“Did he return the knife?”
“No, not while I was here, then I left at noon and that’s all I know.”
“What sort of a knife was it?”
“He said it had to be a sharp one,” Denni said.
“It was the same kind as this,” the manager said, reaching into a drawer to take out a small steak knife with a wooden handle and fine-serated blade. “We lay these for people who order our T-bone steak. Have you tried one? Delicious. The knives go through them like butter.”
Erlendur took the knife, examined it and thought to himself that Gudlaugur may have provided his murderer with the weapon that was used to kill him. Wondered whether that business about the stitching of his Santa suit was just a ploy. Whether Gudlaugur had expected someone in his room and wanted to have the knife at hand; or had the knife been lying on his desk because he needed to mend his Santa suit and the attack was sudden, unpremeditated and sparked by something that happened in the little room? In that case, the attacker had not gone to Gudlaugur’s room armed, not gone there with the purpose of killing him.
“I need to take that knife,” he said. “We need to know if the size and type of blade match the wounds. Is that all right?”
The hotel manager nodded.
“Isn’t it that British chap?” he said. “Have you got anyone else?”
“I’d like to have a quick word with Denni here,” Erlendur said without answering him.
The manager nodded again and stayed where he was, until the penny dropped and he gave Erlendur an offended look. He was accustomed to being the centre of attention. When he did get the message he noisily invented some business to attend to in his office and disappeared. Dennis relief when his boss was no longer present proved shortlived.
“Did you go down to the basement and stab him?” Erlendur asked.
Denni looked at him like a doomed man.
“No,” he said hesitantly, as if not quite sure himself. The next question left him even more in doubt.
“Do you chew tobacco?” Erlendur asked.
“No,” he said. “Chew tobacco? What…?”
“Have you had a sample taken?”
“Eh?”
“Do you use condoms?”
“Condoms?” said Denni, still at a total loss.
“No girlfriend?”
“Girlfriend?”
“That you have to make sure you don’t get pregnant?”
Denni said nothing.
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he said in the end; Erlendur sensed a note of regret. “What are you asking me all this for?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Erlendur said. “You knew Gudlaugur. What kind of a man was he?”
“He was cool.”
Denni told Erlendur that Gudlaugur had felt comfortable at the hotel, did not want to leave and in fact feared moving out after he was sacked. He used all the hotel services and was the only member of staff who got away with that for years. He ate cheaply at the hotel, put his clothes in with the hotel laundry and didn’t pay a penny for his Utile room in the basement. Redundancy came as a shock to him, but he said he could manage if he lived frugally and might not even have to earn himself a living any more.
“What did he mean by that?” Erlendur asked.
Denni shrugged.
“I don’t know. He was quite mysterious sometimes. Said lots of things I couldn’t suss out.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, something about music. Sometimes. When he drank. Most of the time he was just normal.”
“Did he drink a lot?”
“No, not at all. Sometimes at weekends. He never missed a day’s work. Never. He was proud of that although it’s not such a remarkable job. Being a doorman and stuff
“What did he say to you about music?”
“He liked beautiful music. I don’t remember exactly what he said.”
“Why do you think he said he didn’t need to earn himself a living any more?”
“He seemed to have money. And he never paid for anything so he could save up for ever. I guess that’s what he meant. That he’d saved enough.”
Erlendur remembered asking Sigurdur Oli to check Gudlaugur’s bank accounts and resolved to remind him. He left Denni in the kitchen in a state of confusion, wondering about chewing tobacco and condoms and girlfriends. As he walked past the lobby he caught sight of a young woman arguing noisily with the head of reception. He seemed to want her out of the hotel, but she refused to leave. It crossed Erlendur’s mind that the woman who wanted to invoice this man for his night of fun had shown up, and he was about to go away when the young woman noticed him and stared.
“Are you the cop?” she called out.
“Get out of here!” the head of reception said in an unusually harsh tone.
“You look exactly like Eva Lind described you,” she said, sizing up Erlendur. “I’m Stina. She told me to talk to you.”
* * *
They sat down in the bar. Erlendur bought them coffee. He tried to ignore her breasts but had his work cut out doing so. Never in his life had he seen such a huge bosom on such a slim and delicate body. She was wearing an ankle-length beige coat with a fur collar, and she draped it over the chair at their table to reveal a skintight red top that hardly covered her stomach and black flared trousers that barely stretched above the crease between her buttocks. She was heavily painted, wore thick, dark lipstick and smiled to reveal a beautiful set of teeth.
