Even though she had not seen Katrín Eva’s face properly, she had still been able to tell the police officers from Reykjavík, when they asked her repeatedly, that she was certain the girl hadn’t been in tears. If that had been the case, she would have heard it in her voice. Instead, she had just said, in a normal voice, that Klemmi had gone to sleep ages ago, then she waved a couple of notes in the air and left. If anything untoward had been going on, then Marita would have felt it as soon as she came in. But that couldn’t have been the case as the living room was quiet, everything was in its place and Jónatan was asleep on the sofa.
If Jónatan had just raped the babysitter, he would hardly have been so relaxed as he sniggered at her account of the staff dinner and sighed with satisfaction as she massaged his feet. The whole thing was completely ridiculous.
Marita sighed again and stretched. The day ahead of her was going to demand all her courage and determination. She would have to call the school to let them know that Kiddi wouldn’t be coming in again, then call in sick at the bank, and then she would check the news media and go through the comments on the online news articles.
It was just as well that most people seemed to believe their side of the story and doubted that the rape accusation could be true, although she was secretly ashamed of her delight when some referred to Katrín Eva as a lying slut. At least it provided her with an outlet, albeit meagre, for the anger that she had been bottling up inside as she did her best to keep a lid on everything.
Most of all today, she was not looking forward to reading the interview with Rósa, Katrín Eva’s mother. She dreaded what she would have to say. They had been such good friends before. That was why Katrín Eva had come to babysit for them: her mother had offered the girl’s services were they ever to need a babysitter.
Marita got to her feet and reached for the clothes she had taken off and thrown on a chair the night before. This would be another day of tracksuit trousers. She couldn’t be bothered to get properly dressed, and she wasn’t going to draw the curtains. Whether people really were gawping at them as they drove along the street, or she was just imagining it, it was as well to shut the world out, behind thick curtains. At any rate, it was the dark dead of winter both outside and inside the house.
42
Úrsúla almost began to regret having put Gunnar in the picture when they arrived at the ministry to find Boris, the national commissioner’s representative, and Óðinn waiting for them with serious looks on their faces.
‘We’ll start the day with a meeting focusing on the minister’s security,’ Óðinn said, leading the way into the meeting room. She and Gunnar sat side by side, with Óðinn and Boris facing them.
‘Coffee? Tea?’ Óðinn asked, and when they had all shaken their heads he sent the secretary out of the room with a vague gesture that she clearly understood.
Gunnar handed Boris the scrap of paper that was now dry and wrinkled, and he read it.
‘Yes, that could certainly be interpreted as a death threat,’ he said. ‘Particularly considering what we know about his background.’
‘Agreed,’ Óðinn said, leaning towards Boris to read the wording on the note. ‘Somehow or other the man needs to be taken out of circulation. This isn’t something that can be tolerated.’
Úrsúla’s feeling of discomfort, which had begun as she entered the ministry building, had disappeared now that she saw them taking this seriously. Somehow she had feared they would think she was making a mountain out of a molehill. In comparison to Ebola, bombs and bullets, a note from a mentally ill down-and-out seemed trivial. But this fear seemed in some way unreal. What had happened to the woman who had pulled on a plastic overall and ski goggles every morning to bustle into the quarantine zone in Monrovia to organise the camp’s expansion? Where was the woman who had been able to stand up and explain co-operation between NGOs on transferring whole refugee camps across the border into Jordan, maintaining her concentration as bombs could be heard going off in the background?
‘Taking someone out of circulation isn’t that easy,’ Boris said. ‘But I’ll see what can be done about having him sectioned and kept on a closed ward.’
‘And we need to get an injunction to keep him away from the minister, so the legal side of this is clear and there’s a reason to call in the police if he tries to come close,’ Gunnar said.
‘I’ll put the legal department on to it,’ Óðinn said, scribbling a note.
‘Gunnar, we’ll be treating this as the highest level of security risk as long as this man is free,’ Boris said. ‘You make the necessary arrangements, ensuring the children don’t answer the door alone, that sort of thing. Then there’s the question of getting the security camera fitted outside so they can see who rings the doorbell. It’s a disgrace how long that’s taking.’ Boris tapped notes on his tablet as he spoke.
Gunnar nodded.
‘I’ll go over all this stuff with the whole family this evening,’ he said to Úrsúla. ‘I’ll inform the school and your husband that I’ll collect the children for the next few days and bring them home.’ He turned to Óðinn. ‘We can co-ordinate that with the minister’s schedule, can’t we?’
‘Of course,’ Óðinn said. ‘Our primary priorities are the minister’s security, and alleviating any concerns she has about her family’s safety.’
Úrsúla felt a wave of gratitude, because Óðinn was taking this development so seriously, which told her that this really was something grave, and not least because he appeared to have forgiven her for the day before.
‘There’s something I’m wondering about,’ Úrsúla began, and the men all looked up. This was the first time since they had sat down that she had spoken. ‘Could I get information on Pétur’s detention, or rather, his treatment? It occurred to me that I have no idea how long he was in detention at Sogn, or what his medical notes say about his condition when he was released; whether or not he was considered dangerous.’
