Ashes To Dust

Chapter Seventeen

The booklet about rape was certainly informative, but it did not hold Thóra’s interest for long. There was no other reading material in sight, and after rearranging everything in her handbag there was nothing else for Thóra to do. She was sitting with her legs crossed in an uncomfortable chair in an empty hallway in the old City Hospital, and had started to swing her feet to and fro in boredom. She couldn’t read the booklet a third time. Hannes had arranged for her to meet a nurse who had known Alda, but the problem was that the woman wasn’t certain when she could get a break and had suggested that Thóra come and take her chances.

Thóra was about to give up when she heard footsteps approaching. A middle-aged woman in a white gown and matching trousers came around the corner. She held a stack of papers tightly to her chest. The woman slowed down as she approached Thóra.

Are you Thóra Gudmundsdóttir? I’m Bjargey. Sorry to make you wait,‘ she said, extending her hand. She wore no rings and her nails were clipped tidily short. ’I was in a meeting that I thought would never end.‘ She pointed with her chin towards the door next to Thóra. ’We can sit down in there. It’s in a terrible mess but at least it’s quiet.‘

Thóra had certainly had no shortage of quiet in the last forty minutes, but she smiled and stood up.‘Fine,’ she replied. ‘I won’t take too much of your time.’

They walked into a little office and the nurse turned on the light with her elbow. ‘It’s my understanding that you worked with Alda Thórgeirsdóttir and might be able to help me,’ said Thóra after they’d sat down.

‘Yes, I can try,’ replied the woman calmly. ‘There are of course limits to what I’m allowed to talk about, but since I don’t entirely know what this is regarding, we’ll just have to see whether I can help you or not. I should probably point out that I’m meeting you as a favour to Hannes. We work together a lot.’

‘I fully understand, and I’m very grateful to both of you,’ replied Thóra. ‘I’m not fishing for information about patients or anything else here in the hospital, but I’m looking for someone with whom Alda might possibly have discussed personal things.’ She levelled her gaze at the woman. ‘Alda left behind secrets that can’t be bottled up any longer. My hope is that she trusted someone with them, possibly a colleague of hers.’

‘That’s a good question,’said Bjargey. ‘Alda wasn’t really the chatty type, although she was always kind to everyone, staff as well as patients. But no one in particular comes to mind.’ She smiled weakly at Thóra. ‘Alda only worked here on weekends, but she also took extra evening shifts when she could. They always needed staff then, because most people want evenings and weekends off.’ Realizing she was still holding the stack of papers, Bjargey put them down on top of a similar pile on the desk before continuing: ‘Alda worked somewhere else during the day, she didn’t often share shifts with the same people, so she wasn’t part of a group like the rest of us.’

‘So she didn’t work with anyone in particular?’ asked Thóra. ‘With you, for example?’

Bjargey shook her head, causing the hair-clip keeping her fringe out of her eyes to come slightly loose. Her hair was cut short, but had grown out a bit. She lifted one hand to catch the clip, without missing a beat. ‘I do the scheduling and other admin for the nursing staff in the A &E, so I know it didn’t work like that. I worked with Alda sometimes, and liked her.’ Bjargey pushed her hair back up and refastened the clip. ‘To put it mildly, I was very surprised to hear that she had killed herself. I didn’t think she would do that, to tell you the truth.’

‘Hadn’t she stopped working here?’ said Thóra. ‘I understood from the head nurse I spoke to that Alda resigned shortly before she died.’

‘Yes, in fact she had,’ replied Bjargey, clearing her throat. ‘That matter is actually still being investigated, both here in the hospital and elsewhere, so I can’t say much about it.’

‘Do you mean that Alda didn’t leave on good terms?’ said Thóra. ‘That’s actually what I was led to understand in my conversation with the head nurse.’

‘Good and not so good,’ said Bjargey, enigmatically. ‘A particular situation came up that she and the department couldn’t see eye to eye on, which led to an agreement that she should take a leave of absence until the matter was resolved.’ She fiddled again with her hair-clip, although it now appeared to be securely fastened. ‘The decision was reached without acrimony. I’m convinced that Alda would have come back if things hadn’t gone as they did.’

