She moved her right hand nearer the bell, which - of course - lay closer to her left hand, the one she didn’t dare move for fear that then the calories would start pouring in faster. Also, the stinging she now felt in her hand worsened with movement. Her thumb rested on the chilly button. Tinna was just about to press it when she hesitated. What was she supposed to say to the foreign nurse? She could barely mumble ‘good day’ in English, so she couldn’t possibly explain that if the liquid wasn’t taken out of her, and immediately, then she would swell up and burst and her guts would be splashed all over the room. Tinna took her thumb off the button. This would get her nowhere. She sat up straighter and tried to focus. The nurse couldn’t help her. No one could help her. What should she do?
She looked down at the plaster covering the needle. One of its corners had come slightly loose, probably because she was sweating from the hot needle and all the calories flowing into her. She tugged carefully at the loose corner and listened in fascination as the plaster pulled away from her skin. She pulled it off slowly and watched the skin lifting away from her bones. She looked contentedly at the reddened square where the plaster had been. There was a piece of pink plastic shaped like a butterfly in the centre of the square; into one end of it went the tube, and out of the other came the needle that was burrowing under Tinna’s skin. She tore off the clear tape that held the butterfly to her skin and grimaced. How could she get the needle out without the liquid going everywhere? She thought and thought but couldn’t come up with a solution, so she just pulled the needle out slowly. There was a faint pop and a sucking sound as the needle came free from her skin, and for an instant she could see a tiny black hole in her hand, before droplets of blood welled up and leaked down her wrist. She pushed the needle and the butterfly away, but instead of whipping around the room like a hose, as she had imagined they would, they dropped straight down onto the bed from the weight of the tube. Tinna felt strangely disappointed.
She swept her feet out from under the covers and sat on the edge of the bed for a second to let the familiar dizziness pass. Her stomach rumbled, and she could feel how terribly hungry she was. That was nothing new, but because her head was fuzzy from the drugs, she wanted to eat. Usually she found it easy to handle hunger, and actually enjoyed not satisfying it. That way she was in control, not her greed. The greed that made people fatter and fatter until they burst, like the sheep. She couldn’t remember whether a sheep had actually burst or if she’d just imagined it. Tinna stood up, trying to shake off the thoughts of food that pursued her so insistently. She drifted around the room, peered out through the window — nothing worth looking at — then looked into a wall cupboard and saw her parka hanging on a hook next to the clothes she’d been wearing when she arrived. There was nowhere else to look but under the bed or up the tap on the sink, but both of them would require Tinna to bend over, which she didn’t like to do. It would scrunch up her stomach and increase her hunger.
A children’s rhyme about a cawing crow suddenly flashed into her mind. Outside sits the carrion croiv / Can you hear its croak?/ Beside the old ram’s skull and bones / I saw its woolly cloak. She mustn’t eat. She would burst, like the sheep. Why didn’t anyone understand that? Tinna suddenly felt as if she were weightless. Indifference overcame her, a feeling that she had things under control and had nothing to worry about. Calories she’d already ingested didn’t count. She smiled, then giggled. Where could she find a knife?
Dís sat deep in thought, waiting for Agúst. The last patient was in his office, a young woman who was thinking of getting breast implants. Dís had watched her walk in and bet herself that the slender girl would end up with breasts too large to be called beautiful. It was always the same. Dís thought it was tragic - women got breast implants to look better for men, no matter what they said. More often than not they justified it by telling themselves that if their breasts were larger they would be happier and more self-confident. Of course that was true, but that self-confidence was based on the woman feeling more attractive to the opposite sex. That’s why it saddened Dís that almost without exception these women chose implants that were too large, which made them more flawed, not more elegant. If the woman was married she often brought her husband to the first consultations; she would be thinking of getting much larger breasts, though the husband often expressed a preference for something subtler. Dís always tried to point this out to the women, usually to no effect: Why don’t you have a think about maybe getting slightly smaller implants? Your breasts will be larger than they are now, but the change won’t be as drastic. You’ll be happier in the long term. Neither doctor nor husband could
ever persuade the woman to change her mind. Maybe it was the desire to get as much for the money as possible, or the fear that the breasts would get smaller with age; Dís couldn’t be sure, nor did she think that the women would be able to answer the question if she put it to them. Not that she was going to start questioning her patients.
