Why Did You Lie? (11 page)

The file containing reports of suicides from 1982 to 1985 was lying on her desk. She had trawled through it again and again, read every single word, but found nothing else about the case Thröstur had been linked to. Even so, she couldn’t quite bring herself to put it in the black bin bag that was sitting, still more or less empty, in front of the archives. She knew it was crazy but she couldn’t bear to throw away a single file in case it turned out to contain the information she was looking for. It made no difference that she had already had a quick flick through all the folders; a gnawing fear that she might have overlooked some crucial detail prevented her from getting on with her job. What she really wanted was to take all the files upstairs and examine every page at her leisure. But people would notice if she started lugging stacks of old folders up and down the stairs and someone was bound to alert her boss that Officer Nína, that whinging telltale, had finally lost the plot.

She had sneaked this one file into a cardboard box of video tapes that were probably recordings of old interviews. The box had been sitting on a shelf at the back of the storeroom, covered in a thick layer of dust, and its bottom was so weak that Nína was afraid it wouldn’t survive the journey upstairs. For all she knew it might contain something worth copying. The problem would be to track down a VHS player in the building, but, if she could, it would make a nice break from the basement to sit and watch the tapes. Not that she expected their contents to be particularly uplifting. Any material the police thought worth recording was bound to make for depressing viewing.

Nína reached for her mobile phone that had been lying on her desk since this morning. She hadn’t bothered to take it downstairs with her as she wasn’t expecting any calls, and it was good to have a respite from the outside world now and then. She had popped into the canteen at lunchtime, so her colleagues wouldn’t start wondering where she was, but the moment she walked in and encountered their silent stares, she realised what a foolish thought this had been. She had toyed with her food, sitting alone for fear that people would get up and leave if she tried to join them. Maybe she was being paranoid, but she didn’t dare put it to the test.

Her stomach rumbled and she wished she had eaten more; she couldn’t expect anything better at the hospital – a sandwich from the vending machine, with yellowing mayonnaise, washed down with lukewarm coffee.

The scratched screen showed three missed calls. One was from her sister, another from a number she didn’t recognise, and the third from the hospital. She knew the number of Thröstur’s ward by now and she felt her heart begin to pound. It was rare for her to receive calls from the hospital. When her husband had first been admitted, she had rung them at hourly intervals, but now she had little telephone contact. Gradually it had sunk in that there was unlikely to be any change, so she made do with slinking in and out of the ward, unseen. Thröstur’s condition was stable, as if his body had paused on a ledge on its way over a cliff and probably wouldn’t stir from there of its own accord.

For the past two weeks the staff had been dropping hints that it was time to make a decision. At first they had been subtle but when they realised she wasn’t going to take the bait, they became more direct. Now would be a good time to switch off the machines that were keeping Thröstur alive, if you could call it alive. The phone call was almost certainly about that. Perhaps they would give her an ultimatum: if she didn’t give in, they would be forced to cut the power supply to his room. For an instant she pictured herself dragging a small diesel generator to the ward but dismissed it immediately as madness.

As Nína was calling the hospital back the door opened and her boss stuck his head in. Hastily, she hung up. The very last thing she wanted was for someone to overhear the conversation. Police officers weren’t supposed to cry at work.

‘How’s it going?’ Örvar left the door open as if to ensure he could make a quick getaway. He had less than a year left until retirement and lately it had seemed to Nína that he was ageing with every passing month. It was rumoured that he had been diagnosed with cancer and, if his gaunt frame was anything to go by, he probably wouldn’t be much of a burden on the pension fund. His black uniform hung off him, as if it had been purchased from a fancy-dress shop.

‘Fine. Sort of. There are an awful lot of files.’ Nína hoped he hadn’t been downstairs to check up on her. The nearly empty bin bag outside the storeroom, and the flat cardboard boxes that had yet to be assembled told their own story. ‘But it’s slowly coming along.’

‘No one expected you to finish it in your coffee break.’ Örvar’s face registered a twinge of pain as he sat down. ‘Just remember, Rome wasn’t built in a day.’

Nína suppressed a grimace. She couldn’t stand that kind of platitude. She gave the cardboard box a light kick. ‘I found a load of old tapes. Do you know if there’s a video player in the building? It may be worth saving some of the material. I don’t like to chuck it away without going through the recordings.’