Óðinn nodded and made another note, while Boris again tapped at his tablet. Then they all stood up. Óðinn nodded to her before he opened the door and went out into the corridor, but Boris stopped in the doorway and turned to Úrsúla.
‘There’s one more thing,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Do you know who this devil is that Pétur seems to be warning you about?’
43
Boris’s question had echoed at the back of her mind all morning, but without properly becoming the subject of her attention: Who is he, this devil?
She had lunch sent up to her office and ate it while going through the South Coast Highway documents, but there was nothing in the paperwork that linked Ingimar Magnússon to the project. The usual due-diligence research into the financial backers merely showed overseas ownership. If Ingimar really was financing part of the road construction, then they would have to cancel it. She would have to find a way out of this – some way out of the trap.
Then there had been a visit by a group from the Coast Guard to discuss the possibility of increasing government funding. They had been accompanied by a corpulent, red-haired official called Adolf who lobbied so hard on their behalf that the Coast Guard people had been embarrassed.
‘This is something that has to happen,’ he had said with finality at the end of the meeting, standing up and taking a position at the door so that Úrsúla, who had intended to politely usher the guests out into the corridor herself, and to use the opportunity to go for a smoke, wasn’t able to get past him.
‘I repeat my promise that this will be examined in detail,’ she said, trying to inject a firmness into her voice and stepping closer in the hope that he would get the hint from her body language and move aside. But he seemed immune to such unspoken messages.
‘A promise is just a promise—’ he began, and was clearly about to add something when Úrsúla interrupted, her voice sharper.
‘When I promise something, I mean it,’ she said, catching Adolf’s eye and holding it until he looked away. Then she turned to the Coast Guard off
icials, who stood watching with embarrassment on their faces. ‘I keep my promises, and what I’m promising now is that this will be considered in every detail.’
The Coast Guard men nodded their heads; as far as Úrsúla could see, they didn’t welcome Adolf’s overbearing manner. She turned back and came one step closer to him, so that they were almost touching, and he finally moved aside so she could open the door out into the corridor.
Her hope of snatching a cigarette break between meetings vanished when she saw that the next set of visitors were already waiting. A delegation of philologists wanted to speak to her about the Icelandic naming committee, which accepted or rejected the new first names that could be used when registering births. She reiterated her well-known opinion that it wasn’t the state’s job to be interfering in people’s personal lives.
‘We had hoped that the new minister would be more receptive to traditional arguments, and might even support maintaining the committee,’ said one of the academics, frowning, and deepening still further the chasm that had formed between his eyes the moment they had stepped into her office.
‘As I said, my opinion is that the Icelandic naming committee should be disbanded and we should be able to trust the good sense of the general public and allow them to choose names for their own children.’
‘That could mean that there might have to be changes to child-protection legislation,’ said one of the women, in alarm, and as far as Úrsúla could see, all three of them sat thunderstruck.
‘Isn’t that a good thing?’ she asked, making an effort to speak lightly to counterbalance her guests’ deep concern. ‘If someone really wants to give their child a name that’s so bad, it’s damaging to that child, surely there’s something going on already in that household that the child-welfare authorities should be taking an interest in. Wouldn’t it be best for the wellbeing of a child saddled with a terrible name to be examined by the authorities responsible for child welfare?’
They went through the usual arguments – the language-preservation policy, the endless delight young parents took in concocting new names and the situation in neighbouring countries – but this discussion seemed to do nothing to lessen the concerns of her guests. They would undoubtedly have stayed longer if Freyja had not come in and announced that the allotted time was up. The academics got to their feet, and Úrsúla shook their hands, promising that she would examine their arguments in detail.
Eva came in as the trio departed, and handed Úrsúla a mug of coffee and a doughnut.
‘Nothing but chaos?’ she asked through a mouthful of her own doughnut.
Úrsúla laughed. ‘No, not at all. I want to be able to help everyone, but I’m struggling to balance state regulation with the interests of parents who can’t get a passport for their child because they’ve come up with an unacceptable name. I can’t stand this nanny-state shit.’
‘So you’re going along with the Rúnar’s decision to shut down the naming committee?’
‘Oh, yes.’
Úrsúla dipped the doughnut into her coffee and bit into it. Its sweetness barely balanced the sour taste of the coffee, which had clearly spent far too long on the hot plate.
‘Could you fix me a coffee machine for this office?’ she asked, and Eva immediately tapped a note into her phone. ‘One of those that just makes one cup at a time and won’t give me endless environmental guilt.’
Eva grinned.
‘You’re getting the knack of all this luxury. First a car and a driver, and now a personal coffee machine!’
‘That’s right,’ Úrsúla said. ‘I’ve got used to the ministerial sauce, the ministerial car and the ministerial rubbish. All I need to complete the set is the ministerial coffee machine.’
They were still laughing as the door opened and Óðinn came in, knocking as he did so.
‘What’s so funny?’ he asked.
