‘How do you and Ingimar know each other?’ he asked. Gunnar wasn’t sure if this was some kind of interrogation, and his answer would decide whether he would be allowed in or not, but the warder looked as if he was just chatting.

‘Just old friends,’ he muttered.

The warder nodded.

‘At sea together?’

‘Hmm.’ Gunnar nodded as he hummed. It wasn’t exactly a lie. At least, not as much of a lie as an outright ‘yes’ would have been.

The warder smiled amiably and opened a door to a long corridor, set with many doors, and told Gunnar to go to room three and to ring the bell if he needed anything.

Gunnar gingerly opened the door and slowly stepped into the little room. There was a bench at the back, and a chair by a glass partition. Gunnar sat and waited. On the other side of the glass was a tiny room, so small that it was hardly more than a cell. The only thing in there was a chair. He unfolded Úrsúla’s list and read through it again, hoping to imprint some of the questions on his memory, but he had hardly begun before the door of the tiny room opened. Ingimar Magnússon walked in and sat in the chair.

‘Hello,’ he said, sounding rather cheerful, almost friendly. His voice was low and slightly hoarse, and Gunnar was surprised at how harmless he seemed, considering the man was a bomber. He had expected some indication of inner madness, something in his eyes or a fury of some kind – an underlying reason why someone would set off a bomb in a public place. On the contrary, this Ingimar came across as relaxed. He was grey, with hair cut short, no more than a trace of stubble to be seen, and somehow it seemed odd that he was dressed in a carefully pressed shirt in prison. Gunnar had imagined that everyone in prison had to wear a track suit.

‘I’m a driver—’ Gunnar began.

Ingimar interrupted him. ‘I know who you are,’ he said. ‘We don’t need to mention that again.’ 172

He lifted a finger and circled it in the air, indicating that they were being watched, maybe being listened to as well. Gunnar felt the sweat break out everywhere. How was he supposed to ask questions without giving away who he was? He hadn’t expected that their conversation would be monitored.

‘I have some questions,’ he said, holding up Úrsúla’s note, and Ingimar nodded.

‘Hold the paper up to the glass,’ he said to Gunnar’s relief.

Gunnar decided not to challenge Ingimar’s suspicions. He thought it was unlikely that anyone would listen in to prisoners’ conversations. But that might not apply to Ingimar. Maybe the police were still keeping tabs on him. After all, this man was Iceland’s only terrorist. Gunnar held the paper flat against the glass, and Ingimar peered at it. He squinted slightly, as if he wasn’t able to see clearly, or it could be because Úrsúla’s handwriting was not particularly clear.