Before Thóra had started her drawing she’d spoken to one of the centre’s neighbours, the one who had reported the fire, but hadn’t gleaned much from their conversation. The woman had answered her questions and Thóra had had to listen to her complaints about how awful it was to live in such a ghost town; construction of the proposed preschool had been postponed indefinitely, forcing her and her husband to find one in town for their two children. The snow was rarely cleared and when it was, it was done badly; the same went for the bin collections. The woman went on like this for some time before Thóra finally got the chance to bring up what she’d come to discuss. She was relieved when she eventually said goodbye to the woman, convinced by then that the couple’s testimony was credible; they’d simply been fast asleep and had probably been woken by the reverberations of the explosion, though neither of them had realized what it was. The only peculiar thing about the woman’s testimony was that she had specifically pointed out that the couple was used to sleeping through noises, such as loud traffic. Sometimes gangs of kids had been known to hang around the neighbourhood at night, especially at the weekends, but luckily that was now a thing of the past. They hadn’t seen anyone that night, and had noticed nothing unusual.
Now Thóra resolved to get down to business. She looked up the name of the centre’s director: Glódís Tumadóttir, which Thóra thought sounded a very bright and cheerful name. When she finally managed to get hold of the woman through the Ministry of Welfare, her voice sounded entirely at odds with the image that her name evoked. Glódís frequently sighed heavily, as if she bore all the sorrows of the world on her shoulders. After listening for half an hour to her complaints about the bustle of the Regional Office for the Disabled in Reykjavík, Thóra eventually managed to persuade her into a meeting, although the discussion was accompanied by a long and detailed report on how Glódís couldn’t give her more than about fifteen minutes, since naturally she’d have to get back to thanklessly slaving away at her understaffed workplace. Thóra wanted to scream when she finally hung up. She’d met far too many of these kinds of people, who felt that their wages didn’t match their great talent and who wallowed constantly in self-pity. She couldn’t be the only one who wanted to give them all a good smack in the hope of snapping them out of their self-appointed martyrdom. But that would have to wait for another time. In retrospect, she realized that underneath all the moaning, the woman had probably been worried or agitated about her call. Perhaps all the waffle about the unfairness of her job had been caused by nervous anxiety; after all, it couldn’t have been pleasant for Glódís to have to discuss the case again. She could have something to hide, but it might not be anything unnatural or suspicious; the young people who died had been her responsibility and although the home hadn’t been in operation for long, she must have had emotional ties to those who died. No doubt everything would become clearer when they met face to face.
Thóra’s mobile phone beeped, telling her that she’d received a text. The message was entirely unfathomable, and had again been sent from ja.is. She hoped it wasn’t some idiot who’d entered a friend’s number wrongly, and was now using her number by mistake. If that was the case, then someone somewhere was asking an extremely important question: How did Helena get burned as a child? She felt momentarily spooked, given that the message mentioned fire, but she dismissed it as coincidence and shut her phone.
Bella hadn’t arrived yet though it was nearly ten o’clock, so Thóra scribbled a note to her to remember to order more paper for the photocopier. The chances of the secretary actually doing it were slender, but Thóra refused to let the young woman have the upper hand so she added hurriedly underneath: Can’t pay your salary if I can’t print out a payslip. Then she put on her coat and left. It was still snowing outside but now it was coming down faster and thicker, not at all like the gentle flurries of the previous evening. She’d have to hurry if she was going to scrape the ice and snow off her car and make it to Síðumúli in time for the short interview window Glódís had so kindly granted her.
A thick, heavy layer of snow covered the car and the slush underfoot made it difficult for her to stand close enough to be able to clear it off properly. This made her hand motions clumsy and Thóra was more or less covered with snow when she finally got behind the wheel and drove off. Along the way, ill-equipped cars caused endless delays as they spun their wheels and slid back and forth across the road while irritated drivers honked their horns.
Thóra decided not to join in the horn concerto and instead took the opportunity to call home and speak briefly to Matthew. He turned out to be on his way out for a run, which he did every day of the week except Sunday, whatever the weather. Thóra found this totally incomprehensible – the only time she might consider running would be away from a crazed murderer, in the unlikely event that one was after her. She hadn’t said as much to Matthew, however, since it seemed so important to him. She simply smiled to herself every time he suggested that she come with him, although her smile had faded somewhat when he gave her a pair of top-quality running shoes as a Christmas present. For the moment she could still use the weather as justification, but when spring came, the fear of breaking her leg on the ice would no longer be a viable excuse; instead she would have to admit that she had no interest in unnecessary physical labour or else come up with some other reason. She hadn’t been able to think of anything better than an allergy to bees, but it was still a long time until spring and she might come up with more credible ideas as the days got slowly longer. Thankfully, she didn’t need to go to the gym to keep her figure trim; she was slim by nature as well as tall, which meant that the extra kilos that occasionally came – and went, without any special effort – distributed themselves quite easily over her frame without being too noticeable.
She was very close to being late. When she finally pulled up in the car park, which was half buried in snow, her mind drifted to what Matthew had said before hanging up: that she should proceed carefully with her questions about the home. He hadn’t wanted to elaborate other than to say that handicaps and illnesses were sensitive topics and it was easy to hurt people, even if no harm were meant. He said that he suspected that those who took care of disabled individuals were even more sensitive to the way things were phrased than the individuals themselves. This did nothing to improve Thóra’s feelings of uncertainty on precisely this subject; despite having read through the case’s countless documents, she realized how poorly informed she still was about which terms were considered inappropriate when referring to the former inhabitants of the community residence and their circumstances. Despite Matthew’s warnings, she was relieved to speak first to a woman who had no blood connection to the residents; it was less likely that Thóra would offend her than a family member. Perhaps she could learn from this conversation and take in concepts and terminology that were thought appropriate. But she wouldn’t be able to avoid speaking to the relatives of the dead residents – if, in fact, they were willing to meet her – because most other sources of information about the centre had burned to ashes. They were under no obligation to speak to her, of course, and the fact that her client was the man whom they believed to be responsible for the deaths of their children didn’t exactly go in her favour. She didn’t need to go offending people with inappropriate comments on top of all that.