“By pricking the back of his hand with needles.”
“Shut your mouth.”
Elinborg had talked to the man’s sister, who said she sometimes thought the boy’s upbringing rather harsh. She cited one example from a visit to their home. The boy was four at the time and complained that he was not feeling well, he cried a little and she thought he might even have the flu. Her brother lost his patience when the boy had been moaning at him for some while, and he picked him up and held him.
“Is anything wrong?” he asked the child brashly.
“No,” Addi said, his voice low and nervous, as if giving in.
“You shouldn’t be crying.”
“No,” the boy said.
“If there’s nothing wrong, then stop crying.”
“Yes.”
“So is there anything wrong?”
“No.”
“So everything’s OK.”
“Yes.”
“Good. You shouldn’t blubber about nothing.”
Elinborg recounted this story to the father, but his expression remained unchanged.
“My sister and I don’t get on,” he said. “I don’t remember that.”
“Did you assault your son with the result that he was admitted to hospital?” Elinborg asked.
The father looked at her.
Elinborg repeated the question.
“No,” he said. “I didn’t. Do you think any father would do that? He was beaten up at school.”
The boy was out of hospital. Child welfare had found a foster home for him and Elinborg went to see him when the interrogation was over. She sat down beside him and asked how he was doing. He hadn’t said a word to her since the first time they met, but now he looked at her as if he wanted to say something.
He cleared his throat, faltering.
“I miss my dad,” he said, choking back the sobs.
Erlendur was sitting at the breakfast table when he saw Sigurdur Oli come in followed by Henry Wapshott. Two detectives sat down at another table behind them. The British record collector was scruffier than before, his ruffled hair standing out in all directions and a look of suffering on his face, which expressed total humiliation and a lost battle with a hangover and imprisonment.
“What’s going on?” Erlendur asked Sigurdur Oli, and stood up. “Why did you bring him here? And why isn’t he done up?”
“Done up?”
“In handcuffs.”
“Does that look necessary to you?”
Erlendur looked at Wapshott.
“I couldn’t be bothered to wait for you,” Sigurdur Oli said. “We can only detain him until this evening, so you’ll have to make a decision on charges as soon as possible. And he wanted to meet you here. Refused to talk to me. Just wanted to talk to you. Like you were old friends. He hasn’t insisted on bail, hasn’t asked for legal aid or help from his embassy. We’ve told him he can contact the embassy but he just shakes his head.”
“Have you found out anything about him from Scotland Yard?” Erlendur said with a glance at Wapshott, who was standing behind Sigurdur Oli, his head hung low.
“I’ll explore that when you take him over,” said Sigurdur Oli, who had done nothing on the matter. “I’ll let you know what they’ve got on him, if anything.”
Sigurdur Oli said goodbye to Wapshott, stopped briefly with the two detectives, then left. Erlendur offered the British man a seat. Wapshott perched on a chair, looking down at the floor.
“I didn’t kill him,” he said in a low voice. “I could never have killed him. I’ve never been able to kill anything, not even flies. To say nothing of that wonderful choirboy.”
Erlendur looked at Wapshott.
“Are you talking about Gudlaugur?”
“Yes,” Wapshott said. “Of course.”
“He was a long way from being a choirboy,” Erlendur said. “Gudlaugur was almost fifty and played Santa Claus at Christmas parties.”
“You don’t understand,” Wapshott said.
“No, I don’t,” Erlendur said. “Maybe you can explain it to me.”
“I wasn’t at the hotel when he was attacked,” Wapshott said.
“Where were you?”
“I was looking for records.” Wapshott looked up and a pained smile passed across his face. “I was looking at the stuff you Icelanders throw away. Seeing what comes out of that recycling plant. They told me a dead person’s estate had come in. Including gramophone records for disposal.”
“Who?”
“Who what?”
“Told you about the dead person’s things?”
“The staff. I give them a tip if they let me know. They have my card. I’ve told you that. I go to the collectors” shops, meet other collectors and go to the markets. Kolaportid, isn’t that the name? I do what all collectors do, try to find something worth owning.”
“Was anyone with you at the time of the attack on Gudlaugur? Someone we can talk to?”
“No,” Wapshott said.
“But they must remember you at those places”
“Of course.”
“And did you find anything worth having? Any choirboys?”
“Nothing. I haven’t found anything on this trip.”
“Why were you running away from us?” Erlendur asked.
“I wanted to get home.”
“And you left all your stuff at the hotel?”
“Yes.”
Apart from a few of Gudlaugur’s records”
“Yes.”
“Why did you tell me you’d never been to Iceland before?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t want to attract unnecessary attention. The murder has nothing to do with me.”
“It’s very easy to prove the opposite. You must have known, when you were lying, that I’d find out. That I’d find out you’d been at this hotel before.”
“The murder is nothing to do with me.”
