“Money?”
“He’d recently been paid some money but I don’t know whether he had it on him when he was attacked.”
“I didn’t see a penny.”
“No,” Erlendur said. “You didn’t take the money? When you found him?”
Osp stopped working and threw her hands down by her sides.
“Do you mean, did I steal it?”
“These things happen.”
“You think I—”
“Did you take it?”
“No.”
“You had the chance.”
“So did the person who killed him.”
“That’s true,” Erlendur said.
“I didn’t see a penny.”
“No, all right.”
Osp went back to her cleaning. Sprayed disinfectant into the toilet bowl and scrubbed it with the brush, acting as if Erlendur wasn’t there. He watched her working for a little while, then thanked her.
“What do you mean, you disturbed him?” he said, stopping at the door. “Henry Wapshott. You could hardly have got very far into his room if you called out first the way you did here.”
“He didn’t hear me.”
“What was he doing?”
“I don’t know if I can …”
“It won’t go any further.”
“He was watching TV,” Osp said.
“He wouldn’t want that to get around,” Erlendur whispered conspiratorially.
“Or, you know, a video,” Osp said. “It was porn. Disgusting.”
“Do they show porn films at the hotel?”
“Not that sort of film, they’re banned everywhere.”
“What sort of film?”
“It was child pornography. I told the manager.”
“Child pornography? What sort of child pornography?”
“What sort? Do you want me to describe it?”
“What day was this?”
“Fucking pervert!”
“When was it?”
“The day I found Gulli.”
“What did the manager do?”
“Nothing,” Osp said. “Told me to keep my mouth shut about it.”
“Do you know who Gudlaugur was?”
“What do you mean, the doorman? He was the doorman. Was he something else?”
“Yes, when he was little. He was a choirboy and had a very good voice. I’ve heard his records”
“A choirboy?”
“A child star, really. Then somehow everything went wrong in his life. He grew up and it was over.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“No, no one knew about Gudlaugur any more,” Erlendur said.
They fell silent, deep in their own thoughts. Some minutes passed.
“Does Christmas get you down?” Erlendur asked again. It was as if he had found a soul mate.
She turned towards him.
“Christmas is for happy people.”
Erlendur looked at Osp and a hint of a wry smile moved across his face.
“You’d get on with my daughter,” he said, and took out his mobile phone.
Sigurdur Oli was surprised when Erlendur told him about the money that had probably been in Gudlaugur’s room. They discussed the need to verify Wapshott’s claim that he had been roaming the record markets at the time the murder was committed. Sigurdur Oli was standing in front of Wapshott’s cell when Erlendur phoned him, and he described the conditions under which his saliva sample had been taken.
The cell he was in had housed many poor unfortunates, the whole spectrum from wretched tramps to thugs and murderers, and they had covered the walls and scratched the paint with remarks about their miserable stay in custody.
In the cell was a toilet bowl and a bed, bolted to the floor. On top of it was a thin mattress and a hard pillow. There were no windows in the cell, but high above the prisoner was a strong fluorescent light that was never switched off, making it difficult for the occupants to tell whether it was day or night.
Henry Wapshott stood rigid against the wall, facing the heavy steel door. Two warders held him. Elinborg and Sigurdur Oli were also in the cell with a warrant ordering the test to be made, and Valgerdur was there too, cotton bud in hand, ready to take the sample.
Wapshott stared at her as if she were the devil incarnate, who had arrived to drag him down into eternal hell fire. His eyes were popping out of his head, he arched himself as far away from her as he could, and no matter how they tried, they could not make him open his mouth.
Eventually they laid him on the floor and held his nose until he had to give in and gasp for breath. Valgerdur seized the chance and rammed the cotton wool bud into his mouth, wiped it around until he retched, then whipped it back out of him and hurried from the cell.
19
When Erlendur went back down to the lobby on his way to the kitchen he saw Marion Briem standing at the reception desk in a shabby coat, wearing a hat and fidgeting. He noticed how badly his old boss had aged in the years since they had last met, but still had the same watchful and inquisitive eyes, and never wasted time on formalities.
“You look awful,” Marion said, sitting down. “What’s getting you down?” A cigarillo appeared from somewhere in the coat and a box of matches with it.
“This is a smoke-free zone, apparently,” Erlendur said.
“You can’t smoke anywhere any more,” Marion said, lighting up. Marion wore a pained expression, the skin grey, slack and wrinkled. Pallid lips puckered around the cigarillo. Anaemic nails stood out from bony fingers that reached for the cigarillo again once the lungs had taken their fill.
For all the long and eventful history of their acquaintance, Marion and Erlendur had never got along particularly well. Marion had been Erlendur’s boss for years and tried to teach him the profession. Erlendur was surly and did not accept guidance willingly; he couldn’t stand his superiors in those days and nothing had changed. Marion would take umbrage at this and they often clashed, but Marion knew that a better detective was difficult to find, if only because Erlendur was not tied down by family and the time-consuming commitments that entailed. Erlendur did nothing but work. Marion was the same, a lifelong recluse.
