"Sóley!" the supervisor called out, noticing Thóra. "Your mother's here."
The little girl, sitting with her back to her mother, looked up from the beads she was putting together. She gave a tired smile and swept a blond lock out of her eyes. "Hi, Mum. Look, I've made a heart out of beads." Thóra felt a pang in her own heart and promised herself that she would pick her daughter up earlier tomorrow.
After a quick stop at the supermarket Thóra and Sóley finally reached home. Gylfi, her son, was already there. His sneakers had been tossed carelessly in the middle of the hallway, and his coat had been hung up on a peg beside the door so hurriedly that it had slid to the floor.
"Gylfi!" yelled Thóra, bending down to put the shoes on the rack and hang the coat up securely. "How often do I have to tell you to take your shoes and coat off in an orderly fashion?"
"Can't hear you," a voice called from inside the house.
Thóra rolled her eyes. He could not be expected to hear; the sounds from a computer game were overwhelming. "Turn it down, then!" she yelled back. "You'll make yourself deaf!"
"Come here! I can't hear you!" came the shouted reply.
"Oh, God," Thóra muttered as she hung up her coat. Her daughter neatly arranged her own shoes and coat and Thóra was dumbfounded for the hundredth time at how different her children were. Her daughter was a model of tidiness, hardly even dribbled as a baby, while her son would have preferred to live in a heap of clothes where he could throw himself down contentedly at night. But they did have one thing in common: they were both extraordinarily focused when it came to school and homework. Somehow it suited Sóley's character, but Thóra always found it rather funny when Gylfi, with his long, unkempt hair and clothes with skeletons on them, turned almost hysterical about something like leaving his spelling exercise at school.
Thóra stepped into the doorway of her son's room. Gylfi was sitting glued to the screen of his computer, clicking furiously with the mouse. "For God's sake turn that down, Gylfi," she said, having to raise her voice even though she was standing right beside her son. "I can't hear myself think."
Without even glancing away from the screen or slowing down his clicking of the mouse, her son stretched out his left hand for a knob on the loudspeakers and turned them down. "Better?" he said, still without looking up.
"Yes, that's better," replied Thóra. "Now switch this off and come and have dinner. I bought some pasta; it only takes a minute to fix."
"Just let me finish this level," the answer came. "Takes two minutes."
"Just two," she said, and turned round. "Let me remind you that it goes like this: one. Then two. Not one, two, three, four, five, six, two."
"Okay, okay," her son replied irritably, carrying on with his game.
When the food was served fifteen minutes later Gylfi appeared and slammed himself down in his usual chair. Sóley was already seated and yawning in front of her plate. Thóra could not be bothered to start the meal by nagging Gylfi for taking more than two minutes to finish "the level." She was about to remind him of the importance of this occasion for the family when her mobile started ringing. She stood up to answer it. "You two start eating, and don't argue. You're both much more likable when you're friends." She reached out for the mobile on the kitchen sideboard and looked at the caller ID, but there was none. She pressed the talk button as she left the kitchen. "Thóra."
"Guten Abend, Frau Gudmundsdóttir," said Matthew's dry voice. He asked if it was an inconvenient time.
"No, it's okay," Thóra lied. She thought Matthew would be upset if he knew the truth, namely that she was sitting down to dinner. He seemed a polite man, somehow.
"Have you had time to look at the documents I gave you?" he asked.
"Yes, I have, but not in any great detail," Thóra replied. "Actually, I did notice that the police investigation documents were incomplete. I suggest a formal request to obtain them. It's a terrible drawback having only part of them."
"Definitely." An uncomfortable silence ensued. Just as Thóra was about to add something, Matthew began speaking again.
"So you've made your mind up?"
"About the case, you mean?"
"Yes," he said curtly. "Are you going to take it on?"
Thóra hesitated for a moment before agreeing. She had a feeling that when she said those words, Matthew heaved a deep sigh of relief. "Sehr gut," he said in an exceptionally perky tone.
"Actually, I still have to study the contract. I brought it home to read tonight. If it's true that it's 'fair and normal,' I can't see any objections to signing it tomorrow."
"Great."
"Listen, one thing made me curious: why wasn't the section about the autopsy in the folder?" Although Thóra knew this could wait until morning, she wanted to know the answer now.
"We had to make a special application to obtain the documents and I didn't get them alljust a summary of the main points. I thought it was rather sparse, so I've insisted on seeing the entire report," Matthew replied.
After a moment's pause he added by way of explanation: "It complicated the matter a little, me being a representative and not a relative, but fortunately it's been settled now. In fact, that's why I rang now instead of waiting to hear from you tomorrow as we had discussed."
"Sorry?" Thóra said, not quite grasping the context.
"I have an appointment at nine tomorrow morning with the pathologist who performed the autopsy on Harald. He's going to present me with the documents and go through various aspects of them with me. I'd like you to come along."
"Well," Thóra said in surprise. "Okay, that's fine. I'm game."
"Good, I'll pick you up from the office at half past eight."
Thóra bit her tongue to stop herself saying that she generally did not turn up that early. "Half past eight. I'll see you then."
"Frau Gudmundsdóttir" said Matthew.
"Do call me Thóra, it's much simpler," Thóra interrupted him. She felt like a ninety-year-old widow every time he called her Frau Gudmundsdóttir.
"Okay, Thóra," Matthew said. "Just one more thing."
"What?" asked Thóra.
"I'd resist having a heavy breakfast. It's not going to be a pleasant conversation."