‘I see,’ said Thóra.‘You said the investigation was ongoing both here in the hospital and elsewhere. Are you talking about a police investigation, or a liability claim?’ She tried to imagine crimes one could commit in a hospital.‘Did Alda make a mistake in her work? Did she steal drugs? Or…’

Bjargey had fallen silent and appeared to be wondering how best to reply, if at all. When she finally spoke again it was as if she were weighing every word carefully. ‘Alda wasn’t accused of a work error and she didn’t steal any drugs. The case wasn’t about anything like that. It’s debatable whether she behaved in an appropriate manner, but all the allegedly unusual conduct took place outside work hours, and therefore should not concern this institution. However, circumstances arose that made it wrong for her to continue working here during the investigation.’

Thóra could make no sense of this.‘I don’t understand what you’re getting at,’ she said, and smiled confidingly. ‘Is there any way you could explain more clearly?’

‘No,’ replied Bjargey, now without any hesitation. ‘This has nothing to do with Alda’s death and I can’t see how whatever you’re trying to dig up could relate to this in any way. So I would prefer not to discuss it any further.’ She avoided looking Thóra in the eye as she said this, but then directed her gaze at her and added: ‘I’m sorry. It’s a sensitive matter.’

Thóra realized it was useless to pursue this any further. ‘No problem,’ she said. ‘But to return to my errand – can you think of anyone Alda might have known well on her shifts, even if they weren’t actually friends?’

Bjargey gave Thóra a patronizing smile. ‘Have you visited the A &E in the evening or at the weekend?’

‘No, actually I haven’t, but I came here several times with my children when they were younger. As it happens, it was always in the daytime.’

‘There’s no comparison,’said Bjargey. ‘Alda worked all the difficult and tiresome shifts, when the A &E filled with puking pissheads who had injured themselves, or with their victims, who came here either beaten up or cut up. Try to imagine yourself working with such a demanding bunch. Drunkpeople are incredibly impatient and if a lot of them are made to wait, the situation in the waiting room can be borderline dangerous, not to mention how unpleasant it is to have to listen to all their arguing and complaining. So there’s really no time or space for chatting or making friends, I can tell you that much.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Thóra, understanding only too well how horrible a workplace full of drunk people could be. She had heard many stories from Hannes over the years, so what the woman said didn’t surprise her. ‘Alda must have been an extremely hard worker,’ she said. ‘Did she have any particular role, or did she do all the general nursing duties?’

Bjargey looked again at Thóra as if she were reluctant to answer. ‘Alda took on pretty much everything. She was an outstanding nurse and had a great deal of experience in closings because of her work at the plastic surgeons’. The doctors used to ask her to assist them in stitching and such like. She was also very compassionate and mature, which made her popular when there was a need to calm or comfort people in distress, or to fill out incident reports. She was particularly good with women,‘ said Bjargey, glancing at her watch. The message was clear: enough. She looked up again at Thóra.’Luckily, there are fewer women than men here on the weekends, but the gender ratio is balancing out more and more with every weekend that passes. Unfortunately.‘

Equality appeared to be making more strides in the underbelly of human activity than in the workplace, but Thóra refrained from saying so out loud. ‘Her sister told me she’d been involved with a few rape cases, and among other things had to testify in court because of it. Is that right?’

Bjargey hesitated for a moment, then replied: ‘As I said, Alda was here mostly in the evenings and on weekends, and those are precisely the times most violent crimes are committed. Since her manner was particularly kind and gentle, she often took part in the examination and care of girls and women who had been subjected to such appalling acts. She also participated a little in the follow-up care of the victims in the cases where trust had developed between them and her. It’s much better for the women not to have to discuss what happened with too many people.’

‘Of course,’ said Thóra.‘What form does this follow-up care take?’

‘It varies,’ said Bjargey.‘It isn’t always possible to arrange counselling sessions, since some of the women are psychologically unstable and have difficulty keeping appointments. Of course attempts are made to proceed with face-to-face therapy, but in worst-case scenarios the cases are discussed by telephone. Alda was one of the few who didn’t mind giving her telephone number to the women, and she often provided counselling and support by phone.’ Bjargey added quickly: ‘Naturally she was paid for it, and she wrote down every phone call and filled out the appropriate paperwork.’ Bjargey looked at her watch again. ‘Is that everything?’