Úrsúla shook her head, and Eva’s expression instantly became deadly serious as she muttered an excuse. He looked at them inquiringly, one after the other, as if ready to stave off some blast of aggressive laughter, then moved closer to Úrsúla’s desk and placed a sheet of paper on it.
‘It’s a press statement about this rape accusation,’ he said. ‘It’s the usual stuff: the ministry regrets and the minister will ensure … blah, blah. I’ll send it out if you’re happy with it.’
Úrsúla took the sheet of paper and scanned it.
‘I’d have liked to have met the journalist to discuss this with him. Statements like this are a way of buying time, avoiding giving an answer,’ Úrsúla said, and could see from Óðinn’s expression that he didn’t agree with her.
‘I would strongly advise that we stick to the statement,’ he said. ‘We do need to buy ourselves some time so we can find out how far this case has gone. I don’t think it’s advisable to discuss things with journalists at this juncture.’
‘What do you think, Eva?’ Úrsúla asked, in the faint hope of some support from that direction.
But it didn’t matter what either of them had to say. She was determined to meet the journalist. Because that journalist was Thorbjörn.
44
Stella’s pulse pumped as she jogged down the stairs towards the ministry’s back door, even though there was no chance that anyone could have seen her putting the waste paper in the bag unshredded. This late in the day the building was half empty, and it wasn’t as if anyone kept tabs on her work. The creepy guy was waiting by the container, as they had agreed. She hurled the bag of shredded paper into it and handed him the other two bags, glancing up at the building to check that nobody was watching from any of the windows.
‘That’s the minister’s and the permanent secretary’s?’ the guy asked as he took the bags.
‘Yeah,’ Stella replied. ‘The minister’s rubbish is in the bag that’s tied. The one that’s taped up is the permanent secretary’s.’
He nodded and handed her some notes. She took them and stuffed them in a pocket, relieved to have the security of having some cash, but at the same time with a faint remorse deep in her belly. There was no question that she would be sacked if anyone were to find out. This was, without doubt, the easiest job she had attempted, and she shuddered at the thought of going down to the social security office to sign herself on as unemployed, knowing that she’d have to accept whatever lousy job they offered her once her benefits had run out.
The guy got in his car without a word, and Stella walked out of the car park and down towards Sæbraut, undecided whether to spend some of the cash on a bus home or to use it all to get something decent to eat. Most of all she longed to go up to Laugavegur and use every penny to drink beer in Dillon until DJ Andrea started to play. Then Andrea would buy her more beer; if she could drink beer all evening she wouldn’t need to eat. But her plans hadn’t gone further than that when her phone rang; it was Gréta’s number on the screen. She seemed to be the only person who called these days, now that Stella’s closest friends were spoken for and had lost all interest in the world outside their relationships.
‘She wants to meet for a drink! This evening, right after my broadcast!’ a flustered Gréta said. ‘And I don’t know what to suggest. Where do young, fashionable types who know what’s in right now want to go?’
Stella grimaced at the image Gréta seemed to have of her. She didn’t feel remotely fashionable or in as she trudged through the slush with two thousand krónur in her pocket that she had got for selling rubbish. But Gréta had never seen her at home in her little bedsit with mould on the walls and a bathroom she shared with four other people.
‘I’m walking past your block right now,’ Stella said. ‘How about I come up and we can talk this over?’
In her mind she could see the glow of the little glass-fronted fridge in Gréta’s kitchen, full of beer and champagne.
‘Yes, please!’ Gréta said. ‘I’m getting myself ready for tonight’s news and just popped home to change. But come on up. I’m so nervous about this date or whatever
it is. Or maybe she swiped by mistake. She might be one of those people who can’t tell left from right…’
Stella ended the call without saying anything. It wasn’t good for Gréta to dig herself deep into desperation. In the lobby Stella nudged the up button. Hopefully Gréta would have a snack of some kind to offer her, like last time. Maybe some of those Greek olives that she ordered for herself specially.
45
He could sense that something had changed when he returned with the cans of sparkling water in a bag, but he wasn’t able to put his finger on it right away. She had sent him out to buy lime-flavoured water that came in aluminium cans, and while he thought it was ridiculous to be buying canned water in Iceland, where the water from the tap was as clear and fresh as it could be, he gave in. He enjoyed spoiling her. But now there was something strange brewing. She stood by the kitchen worktop sipping from a glass of water.
‘Didn’t you just send me out to buy the super-special water because you didn’t want to drink from the tap?’
‘Gotcha,’ she said, emptying her glass into the sink. ‘Just winding you up.’ She did it hurriedly, and there was an awkward look on her face, as if she had been taken by surprise. This wasn’t just teasing, as she referred to the ways she provoked him. She had something to hide. His eyes scanned the living room and stopped at the laptop on the coffee table. He was sure he had left it on the sofa.
‘Have you been snooping in my computer?’ he asked.
‘No, I just…’ she shrugged. ‘I just wanted to look something up on the net, see what’s on at the pictures. Shall we go and see a movie tonight?’
‘That’s my work laptop,’ he said. ‘I told you to leave it alone.’
‘Come on. I was just checking the movie listings,’ she said. ‘What’s the problem?’
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