“Three hundred thousand,” she said, carefully rubbing under her right breast as if it itched. “Were you wondering about the tits?”
“Are you all right?”
“It’s the stitches” She winced “I mustn’t scratch them too much. Have to be careful.”
“What-?”
“New silicon,” Stina interrupted him. “I had a boob job the other day.”
Erlendur took care not to stare at her new breasts.
“How do you know Eva Lind?” he asked.
“She said you’d ask that and told me to tell you that you don’t want to know. She’s right. Trust me. And she also told me you’d help me with a Utile business and then I could help you, know what I mean?”
“No,” Erlendur said. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Eva said you would.”
“Eva was lying. What are you talking about? A little business, what does that involve?”
Stina sighed.
“My friend was busted with some hash at Keflavik airport. Not much, but enough for them to put him away for maybe three years. They sentence them like murderers, those fuckers. A bit of hash. And a few tabs, right! He says he’ll get three years. Three! Paedophiles get three months, suspended. Fucking wankers!”
Erlendur didn’t see how he could help her. She was like a child, unaware of how big and complicated and difficult it is to deal with the world.
“Was he caught at the terminal?”
“Yeah.”
“I can’t do anything,” Erlendur said. “And I don’t feel inclined to. You don’t keep particularly good company. Dope smuggling and prostitution. What about a straightforward office job?”
“Won’t you just try?” Stina said. “Talk to someone. He mustn’t get three years!”
“To get this perfectly straight,” Erlendur said with a nod, “you’re a prostitute?”
“Prostitute, prostitute,” Stina said, producing a cigarette from a little black handbag over her shoulder. “I dance at The Marquis. She leaned forwards and whispered con-spiratorially to Erlendur: “But there’s more money in the other business.”
“And you’ve had customers at this hotel?”
“A few,” Stina said.
“And you’ve been working at this hotel?”
“I’ve never worked here.”
“I mean do you pick up the customers here or bring them over from town?”
“Whatever I please. They used to let me be here until Fatso threw me out”
“Why?”
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Stina started itching under her breasts again and gave the spot a cautious rub. She winced and forced a smile at Erlendur, but clearly didn’t feel particularly well.
“A girl I know went for a boob job that went wrong,” she said. “Her tits are like empty bin liners”
“Do you really need all that breast?” Erlendur couldn’t refrain from asking.
“Don’t you like them?” she said, thrusting them forward but grimacing as she did. “These stitches are killing me,” she groaned.
“Well, they are … big,” Erlendur admitted.
“And straight off the shelf? Stina boasted.
Erlendur saw the hotel manager enter the bar with the head of reception and stride over to them in all his majesty. Looking around to make sure no one else was in the bar, he hissed at Stina when he was still a few metres away from her.
“Out! Get out, girl! This minute! Out of here!”
Stina looked over her shoulder at the hotel manager, then back at Erlendur and rolled her eyes.
“Christ,” she said.
“We don’t want whores like you at this hotel!” the manager shouted.
He grabbed her as if to throw her out
“Leave me alone,” Stina said. “I’m talking to this man here.”
“Watch her tits!” Erlendur shouted, not knowing what else to say. The hotel manager looked at him, dumbfounded. “They’re new,” Erlendur added by way of explanation.
He stood up, blocked the hotel manager’s path and tried to push him away, but with little success. Stina did her utmost to protect her breasts, while the head of reception stood at a distance, watching the goings-on. Eventually he came to Erlendur’s aid and they managed to shuffle the furious hotel manager out of reach of Stina.
“Everything … she … says about … me is … fucking lies!” he wheezed. The effort was almost too much for him; his face poured with sweat and he was panting for breath after the struggle.
“She hasn’t said anything about you,” Erlendur said to calm him down.
“I want … her … to … get out … of here.” The hotel manager slumped down in a chair, took out his handkerchief and started mopping his face.
“Cool it, Fatso,” Stina said. “He’s a meat merchant, you know that?”
“A meat merchant?” Erlendur didn’t immediately grasp the meaning.