‘Yes, just one more thing before you go,’ said Thóra. ‘Did Alda ever talk about the Westmann Islands or the volcanic eruption in 1973?’

Bjargey frowned thoughtfully. ‘No, not that I recall,’ she said. ‘I actually worked with her over the Bank Holiday weekend last year and the Islands came up in our conversation. She told me that she was from there, I recall.’ She quickly added:‘Unlike other weekends, the Bank Holiday is relatively quiet in Reykjavik, as you know. So we had a peaceful shift and got to speak to each other a bit.’

‘Do you remember what you talked about?’ asked Thóra cautiously. She was certain that the woman would end their conversation there and then if she started talking about a lopped-off head. ‘Did she mention at all why she never went back to her home town?’

Bjargey shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘She was simply reminiscing about what the festival was like for the residents of the island. Told me about the Islanders’ white tents, and things like that. I don’t remember her saying she rarely went there.’ Bjargey seemed to be on the verge of standing up when she suddenly stopped. ‘Actually,’ she said,‘I asked her whether she wanted to go, since I could easily have found another nurse to fill in for her.’

‘And?’ asked Thóra.‘What was her reply?’

Bjargey’s brow furrowed. ‘I remember I found her reply and the tone of her voice quite peculiar and very unlike her,’ she answered. ‘She said her heart wouldn’t let her go even if her head wanted her to.’ The nurse looked at Thóra.‘Then she laughed as if it were some hilarious joke.’ She stood up.‘I didn’t get what was so funny.’

Stefán found the song on the radio quite inappropriate, so he turned it off. He was sitting in his office, but should have been on his way home. One more day in which he didn’t make it home on time. He sighed deeply. Tomorrow it would happen again. His promotion within the police department demanded more of his time than he had originally expected, and it was starting to take its toll. His wife thought he was messing around in his office all evening, and was in a bad mood every night. Stefán was getting very tired of the situation at home, particularly the fact that it seemed to take at least an hour to get his wife going in bed on the occasions when he was in the mood. Tomorrow he would be home by five at the very latest. Definitely. Yet it seemed that whenever he entertained thoughts like this he would suddenly be hit with a flurry of urgent business. Where were all these people with all their burning issues between nine and five? Just earlier, for instance, the forensic pathologist had phoned at five sharp with the results from the second drug test on the dead nurse. He had asked Stefán to wait a little while he took care of something in the autopsy lab, but promised that he would phone again when he was back up in his office, where he had left the report. So Stefán had waited, but as experience advised he had phoned home and explained why he would be late. His explanation fell on deaf ears. He did not expect to be welcomed home joyfully tonight. It was six thirty when the doctor finally rang and Stefán noticed that the same cold tone had crept into his own voice as he had heard in his wife’s.

‘Keep it short,’ he said.‘It’s getting late.’

‘You don’t need to tell me that,’ replied the doctor, just as irritated. He paused and there was a brief riffling of papers on the other end of the line before he got straight to the point. ‘As you recall, the first test revealed nothing to indicate the cause of death so another test was performed. I don’t know how familiar you are with these cases, but the lab first tests only for the things that are specifically requested. Of course we asked them to test for the active ingredients in the tablets found on the bedside table, thenwe also had them look for several common substances, but with no result. However, for the current test we widened the scope. I also took several tissue samples and had them tested.’

‘Which tissues?’ asked Stefán. What he knew about forensic pathology could fit on the back of a stamp, but he didn’t want the doctor to realize this. He hoped it wasn’t too stupid a question.

‘I mainly took samples from the usual areas, but I was most eager to see the results from the woman’s tongue,’ replied the doctor, who Stefán could hear was still flipping through his papers. ‘I’ve never seen a corpse with a tongue like that and I suspected something unnatural was going on.’

‘And?’ asked Stefán impatiently. The tone of the doctor’s voice told him that he was going to say something important and he wanted to relish the moment. Stefán had no time for games.

