27

The drill’s battery was flat, so Gunnar finished the job with a manual screwdriver borrowed from Jón, or Nonni, as the minister 70referred to her husband. That closed up their letterbox, so the minister’s husband would have to do without the morning free-sheets. The note that had waited on the mat for the minister when she arrived home had clearly been written by some oddball; it was in an angular script with ugly letters in all different sizes, surrounded by marks and blotches. Gunnar could understand why she had been shaken by the message:

Remember, Death is the Devil’s Handmaiden.

Gunnar had taken the note from Úrsúla’s hand and put it in an envelope. It would be passed to the commissioner’s department, as they collected all the threats received by ministers for analysis, to decide how each minister’s security should be managed. Sometimes it was the same idiots who made a habit of pestering government figures, while there were others who had a particular axe to grind and were relentless in their efforts.

‘I’ll go to the post office tomorrow and arrange for your mail to be kept there. I’ll collect it two or three times a week and bring it to you,’ Gunnar said.

The minister’s husband stared at him in astonishment.

‘Can you do the grocery shopping for us as well?’ he asked, and Gunnar laughed.

‘No problem,’ he replied, and shook his head at the open beer bottle the minister’s husband made to hand him. ‘I don’t drink.’

It was one of the things he had weaned himself off. He didn’t like to be a prisoner to desire, even if it was just the innocent fancy for a cold one at the end of the working day. His personal development aim was to be rid of all worldly ties; to be a slave to nothing, neither the buzz of a drug nor his own pride. The phone ringing excused him from explaining all this to the minister’s husband. Normally a questioning look appeared on people’s faces if you turned down a drink, almost as if it was admission that there was something wrong with you. Most people asked if he had dried out in rehab, and shook their heads, unable to grasp that he had given up alcohol without having to. 71

‘Hello?’

Boris, his police contact, was on the line. Gunnar had been waiting for the call and went out onto the steps, keeping close to the wall where the porch around the door sheltered him from the worst of the snow; it had now eased off, merely falling from above instead of being driven sideways by the storm.

‘You were right,’ he said. ‘The old guy’s been let out. They let him go around lunchtime, so it could well be him who dropped the note in her letterbox.’

‘I guessed as much,’ Gunnar replied. ‘I’ve sealed up the letterbox now, so we’ll see what happens.’

‘The police reckon the old guy was just looking for somewhere to shelter from the weather when he got in her car. He seems to be a couple of sandwiches short of a picnic, so they don’t see much point in charging him or taking out an injunction. If he keeps on pestering her, we’ll just have to talk him out of it.’