Dís looked again at her watch. Why the hell was she thinking about this now? It wasn’t her problem, since each individual made the decision, took responsibility for it and had to live with it. Besides, as far as she knew, all the women had been thrilled with their new breasts. Dís looked once more at her watch in case time was passing faster than she thought. But of course it wasn’t. Time was creeping by, as it always did when she wanted it to pass quickly. The wait irritated her for more than one reason: it served to remind her that Agúst was more sought-after than her even though she was just as skilful, if not more so, these days. He was older and more experienced, but he had started to stagnate. She kept up to date with developments in the profession, but he showed less interest. He tried feebly to disguise it, feigning interest when Dís talked about articles she had read - most recently, one about an operation on the ball of the foot that made it easier for women to walk in high-heeled shoes. Yet he didn’t need to fake his enthusiasm when it came to conferences abroad. She heard the door to Agúst’s office open and listened to him exchanging pleasantries with the patient, who he clearly intended to escort to the exit. She straightened up when she heard him lock the outer door. Finally.
‘I thought that meeting would never end,’ said Agúst as he came in to her office. ‘Sorry for the wait.’ He plonked himself down, loosened his expensive tie and undid the top button on his shirt. ‘She wants an apron removal. Just had a baby and can’t wait to get into her bikini again.’
Dís said nothing. She wanted to go swimming and then home, so she got straight to the point. ‘I feel awful about the interrogation yesterday,’ she said. ‘The police know I took it. I can feel it.’
‘Oh, come on,’ said Agúst, massaging his own shoulders distractedly. ‘What time do you need to be there tomorrow? I don’t have a patient until about ten, luckily.’
Dís seethed. He had no idea; there he sat, footloose and fancy-free, while she was falling to pieces. And it was all his fault! ‘A man is in custody for Alda’s murder,’ she said, as calmly as she could. ‘Doesn’t that bother you even a little?’ Her anger felt pure and crystalline.
Agúst glared at her indignantly. ‘Why should it bother me?’ he snapped. ‘I’m thrilled the police have caught the bastard.’ He looked away from her. ‘You should be happy too - don’t get all worked up over something that’s never going to happen.’
‘Agúst,’ said Dís, gritting her teeth to keep herself from shouting. She exhaled through her nose and composed herself before continuing. ‘I removed evidence from Alda’s home, and the police suspect something. This evidence could either prove the guilt of the man in custody, or, even worse, clear his name. Of course I’m worried; only an idiot wouldn’t be.’ She hoped it was clear she meant Agúst as well as herself.
He didn’t react to the taunt. ‘The police have talked to me too. There was nothing strange about their questions, considering how she died. You can’t just grab Botox off the shelf at the chemist’s.’
Dís rolled her eyes. ‘You weren’t t
he first one at the murder scene. I was.’ She realized she was almost lunging at him across the desk and pulled herself back a bit. ‘That’s why the questions they asked you weren’t as loaded.’
Agúst seemed unsure what to say. He obviously regretted not having taken the opportunity to slip out with the last patient. ‘Which questions were you worried about?’
‘The questions about the Botox and where Alda might have got it, the questions about exactly what I did while I waited, how much time passed before I called for help, and so forth. How do I know someone didn’t see me there, and that they won’t find out I did more than I told them?’
Agúst frowned. ‘Dís, are you crazy? How long did it take you to remove it from the bedside table? Thirty seconds? Twenty? The police can’t possibly have any information like that. Get a grip on yourself and calm down.’
Dís had to admit that he was probably right, which she hated. ‘But where else could Alda have got the Botox?’ she asked. ‘They’re not going to give up investigating that. Say they get their hands on it in the end — the bottle definitely has a serial number that can be traced back to the dealer, and from them to whoever originally supplied it. What do you say to that, Einstein? Then you’ll be under the microscope right next to me, I can promise you.’ She waited, willing him to panic. He had bought the drug, not her. The drugs that she ordered were on their inventory and didn’t ever leave the office. ‘And when they start investigating you, other things are going to come out, you know.’ She watched him, still waiting for his forehead to crease with worry.