“But now you’ve convinced me it is something to do with you. You couldn’t have drawn more attention to yourself?
“I didn’t kill him.”
“What was your relationship with Gudlaugur?”
“I’ve told you that story and I wasn’t lying then. I became interested in his singing, in old records by him as a choirboy, and when I heard he was still alive I contacted him.”
“Why did you lie? You’ve been to Iceland before, you’ve stayed at this hotel before and you’ve definitely met Gudlaugur before.”
“It’s nothing to do with me. The murder. When I heard about it I was afraid you’d find out that I knew him. I got more paranoid by the minute and I had to apply amazing self-discipline not to make a run for it at once, which would have pointed the finger at me. I had to let a few days go by, but then I couldn’t stand it any longer and I had to get away. My nerves couldn’t take it any more. But I didn’t kill him.”
“How much did you know about Gudlaugur’s background?”
“Not much.”
“Isn’t the point about collecting records to dig up information about what you collect? Have you done that?”
“I don’t know much,” Wapshott said. “I know he lost his voice at a concert, only two recordings of his songs were released, he fell out with his father…”
“Wait a minute, how did you hear about how he died?”
“What do you mean?”
“The hotel guests weren’t told it was a murder, but an accident or heart attack. How did you find out he’d been murdered?”
“How did I find out? You told me.”
“Yes, I told you and you were very surprised, but now you say that when you heard about the murder you were afraid we would link you to him. In other words, it was before we met. Before we linked you to him.”
Wapshott stared at him. Erlendur could tell when people were stalling for time, and he let Wapshott have all the time he needed. The two detectives sat calmly at a suitable distance. Erlendur had been late for breakfast and there were few people in the dining hall. He caught a gl
impse of the big chef who had gone berserk when the saliva sample was supposed to be taken. Erlendur’s thoughts turned to Valgerdur. The biotechnician. What would she be doing? Sticking needles into children who were fighting back their tears or trying to kick her?
“I didn’t want to get involved in this,” Wapshott said.
“What are you hiding? Why don’t you want to talk to the British embassy? Why don’t you want a lawyer?”
“I heard people talking about it down here. Hotel guests. They were saying someone had been murdered. Some Americans. That’s how I heard. And I was worried that you would connect us and I’d end up in precisely the situation in which I now find myself. That’s why I fled. It’s as simple as that.”
Erlendur remembered the American Henry Bartlet and his wife. Cindy, she had told Sigurdur Oli with a smile.
“How much are Gudlaugur’s records worth?”
“What do you mean?”
“They must be worth a lot to make you come all the way up to the cold north here in the middle of winter to get hold of them. How much are they worth? One record. What does it cost?”
“If you want to sell it you auction it, even on E-bay, and there’s no telling how much it will fetch in the end.”
“But at a guess. What do you guess it would sell for?”
“I cant say.”
“Did you meet Gudlaugur before he died?”
Henry Wapshott hesitated.
“Yes,” he said at last.
“The note we found, 18.30, was that the time of your meeting?”
“That was the day before he was found dead. We sat down in his room and had a short meeting.”
“About what?”
“About his records.”
“What about his records?”
“I wanted to know, I’ve wanted to know for a long time, whether he had any more. Whether the handful I know about, in my own collection and others’, are the only copies in the world. For some reason he wouldn’t answer. I asked him first in a letter that I wrote him several years ago, and it was one of the first things I asked when I met him.”
“So, did he have any records for you?”
“He refused to say.”
“Did he know what his records were worth?”
“I gave him a fairly clear picture.”
“And how much are these records really worth?”
Wapshott did not reply immediately.
“When I met him the last time, he gave in,” he said. “He wanted to talk about his records. I…”
Wapshott hesitated again. He looked behind him and saw the two detectives who were guarding him.
“I gave him half a million.”
“Haifa million?”
“Krona. As a down payment or—”
“You told me we weren’t talking about huge sums”
Wapshott shrugged and Erlendur thought he detected a smile.
“So that’s another lie,” Erlendur said.
“Yes.”
“Down payment for what?”
“The records he owned. If he had any”
“And did you let him have the money the last time you met him without knowing if he had any records?”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“Then he was killed.”
“We didn’t find any money on him.”
“I don’t know anything about that. I gave him half a million the day before he died.”
Erlendur recalled asking Sigurdur Oli to check Gudlaugur’s bank account. He must remember to ask him what he had found out.
“Did you see the records in his room?”
“No.”
“Why should I believe that? You’ve lied about everything else. Why should I believe anything you say?”
Wapshott shrugged.
“So he had half a million on him when he was attacked?”
“I don’t know. All I know is that I gave him the money and then later he was killed.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about that money in the first place?”
“I wanted to be left alone,” Wapshott said. “I didn’t want you to think I’d killed him for the money”
“Did you?”
“No.”
They paused.
“Are you going to charge me?” Wapshott asked.