Örvar bent forwards slightly to see the box. It was plain he thought Nína’s job was of no importance but didn’t want her to realise. He put on a thoughtful expression that didn’t suit him. ‘They’re almost certainly recordings of interviews. I remember we experimented with taping them all when video machines first came in. Luckily, that didn’t last long or the basement would be overflowing. But talk to the technical manager. He’s bound to have an old VHS player somewhere in his storeroom.’ Örvar straightened up, surveying her office with an embarrassed air, as if ashamed of the conditions she was expected to work in. ‘I’ve been meaning to drop by and see you.’

‘Really? Any particular reason?’ This was disingenuous of her. They both knew perfectly well that Nína’s situation was unresolved, and there was no point pretending otherwise. ‘Sorry, I don’t know why I said that. I’m perfectly aware what you want to discuss.’

Örvar nodded, looking almost comically relieved not to have to beat about the bush. ‘There are a couple of reasons, actually. One is to check whether you’ve by any chance changed your mind about the complaint – in light of your circumstances.’

‘Circumstances?’ Nína felt her face tightening into a mask of anger.

‘You know what I mean. But if you want me to put it more bluntly, I simply mean that you’ve got enough on your plate at the moment without having to cope with any extra stress.’ Örvar heaved such a deep breath you’d have thought he wanted to suck all the oxygen out of the room. ‘Anyway, I don’t mean to pry into your personal affairs. We all need space to deal with our problems in peace. And the other reason was that I just wanted to check how you are and whether you’d like to take some time off. There’s no shame in it, you know.’

Nína looked away from his dark eyes, which were so deep-set they almost disappeared into his head. Nothing would delight her colleagues, Örvar included, more than her absence from the station. She smiled through her rage, realising she must look half demented. ‘Thank you but I don’t need a holiday. Things are getting better – I gather I’m over the worst part. My complaint won’t put me under any extra strain, if that’s what you’re worried about,’ she lied with a straight face. The thought of not being able to take refuge in work was unbearable. What was she supposed to do all day? Sit beside Thröstur twenty-four/seven until she became rooted to the chair?

‘Do you have someone to – er – talk to? A counsellor or …?’

‘Yes.’ It was easy to carry on lying once you had begun.

‘Here at work?’

‘No. At the hospital.’ Nína knew Örvar would be able to check up to see if she had used the counselling service at the police station. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather not discuss it. But you can rest assured that I’m getting there. I’ll soon be up to putting all my energy into pursuing the complaint.’

Örvar swallowed, his Adam’s apple rising and falling in his sinewy throat. ‘Right. Good.’ Doubtless there were few things less consistent with his definition of ‘good’ than the idea of Nína tearing like a hurricane through the police station hierarchy in pursuit of justice. ‘Leaving aside the complaint, naturally we’re all looking forward to having you back on top form.’ About as much as they looked forward to their flu jabs in October. ‘We could do with more officers right now.’ This was a feeble attempt to cheer her up and convince her that she was still part of the team. But Nína was aware that she had never been a particularly effective officer and doubted it would make any difference to the station whether she was back to her usual self or not.

She had been full of enthusiasm when she joined the police but her zeal had soon faded when it came home to her how little she could really achieve. The drunks carried on drinking; the thugs carried on beating people up. It didn’t help that her colleagues had reservations about her because she was a woman and, to make matters worse, married to a journalist. Every time sensitive information was leaked to the press she sensed that suspicion fell on her, whether Thröstur worked for the media outlet in question or not.

‘You know you have all my sympathy, Nína, and I’m not the only person here at the station who feels for you – we just find it hard to put it into words. But our thoughts are with you. In spite of this business of the complaint.’

She fought back a contemptuous smile. It would have been more natural for them to gloat over her misfortune, given that she had dared to shop one of the team. How very noble of them not to. ‘I don’t know what to say. I’m touched.’ Nína adjusted her features to disguise the sarcasm. ‘If you get a chance, do please pass on my gratitude to them for their thoughtfulness. I can’t tell you how relieved I am not to have to spend my whole time fending off expressions of sympathy. That would be unbearable.’ Better to let them think she appreciated their indifference and misinterpreted it as kindness.

Örvar’s eyes had been lowered to the desk during this speech and had fallen on the folder. Nína cursed herself for not having shoved it in a drawer or at least turned it to face her. Putting his head on one side, he read the spine.

Silence.

Nína tried to look unconcerned.

‘Is this from the basement?’

