‘I see.’ The social worker clicked the mouse a few times and squinted at the screen. ‘You’re paying maintenance for three children?’

‘Yes. I have three children.’

‘I see. And I assume you contribute to other related expenses – dentistry fees, clothes, hobbies and suchlike?’

‘Yes,’ Grímur said. ‘As much as I can. I’m not able to do that much, being disabled.’

He carefully didn’t mention that the mother of his children had declined to accept any money from him, other than the legally required maintenance. The harder the social worker thought his burden was the better.127

‘That’s our largest cohort,’ the social worker said. ‘Low-income dads paying maintenance.’

Every social worker had the same message, as if it was mandatory for them to inform any prospective recipient of financial assistance that they were just one of a great many in the same position. Maybe it was supposed to be encouraging, but it got on Grímur’s nerves. He exhaled slowly through his nose as he tried not to show anything. It wasn’t a good idea to show too much emotion, to appear ungrateful or truculent, not when you were relying on the mercy of others.

‘You’re in social housing, aren’t you? A three-room apartment it says here.’

The mouse clicked a couple of times as the social worker filled in the online form.

‘Yes, that’s right.’

Grímur had no intention of informing the social worker that this three-room apartment was in fact much larger than he needed. Although he had three children, they never came to him, and a small studio flat would have been quite enough. It was none of the social worker’s business that he had been banned from seeing his children.

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The lad behind the counter at the computer shop was friendly and helped her link a small webcam to her laptop and install software so she could record and then scroll through the recordings like a YouTube video on her phone. She told the boy that she wanted to install the camera in a bird box in the garden so she could keep an eye on the fledglings in the nest. This was the smallest camera available in the shop, but it was still awkwardly large. It wouldn’t be easily hidden in Hákon’s room.

All of the staff in the shop were boys, and it was obvious that she was getting the best service. An older woman stood and waited for far too long while the lad fussed over Áróra, and the others were too busy gawping at her to be of much use. All but the smallest one. He glared at her with the angry contempt that she only ever experienced from short men. There seemed to be something about her height and muscular physique that triggered such a reaction.