Her hopes were dashed. Agúst just shrugged, smiling cruelly. ‘Not a problem,’ he said. ‘I’ll never end up under that microscope. I’ve already come up with a solution.’ He was obviously very pleased with his plan, because he had puffed out his chest. ‘I told the police that we might not have checked the inventory closely enough lately, because we’d been so busy.’ Agúst smiled at Dís. And guess what? It turned out some Botox was missing.‘
Are you going to lie and say it came from here?‘ said Dís. It dawned on her that this lie could get Agúst out of the frame, but she would still be under suspicion. ’But they’ll think I took it,‘ she said, surprised to note that there was no agitation in her voice. ’I told the lawyer of the man they arrested that we check our inventory scrupulously. She’s going to suspect something when you tell a different story,‘ she added.
‘Bless you,’ laughed Agúst. ‘That lawyer has no idea what I told the police.’ But he looked discomfited. ‘You shouldn’t have told her that.’
Dís was unhappy about being put on the defensive, but there was little she could do about it. ‘I thought I could persuade her and the police to think that this was suicide after all, or at least divert their attention to the A&E.’ As she was saying this, she realized how bad this sounded.
Agúst rose and placed his hand on her shoulder as she sat with her palms flat on the desk. ‘Everything will be all right, Dís. Don’t trouble yourself unnecessarily or do anything rash.’ He smiled genially at her, but Dís could feel an edge behind his smile. He soon proved her right. ‘Where are you keeping… the thing you took from the bedside table?’ asked Agúst.
Dís tried to hide her distress. ‘I took it home,’ she said, and pressed her lips together firmly. She wanted to make this difficult for him.
‘And what are you going to do with it?’ he asked calmly. ‘Wouldn’t it be best to destroy it?’
‘No,’ said Dís, looking down. ‘I can’t. There might be important fingerprints on the syringe.’ She stood up. ‘When I took it from the bedside table I suspected that you’d let Alda have some Botox. I knew she wanted to give herself and her friends injections, and I also knew that you wouldn’t say no to her, even though I didn’t realize then what interests you were protecting.’ She crossed her arms so he wouldn’t see how much her hands were shaking. ‘I was afraid she’d made a terrible mistake, a fatal one. Given herself a heart attack, or worse. I was thinking about you, I wanted to protect you if it turned out you’d been careless with drugs. But I never suspected this would turn out to be murder.’ She looked directly at him. ‘I wanted to help you, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to—’
Agúst interrupted her. ‘What? Conceal evidence from the police? You’re already doing that.’ He stared at her, and now she saw fear in his eyes for the first time. ‘Are you taking this to the police?’
Dís thought for a moment. ‘I don’t know, I haven’t decided yet,’ she lied.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Saturday 21 July2007
The tour had ended with them sailing almost aimlessly through a calm patch of sea around Heimaey and the nearby islands, while the old captain spun his stories. It would have been interesting to see their route on a map, since only fate seemed to determine the course Paddi the Hook took. Now and again he described certain aspects of the landscape to them and informed them of local customs and geography. But it was clear to everyone that this was not the purpose of the trip. He didn’t make any particular effort to describe what they were seeing, appearing to slip into tour guide mode only occasionally, out of habit. Thóra would try to appear interested, but with limited success. It wasn’t that it was difficult - the scenery was fabulous, especially south of Heimaey - but she thought it looked as though when the Almighty put the main island there, pieces had crumbled off and formed the other islands that lay scattered about. When she and Bella finally disembarked after the three-hour trip, Thóra was much better informed about life in the Islands and the people she thought were tied to the case. Paddi had seemed unwilling to admit that Alda’s name had ever been linked with the blood on the pier, and hadn’t succumbed to Thóra’s badgering. The smack with its foreign crew had sailed away in the night.