“I think you’re still hiding something,” Erlendur said. “I can hold you until the evening. Then we’ll see.”
“I could never have killed the choirboy. I worship him and still do. I’ve never heard such a beautiful voice from any boy.”
Erlendur looked at Henry Wapshott.
“Strange how alone you are in all this,” he said, before even realising it.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re so alone in the world.”
“I didn’t kill him,” Wapshott said. “I didn’t kill him.”
18
Wapshott left the hotel accompanied by the two policemen, while Erlendur found out that Osp, the girl who had discovered the body, was currently working on the fourth floor. He took the lift and when he arrived there he saw her loading a trolley with dirty laundry outside one of the rooms. She did not notice him until he walked up to her and said her name. She looked up and recognised him at once.
“Oh, is it you again?” she said indifferently.
She looked even more tired and depressed than when he had met her in the staff coffee room, and Erlendur thought to himself that Christmas was probably no season of joy in her life either. Before he knew it he had asked her.
“Does Christmas get you down?”
Instead of answering him she pushed the trolley to the next door, knocked and waited a moment before taking out her master key and opening the door. She called into the room in case someone was inside but had not heard her knocking, then went in and began cleaning, made the bed, picked up the towels from the bathroom floor, squirted cleaner on the mirror. Erlendur wandered into the room after her and watched her at work, and after a while she seemed to notice that he was still there with her.
“You mustn’t come into the room,” she said. “It’s private.”
“You do room 312 on the floor below,” Erlendur said. “A weird Brit was there. Henry Wapshott. Did you notice anything unusual in his room?”
She gave him a look of not quite following what he meant.
“Like a bloodstained knife, for example?” Erlendur said and tried to smile.
“No,” Osp said. She stopped to think. Then she asked: “What knife? Did he kill Santa?”
“I don’t quite remember how you put it the last time we spoke, but you said some of the guests grope you. I thought you were talking about sexual harassment. Was he one of them?”
“No, I only saw him once.”
“And was there nothing that—”
“He went ballistic,” she said. “When I went into the room.”
“Ballistic?”
“I disturbed him and he threw me out. I went to check what was going on and it turned out he’d made a special request at reception not to have his room tidied. No one told me anything. None of this bloody crew ever says a word to us. So I walked in on him and when he saw me he totally lost it. Went for me, the old sod. As if I have any say at this hotel. He should have gone for the hotel manager.”
“He is a little mysterious.”
“He’s a creep.”
“I mean that Wapshott.”
“Yes, both of them.”
“So you didn’t notice anything unusual in his room?”
“It was a real mess, but that’s nothing unusual.”
Osp stopped working, stood still for a moment and looked pensively at Erlendur.
“Are you getting anywhere? With Santa?”
“A little,” Erlendur said. “Why?”
“This is a weird hotel,” Osp said, lowering her voice and looking out into the corridor.
“Weird?” Erlendur had a sudden feeling that she was not quite so self-confident. “Are you
afraid of something? Something here at the hotel?”
Osp did not answer.
“Are you frightened of losing your job?”
She looked at Erlendur.
“Yeah right, this is the sort of job you don’t want to lose.”
“So what is it?”
Osp hesitated, then seemed to make a decision. As if what she wanted to say was not worth bothering about any longer.
“They steal from the kitchen,” she said. “Everything they can. I don’t think they’ve had to go shopping for years.”
“Steal?”
“Everything that’s not bolted to the floor.”
“Who are they?”
“Don’t say I told you. The head chef. Him for starters.”
“How do you know?”
“Gulli told me. He knew everything that went on at this hotel”
Erlendur recalled when he stole the ox tongue from the buffet and the head chef saw him and chided him. Remembered his tone of indignation.
“When did he tell you this?”
“A couple of months ago.”
“So what? Did it worry him? Was he going to tell someone? Why did he tell you? I thought you didn’t know him.”
“I didn’t know him.” Osp paused. “They were having a go at me in the kitchen,” she continued. “Talking dirty. “How you feeling down there?” and that sort of thing. All the pathetic crap morons like that come up with. Gulli heard it and talked to me. Told me not to worry. He said they were all thieves and he could get them caught if he wanted.”
“Did he threaten to get them caught?”
“He didn’t threaten anything,” Osp said. “He just said it to cheer me up.”
“What do they steal?” Erlendur asked. “Did he mention anything in particular?”
“He said the manager knew but didn’t do anything, he’s on the take too. He buys black market stuff. For the bars. Gulli told me that too. The head waiter’s in on it with him.”
“Gudlaugur told you that?”
“Then they pocket the difference.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this when I first talked to you?”
“Is it relevant?”
“It might be.”
Osp shrugged.
“I didn’t know and I wasn’t quite myself after I found him. Gudlaugur. With the condom. And the knife wounds”
“Did you see any money in his room?”
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