“What’s new with you?” Marion asked, puffing on the cigarillo.
“Nothing,” Erlendur said.
“Does Christmas annoy you?”
“I’ve never understood this Christmas business,” Erlendur said vaguely as he peered into the kitchen, on the lookout for the chef’s hat.
“No,” Marion said. “Too much cheer and joy, I would imagine. Why don’t you get yourself a girlfriend? You’re not that old. There are plenty of women who could take a fancy to an old fart like you.”
“I’ve tried that,” Erlendur said. “What did you find out about—”
“Do you mean your wife?”
Erlendur didn’t intend to spend the time discussing his private life.
“Stop it, will you?”
“I heard that—”
“I told you to stop it,” Erlendur said angrily.
“All right,” Marion said. “It’s none of my business how you live your life. All I know is that loneliness is a slow and painful death.” Marion paused. “But of course you’ve got your children, haven’t you?”
“Can’t we just skip all this?” Erlendur said. “You are—” He got no further.
“What am I?”
“What are you doing here? Couldn’t you have phoned?”
Marion looked at Erlendur and the hint of a smile played across that old face.
“I’m told you’ve been sleeping at this hotel. That you won’t go home for Christmas. What’s happening to you? Why don’t you go home?”
Erlendur didn’t answer.
“Are you that fed up with yourself?”
“Can’t we talk about something else?”
“I know the feeling. Being fed up with yourself. With the bastard that happens to be you and which you can’t get out of your own head. You can get rid of it
for a while but it always comes back and starts on the same old bollocks. You can try to drink it away. Have a change of scenery. Stay at hotels when it gets really bad.”
“Marion,” Erlendur pleaded, “give me a break.”
“Anyone who owns Gudlaugur Egilsson’s records,” Marion said, suddenly getting to the point, “is sitting on a goldmine.”
“What makes you say that?”
“They’re a treasure trove today. Admittedly not many people own them or know about them, but people in the know are prepared to pay incredible sums for them. Gudlaugur’s records are a rarity in the collectors” world and very sought-after.”
“What kind of incredible sums? Tens of thousands?”
“Could be hundreds of thousands,” Marion said. “For a single copy.”
“Hundreds of thousands? You’re kidding.” Erlendur sat up in his seat. He thought about Henry Wapshott. Knew why he came to Iceland in search of Gudlaugur. In search of his records. It was not only admiration for choirboys that kindled his interest, as Wapshott would have him believe. Erlendur realised why he had given Gudlaugur half a million on the off-chance.
“As far as I’ve been able to find out, the boy made only two records,” Marion Briem said. “And what makes them valuable, besides the boy’s incredible singing, is that very few copies were cut and they hardly sold at all. There aren’t many people who own those records today.”
“Does the actual singing matter?”
“It seems to, but the rule is still that the quality of the music, the quality of what is on the record, is less important than its condition. The music might be bad but if it’s the right performer with the right song and the right label at the right time, it can be priceless. No one is interested solely in artistic value.”
“What happened to the copies? Do you know?”
“They’ve gone missing. They’ve been lost over the course of time or simply thrown away. That happens. Probably there weren’t more than a couple of hundred to start with. The main reason that the records are so valuable is that there only seems to be a handful in the world. The short career helps too. I understand he lost his voice and never sang again.”
“It happened at a concert, the poor boy Erlendur said. “A wolf in your voice, it’s called. When your voice breaks”
“Then decades later he’s found murdered.”
“If those records are worth hundreds of thousands …?”
“Well?”
“Isn’t that ample motive for killing him? We found one copy of each record in his room. There was really nothing else in there.”
“Then the person who stabbed him can’t have realised how much they are worth,” Marion Briem said.
“Because otherwise he would have stolen the records?”
“What were the copies like?”
“Pristine,” Erlendur said. “Not a spot or crease on the sleeves and I can’t see that they’ve ever been played…”
He looked at Marion Briem.
“Could Gudlaugur possibly have acquired all the copies?” he said.
“Why not?” Marion said.
“We found some keys in his room that we can’t figure out. Where might he have kept others?”
“It needn’t be the whole lot,” Marion said. “Maybe some of them. Who else would own them other than the choirboy himself?”
“I don’t know,” Erlendur said. “We’ve detained a collector who came over from the UK to meet Gudlaugur. A mysterious old sod who tried to run away from us and worships the ex-choirboy. He seems to be the only person around here who realises how much Gudlaugur’s records are worth.”
“Is he a nutter?” Marion Briem asked.
“Sigurdur Oli’s looking into that,” Erlendur said. “Gudlaugur was the hotel Santa,” he added, as if Santa was an official appointment there.
A smile passed over Marion’s grey old face.
“We found a note in Gudlaugur’s room saying Henry and the time 18.30, as if he’d been to a meeting or was supposed to go at that time. Henry Wapshott says he met him at half past six on the day before the murder.”
Erlendur fell silent, deep in thought.
“What are you brooding over?” Marion asked.
“Wapshott told me he paid Gudlaugur half a million kronur to prove he meant business, or words to that effect. In buying the records. That money could have been in the room when he was attacked.”