CHAPTER 6
DECEMBER 7, 2005
Finding a parking space at the national hospital was definitely not the easiest task in the world. Matthew eventually found one some distance from the building where the pathology lab was located. Thóra had turned up at her office early and drafted a letter to the police, demanding access to the documents as the representative of the family. The letter was in its envelope and waiting in Bella's tray; hopefully it would be posted today, but Thóra still decided to up the odds by labeling the envelope with the words: "Must
not
be posted before the weekend."
Thóra had also called the aviation school to inquire about a debit from Harald's card in September. She was told that Harald had hired a small private plane and pilot to fly up to Hólmavík and back the same day. After checking Hólmavík on the Internet, Thóra soon realized what had attracted Harald thereits museum of witchcraft and sorcery. She had also telephoned Hótel Rangá to investigate Harald's trips there, and she was told that he had booked and paid for two rooms for two nightsthe names in the guest book were Harald Guntlieb and Harry Potter. As a pseudonym, the latter displayed a singular lack of imagination. She told Matthew about this and Harald's trip to Hólmavík as they circled the parking lot.
"At last," Matthew said, slipping his rental car into a newly abandoned parking space.
They walked in the direction of the laboratory, which was located behind the main building. It had snowed during the night and Matthew walked ahead of Thóra, stomping through the piles of slush and ice. The weather was blustery and the bracing north wind tugged at Thóra's hair. That morning she had decided to wear her hair down but regretted that decision now as the wind swept it in all directions.
I'll look really good by the time I get inside,
she thought. She stopped for a moment, turned her back to the wind, and tried to protect her hair by wrapping a scarf over her head. It was hardly fashionable but earned her hair a respite from the gusts. After this ceremony, she hurried after Matthew.
When they finally reached the building he looked around for the first time since they had left the car. He stared at her with the scarf over her head. She could just imagine how elegant she looked, which he confirmed when he raised his eyebrows and said: "There's bound to be a bathroom you can pop into when we get inside."
Thóra yearned to fire a retort at him, but restrained herself. Instead she gave him a rigid smile and threw open the door. She strode over to a woman pushing an empty steel trolley and asked where they could find the doctor they were supposed to meet. After asking whether he was expecting them, the woman directed them toward an office at the end of one of the corridors. She added that they should wait outside because the doctor was not yet back from a morning meeting.
Thóra and Matthew sat down in two battered chairs by the window in the corridor.
"I didn't mean to offend you. Sorry," Matthew said without looking at her.
Not interested in discussing her appearance, Thóra ignored the remark. She took the scarf off her head with as much dignity as she could muster and put it in her lap. Then she reached over for a pile of tattered magazines that were lying on a little table between the chairs.
"Who could ever be interested in reading this stuff?" she muttered as she flicked through the pile.
"I don't think people come here looking for something to read," Matthew answered. He was sitting up straight, staring ahead.
Thóra put down the magazines, irritated. "No, maybe not." She looked at her watch and said impatiently, "Where is that man, anyway?"
"He'll be here," came the curt reply. "Actually I'm starting to have second thoughts about this meeting."
"What do you mean?" she asked peevishly.
"I think it may be too shocking for you," he replied, turning to face her. "You don't have any experience with this sort of thing and I'm not sure it's a good idea. It would be best if I just tell you what he says."
Thóra glared at him. "I've given birth to two children, with all the accompanying pain, blood, placentas, cervical plugs, and God knows what else. I'll survive." She folded her arms and turned away from him. "So what do you know about gross stuff?"
Matthew did not seem impressed by Thóra's experience. "Lots of things. But I'll spare you the details. Unlike you, I have no need to beat my chest."
Thóra rolled her eyes. This German wasn't exactly a barrel of laughs. She decided to find out what
The Watchtower
had to say rather than try to sustain a conversation with him. She was halfway through an article on the bad influence of television on world youth when a man in a white coat came hurrying along the corridor toward them. He was around sixty, starting to gray at the temples, and very tan. His eyes were flanked by wrinkles from smiling, which led Thóra to conclude that he had had a good time in the sun. He stopped in front of them and Thóra and Matthew both stood up.
"Hello," the man said, offering his hand. "Thráinn Hafsteinsson."
Thóra and Matthew returned his greeting and introduced themselves.
"Do come inside," the doctor said in English so that Matthew would understand, and opened the door to his office. "Excuse me for being late," he added in Icelandic, addressing his words to Thóra.
"That's fine," she replied. "The literature out there is so fascinating, I wouldn't have minded waiting a bit longer." She smiled at him.
The doctor looked at her in surprise. "Yes, quite." They entered the office where there was little in the way of empty space. The walls were covered with bookshelves filled with scientific works and journals of all sizes and descriptions, with the occasional filing cabinet arranged between them. The doctor walked behind a large tidy desk and sat down, inviting them to do the same. "Well, then." He put both hands on the edge of the desk as he said this, as if to emphasize that their meeting was formally beginning now. "I presume we'll be doing this in English."
Thóra and Matthew both nodded.
He went on: "That won't be a problem, I did my doctorate in America. But I haven't spoken a word of German since I walked out of my school oral exam as a teenager, so I'll spare you that."
"As I told you on the phone, English is fine," Matthew said. Thóra tried to suppress a smile at his German accent.
"Good," the doctor said, reaching out for a yellow plastic folder from the top of a pile of papers on his desk. He arranged it in front of himself, poised to open it. "I should start by apologizing for how long it took to get permission to show the autopsy documents in all their glory." He gave them an apologetic smile. "There's far too much bureaucracy surrounding this kind of case and it's not always obvious how to respond when the circumstances are unusual, as in this situation."
