Halfway down the stairs, he caught up with her. “Gunnhildur. A question.”
“Go ahead.”
“What do you make of Hallur?”
“He’s in no state mentally to face a trial. The doctors don’t even want us asking him questions. I had to bully them to get five minutes.”
Ívar Laxdal nodded pensively. “But you’re sure he’s the perpetrator?”
“As sure as I can be.”
At the door, Gunna paused and zipped up her anorak in spite of the spring sunshine.
“The guy bugs me,” she admitted.
“Why’s that?”
“The doctor said he would expect to see a significant level of recovery in time, although not as much or as rapidly as he would with a younger casualty. I can’t help feeling Hallur’s not as impaired as he lets on.”
“You think he’s faking?”
“The man’s a politician, so lying’s second nature to him, but he’s going to be under supervision and the moment he slips up I’ll be on him like a ton of bricks. If it’s an act, he’s going to spend the rest of his life playing that part, so I suppose we can look on the bright side.”
“Which is what?”
“The man has a choice, assuming it is an act. Either he can snap out of it and face the music, or else he can pretend to be mentally impaired. Not much of a life.”
“Better than prison, though,” Ívar Laxdal said.
“I’m not so sure. I suppose he’ll be released eventually into Helena Rós’ care, and considering how fond she is of her husband, I think prison would be the more pleasant option.”
“Not as good as prison, but close, you mean?”
“As good as a life sentence,” she said, letting the door close behind her. “See you tomorrow.”