Gunnar finished putting together the week’s security report relating to Úrsúla. There was plenty that needed to be recorded in detail now that they had both spent a week in a new job. First there had been the notes from the homeless man, Pétur Pétursson; it had been necessary to take measures to reduce the likelihood of these and similar messages getting through the front door and being found by the minister’s family. On Friday, cameras had been installed at her home and a police patrol now drove past every hour. This was a temporary measure, just while Pétur was still at large with his cryptic notes. Gunnar checked the photographs the police had sent of other people who’d sent threatening messages to the minister. There had been three this week: one had come through doctors at a psychiatric ward, from a patient who had an obsession with Úrsúla; another was a troublemaker who repeatedly called the ministry; and the third had made some colourful online comments. Gunnar inspected the faces, closed his eyes and tried to visualise them, implanting them in his memory. Two of these reports included car registrations, so Gunnar wrote both of them on his wrist, using an indelible marker that wouldn’t easily be washed off.

Then there was Fossi’s hate mail. Gunnar opened a new message, attached a copy of the entire conversation with Fossi to it, along with news of the rape case in Selfoss, and addressed it to Boris at the commissioner’s office.

Take a look at the dates of the news reports about this case being examined by the ministry and compare them to when the first 154message was received. Coincidence? I don’t think so. Fossi is more than likely from Selfoss. Maybe it’s worth getting a warrant to check the computer owned by that policeman who was charged?

Maybe it was just that simple, that the redneck cop who had raped the babysitter was sending death threats to the minister in the hope that she’d call off the investigation. It was a childish approach and unlikely to bear fruit, but maybe the wretched man was letting off steam over the rape furore.

He reached for the kale smoothie he had made in the blender. It tasted foul, but he forced it down as today was a fasting day. He had a day like this every once in a while, sticking to liquidised vegetables and water to clean his body and give him a chance to renew himself. Fasting always left him feeling good. The evenings were difficult, when he longed for food, and right now he’d have been glad to exchange this green gloop for something solid, but tomorrow he would wake up cheerful and refreshed, grateful that he had faith in himself. This was a mental exercise as much as a physical one. Just as Íris was his training ground in keeping his temper, fasting was his way of demonstrating his own strength of will: he could deny himself what his body craved; he was in control of his own body; he was his own master.