“Do you mean someone knew about Wapshott and his dealings with Gudlaugur?”
“Possibly.”
“Another collector?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Wapshott’s odd. I know he’s hiding something from us. Whether it’s about him or about Gudlaugur I don’t know.”
“And of course the money was gone when you found him.”
“Yes.”
“I must be going,” Marion said, standing up. Erlendur got to his feet too. “I can barely last half a day any more,” Marion said. “I’m dying of exhaustion. How’s your daughter doing?”
“Eva? I don’t know. I don’t think she feels too good.”
“Maybe you should spend Christmas with her.”
“Yes, maybe.”
“And your love life?”
“Stop going on about my love life,” Erlendur said, and his thoughts turned to Valgerdur. He wanted to phone her but lacked the nerve. What was he supposed to say? What business of hers was his past? What business of anyone’s was his life? Ridiculous, asking her out like that. He didn’t know what had come over him.
“I’m told you dined here with a woman,” Marion said. “That hasn’t happened for years to the best of our knowledge.”
“Who told you that?” Erlendur asked in astonishment.
“Who was the woman?” Marion asked back without answering him. “I hear she’s attractive.”
“There’s no woman,” Erlendur snarled and strutted away. Marion Briem watched him and then walked slowly out of the hotel, chuckling.
On his way down to the lobby, Erlendur had wondered how he could politely accuse the head chef of theft, but Marion had wound him up. After taking the man aside in the kitchen he had not an iota of discretion left in him.
“Are you a thief?” he asked straight out. “And all of you in the kitchen? Do you steal everything that isn’t bolted to the floor?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that Santa might have been stabbed to death because he knew about a massive pilfering operation at this hotel. Maybe he was stabbed because he knew who ran the scam. Maybe you crept down to his hovel in the basement and stabbed him to death so he wouldn’t go spilling the beans to everyone. What do you reckon to that theory? And you robbed him in the process.”
The chef stared at Erlendur. “You’re crazy!” he grunted.
“Do you steal from the kitchen?”
“Who have you been talking to?” the chef asked in a deadly serious tone. “Who’s been filling your head with lies? Was it someone from the hotel?”
“Have they taken your saliva sample?”
“Who told you?”
“Why didn’t you want to give a sample?”
“It was done eventually. I think you’re a retard. Taking samples from all the hotel staff! Why? To make us all look like a load of wankers! And then you come calling me a thief. I’ve never stolen as much as a head of cabbage from this kitchen. Never! Who’s been telling you these lies?”
“If Santa had some dirt on you, for thieving, could it just be that he blackmailed you into doing him favours? Like su—”
“Shut up!” the head chef shouted. “Was it the pimp? Who told you these lies?”
Erlendur thought the chef was about to jump on him. He moved so close that their faces almost touched. His chef’s hat bent forward.
“Was it the fucking pimp?” the chef hissed.
“Who’s the pimp?”
“That fucking fat bastard of a manager,” the chef said through gritted teeth.
Erlendur’s mobile started rin
ging in his pocket. They looked each other in the eye, neither of them prepared to back down. At last Erlendur took out his mobile. The chef walked off, seething.
The head of forensics was on the phone.
“It’s about the saliva on the condom,” he told Erlendur.
“Yes,” Erlendur said, “have you traced the owner?”
“No, we’re still a long way from that,” the head of forensics said. “But we’ve looked at it more closely, the composition I mean, and we found traces of tobacco.”
“Tobacco? You mean pipe tobacco?”
“Well, it’s more like quid,” the voice said over the telephone.
“Quid? I’m not with you.”
“The chemical composition. You used to be able to buy quid in tobacco shops once but I’m not sure if it’s still around. Maybe in sweetshops, I don’t know if they’re still allowed to sell it. We need to check that. You stick it under your lip, either in a lump or in a gauze, you must have heard of it.”
The chef kicked a cupboard door and spouted curses.
“You’re talking about chewing tobacco,” Erlendur said. “Are there traces of chewing tobacco in the sample from the condom?”
“Bingo,” the voice said.
“So what does that mean?”
“The person who was with Santa chews tobacco.”
“What do we gain by knowing that?”
“Nothing. Yet. I just thought you’d want to know. And there’s another thing. You were asking about the Cortisol in the saliva.”
“Yes.”
“There wasn’t very much, in fact it was quite normal.”
“What does that tell us? It was all quiet on that front?”
“A high level of Cortisol indicates a rise in blood pressure due to excitement or stress. The person who was with the doorman was as calm as a millpond all the time. No stress. No excitement. They didn’t have anything to fear.”
“Until something happened,” Erlendur said.
“Yes,” the head of forensics said. “Until something happened.”
They finished the conversation and Erlendur put his mobile back in his pocket. The head chef stood staring at him.
“Do you know anyone here who chews tobacco?” Erlendur asked.
“Fuck off!” the chef screamed.
Erlendur took a deep breath, clasped his hands over his face and rubbed it wearily, then suddenly saw an image of Henry Wapshott’s tobacco-stained teeth.
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