The psychologist Médecins Sans Frontières had sent her to after she returned from Liberia had told her that she needed to reinvest in life all over again. She had to believe that she would recover. For a few weeks she had thought it over, but then had pushed the idea away as she pounced with relief on the next assignment. That was overseeing the movement of two thousand people and their refugee camp from Syria, across the frontier into Jordan.

Úrsúla pushed away her coffee cup. When Freyja appeared she would ask her to fetch breakfast. She wouldn’t be pleased, and on top of that she would have to put up with the presence of the police officer who was there to stand guard outside Úrsúla’s office all day long. She heard sounds out in the hallway, so it seemed the ministry was coming to life. She sighed deeply, stretched as if she had just woken up and clicked on the online news to see what the day’s headlines were. Aside from the conspiracy theories that suggested she was engaged in some Monte Cristo-style vendetta against the wretched homeless man who had murdered her father, most of the newspapers led with the rape charge against the Selfoss police officer. As she scrolled through the comments she could see people beside themselves with anger that the charges had been dropped, alongside the sincere delight of others who equated the investigation being halted with the accused man being innocent. Úrsúla suppressed the longing to add a furious lecture of her own to the comments, or to call Thorbjörn and ask him to underline the words ‘investigation halted due to technical mishandling of evidence’ in his paper. She felt a second wave of guilt engulf her as she thought of the mother of the young woman and the promise she had made on her very first day in office. She had promised to see justice done. There was no shred of justice in this outcome: the case would not even be investigated. 210

There was a knock at the door and Óðinn came in.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘we don’t need to concern ourselves any longer with that rape charge.’

He seemed cheerful, and despite Úrsúla understanding perfectly well that his role was to protect both her and the ministry from anything potentially uncomfortable, this wasn’t how she had imagined that a department under her charge would operate.

‘Tell me the truth, my dear Óðinn,’ she said. ‘Did you bring any pressure to bear to make sure the charges would be dropped?’

Óðinn smiled awkwardly and cleared his throat, as if buying himself time as he thought through what he could reply. His bulky body seemed to shrink, and he appeared to stoop, as if trying to make as little as he could of his own presence. He drew a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and dabbed at his upper lip.

‘I do my job,’ he said slowly, taking a seat in the chair opposite her.