Thóra pointed at the bookshelf. ‘Did Tryggvi do it?’ she repeated.
‘Yes,’ Fanndís answered distractedly, gazing at the picture. ‘He had a real talent for drawing. It’s not obvious in this one, because it was coloured in afterwards, but he drew all his pictures in one long movement – he never lifted the pen or pencil. He must have seen each one precisely in his mind before transferring it to paper, because there was no hesitation or nervousness once he started.’ She put the drawing back in its place again, now so hidden behind the books that only one edge of the frame showed. ‘I’d completely forgotten this picture. Our daughter had it framed and gave it to her father as a birthday present shortly after Tryggvi moved to the centre. I really don’t know why she chose this picture, because there are so many other, much better ones. I find this one a bit creepy, which is why it’s kept down there.’
‘Is it meant to show the home?’ asked Thóra. ‘I feel like I recognize it, but it’s not quite as I remember it.’
‘Oh, yes. You didn’t figure it out?’ Fanndís smiled at Thóra as if she were a bit slow. ‘It’s a mirror image of the building. Tryggvi always drew mirror images; that was one of the symptoms of his autism. They tried to work out why and they decided that the scanner in his brain, if it can be called that, was calibrated wrongly. What he saw and wanted to convey in a drawing came out mirrored. Actually, we never discovered whether he did see life like that, because it turned out to be too difficult to test him, but there have been reported cases. People with this sort of disability can’t learn to read clocks, for instance. Although it still seemed inconceivable when he died, maybe Tryggvi would have been able to do that one day.’ She gestured towards the coffee. ‘Please help yourselves while it’s hot. The coffeepot is a bit worn out so it gets cold quickly.’
The coffee was indeed still hot and agreeably strong. Thóra placed her patterned cup on its saucer. She had poured herself too much and was afraid of spilling it. ‘Did he draw a lot?’
‘If a piece of paper and pen were put in front of him, he would start sketching immediately. As I said, the pictures were always fully formed in his mind, so he never hesitated. He didn’t speak, which meant he never asked for a drawing pad; he could have showed that he wanted one in some other way, but he never did. He didn’t ever ask for anything, not even water when he was thirsty. For him, life just happened; he didn’t try to influence its progress or change the course of events. I’ve often wondered what it must be like to live that kind of life, but I just can’t imagine it. It’s a shame, because it might have helped us understand him better. He had everything he needed in order to do what comes naturally to the rest of us: his vocal cords were normal and there was nothing wrong with his brain, based on the huge number of CAT scans and tests he underwent. There was just something undefinable missing, some connection or spark. I was told to think of it like a disconnection in a piece of electrical equipment; when two parts are uncoupled, nothing works the way it should, but when the connection’s made everything starts running.’ Fanndís raised her hand to her other ear and rubbed it. ‘I hadn’t given up on the idea that that might still happen.’ She smiled, embarrassed, and looked out of the window, clearly not wanting to see the doubt in their eyes.
Thóra tactfully avoided commenting on the possibility of the boy’s improvement; she knew little or nothing about autism, except that no one could be ‘cured’ of it, although remarkable progress was achieved in some cases. ‘In the picture he drew someone screaming. Do you think that’s a reflection of his feelings about where he was living? I asked you before whether the residents seemed unhappy; maybe this was Tryggvi’s way of expressing it. The reason I’m so keen to discuss this with you is that you must be the person who spent the most time there, after those who were actually on the payroll. The employees would hardly tell me if the level of care was in any way substandard.’
‘I don’t know what to say. As I mentioned, Tryggvi hated change, which is a very common symptom of autism. Since he’d not long arrived there, it’s hard to know how he would have felt over time. But it’s still important to bear in mind that it probably wouldn’t have been the place itself that caused him discomfort, but this aspect of his disability. Obviously I knew the other residents a little and they seemed to be doing okay, each in their own way. In general, I’d say the ones who were physically disabled seemed better off than the ones suffering mental disabilities. But perhaps that’s to be expected.’
‘So you never heard any shouting or screaming? Or any other noise that might suggest that something was wrong?’
‘No. I mean, of course you did hear screaming, crying and everything in between. The residents were often upset about something. Sometimes no one could figure it out, but usually they could tell what the problem was. For example, some residents would kick up a fuss when someone was trying to help them, even though they were only in temporary discomfort. I believe the therapy could be uncomfortable; quite painful, even. I once injured my shoulder so I know this first-hand, though I had the self-control not to scream during physiotherapy.’ Fanndís smiled at them. ‘But any distress the residents felt wasn’t down to the employees; on the contrary, they tried to make life as easy for them as possible. Of course they couldn’t always manage it, because sometimes neither painkillers nor kindness can help. Some things hurt in a different way to, I don’t know, hitting your thumb with a hammer.’ She stopped smiling. ‘Like the pain I experienced when Tryggvi died.’
‘I can imagine it was terribly hard for you, and that it will continue to be so.’ Thóra was keen to get the conversation back on track. ‘If we assume Jakob didn’t start the fire, was there any other resident you could imagine resorting to such a desperate act? Maybe without realizing the consequences of their actions?’
Fanndís grabbed her ear again. ‘Not that I can think of. Everyone living there was either physically or mentally incapable of doing such a thing. Except for Jakob.’
‘Well, you say that, but even with him I have serious doubts about the mental aspect. Starting the fire would have taken much more organizational ability than Jakob seems to possess.’ Out of the corner of Thóra’s eye she noticed Matthew staring at the doorway to the living room, although he was trying to hide it. He needn’t have bothered, since all Fanndís’s attention was on Thóra. ‘What about the employees, or the other residents’ relatives? Could they have been involved?’
Fanndís clearly found Thóra’s question tasteless; her expression suggested Thóra had taken some gum out of her mouth and stuck it underneath the coffee table. ‘Of course not. The staff was composed of ordinary people who wouldn’t have had anything to gain by committing such a crime – quite the reverse, in fact, since the fire meant their placement there was terminated and indeed several lost their jobs entirely. As for the other relatives, they weren’t there as much as I was; most of them worked, which made it harder for them to visit. Most came on the weekends and I never noticed anything suspicious in their behaviour.’
‘You’ll have to excuse me.’ Matthew stood up suddenly, smiling. ‘I need to pop out to the car to make a phone call; I shouldn’t be long.’
Thóra was careful not to let Fanndís see how surprised she was. She held off on any further questions until he was gone, then said, ‘Has your husband told you that the girl in the coma, Lísa, was pregnant?’ Fanndís nodded, and her hand crept back to her ear yet again and started worrying at the lobe. ‘The man who made her pregnant would have had considerable motive to intervene. Isn’t that right?’