Thóra turned away from the computer and the stack of bills. Matthew lay on a little sofa at the other end of the office, his feet hanging over one of the arms and a laptop on his knees, doubtless reading the news from home. After the weekend, it had crossed Thóra’s mind that perhaps they should shut themselves in the office in order to have a little time to themselves, but looking at how Matthew’s frame filled the sofa, the idea seemed suddenly less feasible. Besides, the lock on the door would never keep Bella out if she were in the mood to disturb them.
Thóra crumpled an empty, torn envelope into a ball and threw it gently at Matthew to draw his attention away from his computer. ‘How would you like to pop up to the Ministry of Justice with me to check whether the father of the autistic boy can be persuaded to tell me something? We can stop off at a café and have a restorative drink.’
Matthew caught the ball and looked as though he was considering tossing it back, but eventually decided against it. ‘Coffee sounds wonderful. That swill you serve in the lobby is completely undrinkable.’ Matthew grimaced at the cup resting on the coffee table in front of him. It had stopped steaming soon after the first sip. ‘If I didn’t know any better I might have thought you’d used the grounds twice.’ He stood up. ‘Not that that would be completely unheard of in this office.’ He tossed the crumpled paper at Thóra, hitting her on top of her head. ‘One-all.’
The ministry was located on Skuggasund Street – from skuggi, ‘shadow’ – and it was impossible not to wonder how the street had got its name. The area didn’t look particularly dark or shadowy, and besides, the street had been given the name before the buildings were put up. Maybe the namer had had the foresight to realize that the buildings on both sides of the street would shed prominent shadows across the site where the ministry stood. Or perhaps the name had been given because the street had been condemned to stand in the eternal shadow of the National Theatre. In any case, as soon as they entered the ministry’s interior, things brightened up, but as they moved further into the building, a peculiar sensation descended on Thóra again; now it felt as if they’d gone back many decades in time, since the building’s architecture bore such strong witness to the middle of the previous century. However, this feeling vanished when they were shown into the office corridor after the boy’s father had told the receptionist that he would see them. In the corridor, they could have been standing in absolutely any contemporary building; they walked past one office after another, all kitted out in the same style: a desk with a computer and a clunky telephone, the walls lined with stuffed IKEA bookshelves. When they reached the right office they expected it to be like all the others, but they were wrong; this one was much larger and more luxurious.
‘Please come in.’ Einvarður Tryggvason rose from his massive office chair and walked over to them. His voice was gentle and deep, his handshake firm and his hands soft. His whole appearance was spotless, in fact: his dark, elegant suit appeared to shine and it was as if he’d just got up from the barber’s chair after a haircut and a close shave. His smile revealed white teeth that weren’t completely straight, but which gave him a character that defined the difference between a good-looking ‘real’ person and a model. Strange as it might have seemed, it was precisely this imperfection that made him appear perfect. It struck Thóra how well this man would fit into politics and she wondered why he’d chosen the bureaucratic system rather than parliament or a ministerial position.
‘I was extremely glad when they told me you wanted to see me,’ Tryggvason continued, ‘because I’d heard that Jakob’s case was being reinvestigated, and your name was mentioned in connection with that.’ He smiled politely at Matthew. ‘But I’ve heard nothing about you.’
Thóra introduced Matthew by saying that he assisted her with various assignments and was bound to the same confidence as she was. She then added that in both their cases, however, that confidence came with the caveat that if anything came to light demonstrating or supporting Jakob’s innocence, it would be used in the report she’d submit with her petition to reopen the case. The man’s expression didn’t change and he said he had no objections to that; everyone surely wanted the case to be resolved and for the right man to bear the responsibility. Thóra did notice a shadow cross his smooth face when he spoke of the criminal and realized that behind the formal, polished courtesy lay an individual who, naturally, felt anger, happiness, sorrow and all the other emotions that shape a personality. ‘Have a seat and I shall answer whatever I can, as long as the questions are within the bounds of propriety.’ He followed this with yet another Colgate smile, but his eyes were no longer twinkling. ‘I’ve requested coffee for us, but if you would rather have tea I can fix that.’
It was Monday morning, so it had to be coffee. Einvarður sat carefully, making sure not to sit on his jacket, and gave the knot of his tie a slight tug, as if to assure himself that it was still centred and tightly secured. ‘Before we begin I’d like to ask you one thing that is understandably of great import-ance to me: do you think there’s a real chance that Jakob has been wrongfully detained?’ Einvarður stared into Thóra’s eyes as if he had a lie detector in his own, dark blue ones.
‘Yes, I do.’ Thóra didn’t need to pretend. The more she considered it, the less likely it seemed that poor, simple Jakob had been responsible. ‘I have significant doubts about the statements he made during his interrogations and in court, and I also feel that he’s very unlikely to have been able to conceive of and carry out such a complicated deed.’
‘It really wasn’t that complicated, surely?’ Einvarður’s expression was suddenly fierce. ‘You just pour out some petrol and light it.’
‘It required a bit more than that, if you think about it: you’d have to get hold of the petrol and leave all the fire doors open, and I would seriously question whether Jakob even knows what a fire door is. If his version of events is viewed with his disability in mind, my hunch is that he saw the perpetrator, but without being able to identify who it was. And there’s another detail that raises questions, which is too complicated to go into here. But in a nutshell, I feel that he doesn’t have the mental ability to have pulled this off without succumbing to the fire himself.’
Einvarður had listened to Thóra attentively without giving any visible indication of what he thought of her explanations. ‘The police, the prosecution and two different courts disagree with you.’
‘I’m aware of that,’ Thóra replied without any irony or irritation. She hadn’t expected the man to have anything but doubts about her investigation and was actually extremely surprised that he’d even agreed to meet her and Matthew. ‘That doesn’t change the fact that this is my conclusion after studying the case, and that’s why I have decided to look into more than just the files that form the basis of those parties’ opinion. This visit is part of that.’
‘Who do you believe did start the fire, if it wasn’t Jakob?’ The man’s voice was devoid of any feeling as he said these words, which somehow gave them more weight than if they’d been spoken in anger.