apparently in search of dents. One of the drivers looked like he was at the end of his tether. The incessant honking of horns reminded Thóra of modern music: first there was some kind of melody, but then it became increasingly discordant until the noise became the continuous rumble of a cacophonous symphony. Thóra almost didn’t hear her phone ring over the noise coming from the street.

‘Hello,’ she said, after reaching across the table in her haste to answer it before it stopped.

‘Hi,’ said Matthew, sounding unusually tense. ‘Have you looked at the news online?’

‘No, not since this morning. What’s up?’

‘They’ve identified the man found in Nauthólsvík. The one with Margeir’s phone.’

Thóra pressed the receiver closer to her ear. ‘And it’s definitely Margeir?’ She inched round the desk to her chair with some difficulty as the short phone cord inhibited her movement.

‘No.’ Matthew hesitated slightly, probably looking for the name on the screen. ‘He was called Bjarki – Bjarki Emil Jónasson.’

‘Bjarki?’ Thóra sat down and logged onto the Internet. ‘Are you kidding?’

‘No. Of course not. What kind of a joke would that be?’

Thóra didn’t reply, but continued to search for the news. Then she said, ‘It must be the same Bjarki that Ragna identified. It can’t be a coincidence.’

‘That’s why I called.’

Thóra thanked him somewhat distractedly as she read the article. There was little more to learn from it; it stated only that the deceased had been identified and along with his name it gave his age, and the information that he had been unmarried and childless.

The phone rang again and Thóra lifted the receiver without taking her eyes off the screen. ‘What?’ She thought it was Matthew, calling to add something.

‘Er … hello, my name is Lárus and I’m calling from Telecom. Is this Thóra Guðmundsdóttir?’

‘I’m sorry, I was expecting someone else. Yes, this is Thóra.’

‘I’m calling about a request to find the IP address for some text messages sent through our network.’

‘Of course, I’d forgotten about that. Did you find it?’ She looked at the screen and focused on the call. Was she really about to learn who had been sending all the messages? She didn’t expect the information to tell her much; the sender had probably used an Internet café, or the library, or somewhere like that .

‘Yes, we found it, and I was wondering whether I could send you the number by e-mail. It’s easier that way.’

‘Absolutely.’ Thóra gave him her address. ‘Then how do I find out where this IP address is located?’

‘I was going to put that in my message, but in fact the computer’s registered in the public sector.’

‘What?’ The first thing that crossed Thóra’s mind was the same thought she’d had initially – that someone in the police department or the prosecutor’s office was behind all this. ‘Can you be a little more specific?’

‘Yes, sorry – the computer is registered with the Ministry of Justice.’

Thóra jumped into the car and shut the door behind her. Matthew had had to stop in the middle of the street to pick her up and she definitely didn’t want to cause another traffic jam on Skólavörðustígur Street. ‘Where am I going?’ Matthew continued driving up the road.

‘The Ministry of Justice.’ She told him how to get there, then said, ‘I’m going to speak to Einvarður, Tryggvi’s father. I don’t know what he’s up to, but he must be responsible for those weird text messages. There can’t be any other employees of the ministry connected to the case, and it’s highly unlikely that a stranger’s behind them, even if they did possess the information.’

‘How do you think he’ll react?’

‘I don’t know but I’m sure it’ll be interesting. I’m beginning to wonder whether he just lost it when his son died. It’s pretty hard to figure out what he’s up to; if he was anxious to point me in a certain direction with regard to the investigation then it would have been much easier to just speak to me directly.’ She gestured at Matthew to turn. The traffic was getting denser and they were making slow progress. ‘But as I say, it’s unlikely that anyone else within the ministry is connected to the case, unless one of his colleagues is trying to land him in the shit for some entirely unrelated reason. And where that person would have got hold of this information is a whole other mystery – to add to all the others …’

They sat in silence for the remainder of the journey, with Matthew focusing on navigating the area’s one-way streets, which were becoming increasingly difficult to negotiate in the heavy snow. Pedestrians picked up speed and no one seemed to want to waste time looking in the shop windows, except for a woman of indeterminate age in a lambskin coat with her hair hanging loose, who had stopped to scrutinize some winter boots in a shoe shop while her dog sniffed eagerly at the corner of the building. On Skuggasund Street it was as if the nation had united in protest against the weather and gone inside out of the storm. It was absolutely deserted, and there were even plenty of parking spaces at the ministry. The empty streets filled Thóra with a sudden melancholy; it didn’t take much, these days. When you’ve always believed that society is built on trustworthy foundations, it’s very hard to accept the fact that this isn’t actually the case. To make matters worse, it seemed that the country hadn’t just stumbled on level ground, but had actually fallen off a cliff. The dark National Theatre building only magnified this impression. ‘Why don’t we ever go to the theatre?’

‘What?’ Matthew looked at her in surprise as he turned off the engine. ‘I didn’t know you wanted to. I’d be up for that.’

Thóra immediately regretted saying this. She didn’t want to go to the theatre at all, any more than she wanted the raisin doughnuts that often found their way into her shopping basket. They ended up there simply because she was upset about the bank crash, and everything Icelandic seemed so pitiable that she felt compelled to buy them. ‘I guess I should have a look at the programme, then.’ There were lots of things that were impossible to explain to Matthew; for instance, the other morning he had tried to pour out precisely ten drops of coffee for her mother, as she had asked. Ten drops simply meant a small cupful. He understood most Icelandic words, but combining them often modified the meaning. Daily life was yet another aspect of this endless transition; plenty of things that she thought were obvious escaped him completely. She scraped the snow off part of the windscreen at eye level, but Matthew dutifully removed it from the windows, the roof, the bonnet, the lights, the boot – even the tyres – before he so much as reversed out of the driveway. When he’d been employed at the bank and they’d gone to work at the same time, he had scoffed at her methods and asked whether she didn’t just want to make two little holes in the frost on the windscreen, one for each eye.