‘Yes. I brought it upstairs just now without thinking. I’ll take it back down tomorrow morning.’

Örvar nodded slowly. Nína hoped this blunder wouldn’t keep him here any longer. When it had sunk in that she intended to stick to her guns and wasn’t shattered enough to agree to go on leave, he prepared to stand up. But the folder containing the old suicide reports was obviously a sign that she was still obsessing over what had happened to Thröstur. ‘Have you been through it?’ he asked.

Nína wondered if she should carry on embroidering the truth but couldn’t be bothered. ‘Yes.’

‘And?’ Örvar drew the file towards him and Nína pushed it over, as if she didn’t think it mattered. He leafed through it, pausing sometimes but saying nothing. Then his face darkened, he snapped the folder shut and slid it back across the desk. He’d got a paper cut and sucked and shook his finger. ‘You won’t find the explanation for what happened to your husband in other people’s lives.’

Nína contemplated the folder. ‘As a matter of fact, I came across a case in which Thröstur was interviewed as a witness. When he was a child.’ She tried to swallow but her throat was suddenly dry. ‘For all I know it may be connected.’ She had no need to elaborate.

‘It wouldn’t be the first time something like that has happened.’ Örvar frowned, his eyes seeming to sink even deeper into his head. ‘Was it a sexual abuse case? They can leave scars that never heal.’

‘I don’t know what sort of case it was. I only found one page. But it was in this folder, so I assume it related to a suicide.’ Nína met Örvar’s gaze, much as she’d have preferred not to. He dropped his eyes first, running a hand through his thin white hair.

‘That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Reports are always ending up in the wrong folders.’

‘But …’ Nína wanted to object but couldn’t find the words. Of course he was right; many of the things that disrupted people’s lives turned out to be nothing but coincidence.

‘You shouldn’t be going through old suicide reports. It’s not healthy for you to obsess over them when you’re going through this tragedy with your husband.’

‘I just happened to spot his name when I was leafing through. I wasn’t intending to spend any more time looking at this file than any of the others down there.’

‘No, maybe not.’ Örvar looked unconvinced. ‘But I recommend you don’t give it any more thought now. You can look into it later when you’re feeling better. Besides, we don’t pay you to spend your time rooting around among cold cases. As an employee of the police you’re supposed to be devoting your time to the tasks assigned to you. And if you can’t do your job, you should take sick leave. It would be better for everybody.’ So sick leave was back on the agenda. Nína wondered if others like him were waiting outside in the corridor, eager for news that she was going to take a holiday.

‘I’m doing the job I’m supposed to be doing.’ This wasn’t entirely true but she had lost her temper.

‘And you should remember another thing, Nína.’ Örvar rose to his feet, his knuckles whitening on the arms of his chair and the corners of his mouth turning down, though he tried to hide the fact. He didn’t finish the sentence until he was standing up, then looked not at her but at the folder. ‘People who choose to die that way don’t give much thought to those they leave behind. Don’t let your husband’s decision ruin your life. That can easily happen if you’re not careful.’

Could her sister Berglind have been talking to Örvar? The advice was almost identical to what she had said yesterday evening. Mind you, it was a conventional sentiment in the circumstances: chin up.

Nína watched Örvar walk out into the corridor. He didn’t say goodbye or add any further comments on the subject. By the time it occurred to her that his eyes had been resting on the file when he referred to people whose lives had been destroyed, it was too late to ask if he had anyone specific in mind. Had he come across a case he remembered, while he was leafing through? An instance where the surviving spouse had been crushed by grief? If so, it could hardly have been the case Thröstur was concerned with as there was next to no information in the scrap that remained of the report. The brief paragraph would hardly have been sufficient to pierce the fog of thirty years of amnesia. Then there was his comment about selfishness, which showed that he had no understanding of depression. But he was unlikely to have been referring specifically to Thröstur as he barely knew him and so had no basis on which to judge Thröstur’s motives or lack of consideration. Nína had deliberately avoided work parties where partners were invited along, so Örvar had never seen them together at police dinner dances or other gatherings. She had been afraid her colleagues might start having a go at Thröstur once they’d downed a few drinks. An investigative journalist, known for sparing no one, would have been as welcome at a police annual bash as a Muslim cleric at a feminist convention. All Örvar knew about Thröstur was that he was a journalist. And however much her boss might dislike reporters, she doubted he regarded them as totally devoid of feeling. No, he couldn’t possibly have been referring to Thröstur.