‘And, I was right,’ said the doctor triumphantly. ‘This woman was murdered and the proof is in her tongue.’ The rustling stopped suddenly. ‘Very unusual. Very.’

Stefán took a deep breath and counted to three in his head. He couldn’t spare the time to count up to ten.‘Might you consider telling me about this amazing discovery, or do I have to guess?’ he asked calmly.

‘Guess?’ repeated the doctor, laughing. ‘You could never guess this, my friend. The woman’s tongue was injected with Botox and then shoved down her throat.’ When Stefán said nothing he added, ‘Tasteful, don’t you think?’

Stefán spoke up again: ‘Botox, isn’t that anti-wrinkle medicine?’He wasn’t particularly interested in plastic surgery, but his wife ruined all the television shows they watched with a running commentary about this or that actress having surely had Botox injections.‘Paralyzes the skin or something like that?’

‘It actually paralyzes the muscles,’ the doctor replied. ‘This drug, if you can call it a drug, is closely related to botulism, or food poisoning, but it can also cause lethal paralysis. Botox prevents messages being sent from the nerve ends of muscles to the upper part of the face, thus inhibiting it from contracting. The muscles in question are technically paralyzed, so they can’t form wrinkles in the skin. It only lasts for a few months at a time, so people need to repeat the injections if they want to maintain their youthful appearance. It’s an ingenious substance, although in this instance it has been used in a very unpleasant and unconventional manner.’

‘So her tongue was paralyzed?’asked Stefán, even though the answer was obvious. ‘It fell back into her throat and choked her, did it?’

‘That was the idea, I imagine,’said the doctor. ‘However, the problem is that it takes Botox several hours to work perfectly, even up to a few days, although muscle movement is restricted almost immediately. I think the murderer got tired of her struggling, so he shoved her tongue down her throat. She wasn’t able to pull it back up again because the tongue’s muscular actions were impeded. She had a faint bruise on her upper arm that could suggest she’d been held down.’ The doctor stopped. ‘I need to go over everything again in the light of this new information. It may well be that I’ll find other evidence that can be used to get a good picture of what happened.’

‘But you’re convinced that this was murder?’ Stefán asked. ‘She was a nurse, and could have done this to herself. People do strange things when they’re unbalanced.’

‘It’s out of the question that she could have done this herself,’ said the doctor stubbornly. ‘The marks on her arms don’t suggest that she intended this conclusion for herself. I have the feeling that someone wanted to make this look like suicide, but panicked and wasn’t careful enough. The drugs themselves might have been enough, but the vomit found in the room suggests that her stomach couldn’t bear them and tried to expel the poison.’

‘And then it just happened that the murderer had Botox in his pocket,’ said Stefán. His head was spinning.

‘As you say, she was a nurse and no stranger to plastic surgery, judging by her body,’ replied the doctor.‘Maybe she had the Botox at home, which the murderer used to his own advantage. Maybe the idea was to prevent the vomiting by blocking its way out.’

‘I don’t know whether you realize, but she worked at a plastic surgeon’s office,’ said Stefán. ‘Maybe she got the Botox from them, to keep in her first-aid kit if wrinkles suddenly appeared.’

‘Maybe,’ said the doctor thoughtfully. ‘I think it’s rather doubtful that she got her own supplies from them, though. This isn’t a substance to be used at home. On the other hand you never know, maybe the plastic surgeon she worked for dropped by?’ He snorted. ‘Now is not the right time, nor is it my job, to ponder who may have done this. My task is to uncover the cause of death, and I now think I know what that is. Premeditated murder by a most unorthodox form of choking. My report will be on your desk by noon tomorrow. I’d better get to work on it.’

Four murders plus one made five. Stefán said goodbye and sighed heavily. He wasn’t going home for quite some time, that was for sure. He switched on his radio but switched it off again when he heard not music, but loud and obnoxious adverts. When he had turned down the radio earlier, a song about sex had been playing. He’d been hoping that it was still on, because he had absolutely no hope of the real thing any time soon. He sighed again and dialled his home number.