Back on land Thóra had tried to show the old sailor the copy of the photo from Alda’s desk, in the hope that he could identify the young man. Paddi shook his head and said that he wasn’t from the Westmann Islands, and looked more like a foreigner. Thóra thanked him and put the picture back into her bag. What she had, then, was the story about the blood on the pier, and the fact that Magnus had been in the area around the time it appeared. She found it interesting that Magnus’s wife was so adamant her husband hadn’t left the house again after bringing their drunken son home. Of course it was possible that she hadn’t been aware of him leaving, but Thóra suspected the woman had been persuaded to make this statement against her better judgement.
Fresh in Thóra’s memory were the descriptions of the violence that had caused the deaths of the men in the basement. It required a particular type of man to attack others in such a way, and now everything pointed towards that man being her client’s father. Dadi Horseshoe - and possibly others - must have helped him. This made more sense than the theory that an adolescent girl had been the perpetrator.
Back at the hotel Thóra realized that her cheeks felt warm, and in the first mirror she passed she saw that her face was the colour of a redfish. She cursed herself for not using the sunscreen she had so conscientiously taken with her. Bella looked much the same. The secretary yawned and Thóra noticed that she had no fillings in her teeth, although she had had no desire to find this out. ‘Do you want to take a nap?’ asked Thóra, who would certainly have liked to take one herself. ‘I need to make several phone calls and try to speak to Maria, Leifur’s wife. So you can just take it easy. Then we’ll have a late dinner when I come back.’
Bella didn’t need to be asked twice. Thóra went up to her room, but only to take a shower and put on something a bit cleaner and more presentable than her jeans and sweatshirt. Afterwards she felt much better, her fatigue washed away, along with the salt in her hair. It was just as well, because she needed all her energy to make it through the phone calls awaiting her. One of them was to Markus, to tell him the new information about his father, and to let him know that she intended to tell the police Paddi’s story about the blood. She also planned to inform the police about the English sm
ack, because she was pretty sure the bodies were once its crew. She couldn’t imagine how the men had ended up in the basement of Markus’s childhood home after leaving the Islands several days before the eruption, but she had a strong feeling about it nevertheless. Everyone agreed there had been few foreigners in the Islands at the time, so no one else fitted. Right now she couldn’t waste time on these speculations, though, because she had plenty of other things to do. She started by phoning her children.
‘Have you got an apartment for the festival?’ asked Gylfi. No hello Mum, how’s it going?
Thóra didn’t try to explain that she’d been too busy saving an innocent man from prison to make any preparations for The Bank Holiday weekend. It would mean nothing to Gylfi. ‘No, I haven’t heard anything yet,’ she said honestly. Indeed she hadn’t heard anything about empty apartments, since she hadn’t asked. ‘I need to call someone later who may be able to help me.’ Leifur was on Thóra’s list to call, and if he couldn’t get them an apartment no one could. The fact that she was about to tell the police his father could be connected to the bodies in the basement might throw a spanner in the works. But her task was to make Leifur understand that it was best for his brother, and that it was Markus’s legal right that the truth be told.
‘Don’t forget to sort it out,’ said Gylfi doggedly. ‘We have to go.’
One has to brush one’s teeth, one has to eat healthy food, but one doesn’t have to go to a festival; Thóra decided not to share this thought with her son, instead asking after Sóley. She then had to pull the phone away from her ear, as Gylfi immediately started yelling his sister’s name as though he thought she was with Thóra and he had to make himself heard through the phone. ‘Hi, sweetheart,’ said Thóra when her daughter came on the line. ‘How are things at Grandma’s?’ The kids were with their father’s parents, who often complained about not getting to see their grandchildren enough, but were never free to look after them when Thóra actually needed them. They were well-off and travelled a great deal. Miraculously, this time everything had come together and the kids had gone to stay in their big house on Arnarnes. This was meant to be their dad’s weekend, but Hannes and his wife were at a friend’s fortieth birthday party that evening. Thóra had never managed to foster a good relationship with her ex-husband’s family, though they had never actually had any conflicts. They were simply very different kinds of people, especially her and her former mother-in-law.
Ashes to Dust Page 27
