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eighteen months ago?’
    ‘I think so.’ Jósteinn flapped his hand dismissively, as if the timing of the fire were an irrelevance. ‘He’s only about twenty, and he’ll probably spend most of the rest of his life in here. People like him often have weak hearts, so he might die before he ever gets out.’
    They seemed to be getting off-course again. Thóra said, ‘I think I ought to tell you that I don’t believe there’s much to warrant reopening your case. You were caught red-handed, so to speak, and I can’t see how you could come up with a new explanation for what happened without very compelling new evidence. The verdict looks bulletproof, and I can’t see that there was anything untoward in how the case was tried.’
    Jósteinn laughed again, louder this time. An unpleasant waft of halitosis drifted over to Thóra and she screwed up her face involuntarily, as she did whenever a change in the wind gave her an unwelcome update on the state of decay of her neighbours’ compost heap. His hilarity was short-lived, and Jósteinn let his expression go blank once more. ‘Not
my
case! Jakob’s. The fire.’ He ran his hand through his greasy hair and then wiped it on the arm of the sofa. ‘He didn’t do it. I know more than you can ever imagine about what it takes to do bad things. Jakob didn’t set light to anyone or anything, and I want you to prove it.’ He suddenly leaned forward and grabbed Thóra’s hand, which had been resting on the coffee table, with both of his. His eyes met hers for a brief moment, but then moved back down to their joined hands. She could feel the sticky hair gel, like thick sweat, on his palms. ‘Sometimes a child who’s had his fingers burned still wants to play with fire …’

Chapter 2
Wednesday, 6 January 2010
    Her name was Grímheiður Þorbjarnardóttir, and if she had a nickname she chose not to reveal it to Thóra. She seemed on the defensive, and had firmly declined to take off her slightly tatty coat, sitting there still bundled in it despite the warmth of the office. She had, however, quickly removed her hand-knitted shawl, matching hat and lined leather gloves and placed them in her lap. The hat and shawl were a similar colour to the coat, but not close enough to match. Grímheiður had probably not been wearing the coat when she bought the wool, and the result was a little jarring. The woman’s swollen red fingers fiddled with the shawl’s fringe as her eyes searched for a place to put it.
    ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to hang up your coat for you?’ Thóra held out her hand hopefully. It was one of those winter days when the cold north wind fights the sun for control and neither appears to be winning. As long as the battle was raging Thóra could not open the windows; the winds were hitting the building square-on, and the slightest chink in its armour would immediately turn her little office into a walk-in fridge. Keeping them closed was only marginally better, because the merciless sun made a furnace of it. Over the years Thóra and Bragi, her business partner, had somehow never got round to buying curtains, which made it nigh-on impossible to be in the office on cold, sunny days like this one.
    ‘No.’ Grímheiður’s reply was curt, bordering on rude. She appeared to realize this, because her cheeks, already red from the heat, darkened even further. ‘I mean, no thanks. It’s okay.’
    Thóra nodded, let her outstretched hand drop and decided to get down to business. ‘As I mentioned on the phone, I’ve been asked to look into your son’s case, on the grounds that he’s been wrongfully imprisoned.’ She paused to allow Grímheiður to respond, but the woman neither spoke nor reacted. ‘Since you are your son’s legal guardian, I don’t wish to accept this case without your consent. Of course I could take it on without consulting anyone, but I’m unwilling to do so without the full cooperation of you and your son. I will also speak to the