“He takes a slice from all of us who work at this hotel,” Stina said.
“A slice?” Erlendur said.
“A slice. His commission! He takes a cut from us.”
“It’s a lie!” the hotel manager shouted. “Get out, you fucking whore!”
“He wanted more than half a share for himself and the head waiter,” Stina said as she carefully rearranged her breasts, “and when I refused he told me to fuck off and never come back.”
“She’s lying,” the hotel manager said, slightly calmer. “I’ve always thrown those girls out, and her too. We don’t want whores at this hotel.”
“The head waiter?” Erlendur said, visualising the thin moustache. Rosant, he thought the name was.
“Always thrown them out,” Stina snorted as she turned to Erlendur. “He’s the one who phones us. If he knows one of the guests is up for it or has money he phones to let us know and plants us in the bar. Says it makes the hotel more popular. They’re conference guests and the like. Foreigners. Lonely old men. If there’s a big conference on, he phones”
“Are there many of you?” Erlendur asked.
“A few of us run an escort service,” Stina said. “Really high class.”
Stina gave the impression that she was not as proud of anything as being a prostitute, apart perhaps from her new breasts.
“They don’t run a bloody escort service,” the manager said, breathing normally again. “They hang around the hotel and try to hook guests and take them up to the rooms, and she’s lying about me phoning them. You fucking bitch of a whore!”
Thinking it inadvisable to continue the conversation with Stina at the bar, Erlendur said he needed to borrow the head of receptions office for a moment — otherwise they could all go down to the police station and resume there. The hotel manager let out a groan and gave Stina the evil eye. Erlendur followed her out of the bar and into the office. The hotel manager stayed behind. All the wind seemed to have been knocked out of him, and he shooed the head of reception away when he went over to attend to him.
“She’s lying, Erlendur,” he shouted after them. “It’s all a pack of lies!”
Erlendur sat down at the manager’s desk while Stina stood and lit a cigarette, as if immune to the fact that smoking was prohibited throughout the hotel except conceivably at the bar.
“Did you know the doorman at this hotel?” Erlendur asked. “Gudlaugur?”
“He was really nice. He collected Fatso’s cut from us. And then he got killed.”
“He was—”
“Do you reckon Fatso killed him?” Stina interrupted. “He’s the biggest creep I know. Do you know why I’m not allowed at this shitty hotel of his any more?”
“No.”
“He didn’t only want a cut from us girls, but, you know…”
“What?”
“Wanted us to do stuff for him too. Personal. You know…”
“And?”
“I refused. Put my foot down. Those rolls of fat on the bastard. He’s gross. He could have killed Gudlaugur. I could see him doing that. I bet he sat on him.”
“But what was your relationship with Gudlaugur? Did you do things for him?”
“Never. He wasn’t interested.”
“He certainly was,” Erlendur said, imagining Gudlaugur’s corpse in his little room with his trousers round his ankles. “I’m afraid he wasn’t entirely uninterested.”
“He never took an interest in me anyway,” Stina said, carefully hitching up her breasts. “And none of us girls”
“Is the head waiter in on this with the manager?”
“Rosant? Yeah.”
“What about the man from reception?”
“He doesn’t want us. He doesn’t want any tarts but the other two decide. The man from reception wants to get rid of Rosant, but Fatso makes too much money out of him.”
“Tell me something else. Do you ever chew tobacco? In a kind of gauze, like miniature teabags. People keep it under their lip. Pressed against the gums”
“Yuk, no,” Stina said. “Are you crazy? I take really good care of my teeth.”
“Does anyone you know chew tobacco?”
“No.”
They said nothing more until Erlendur felt compelled to do a spot of moralising. He had Eva Lind in mind. How she had been caught up in drugs and surely went in for prostitution to pay for her habit, although it probably didn’t take place at any of the finer hotels in the city. He thought what a terrible lot it was for a woman to sell her favours to any dirty old man whatever, wherever and whenever.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked, trying to conceal the tone of accusation in his voice. “The silicon implants in your breasts. Sleeping with conference guests in hotel rooms. Why?”
“Eva Lind said you’d ask that too. Don’t try to understand it,” Stina said, and stubbed her cigarette out on the floor, “Don’t even try.”
She happened to glance through the open door to the office and into the lobby, and saw Osp walking by.
“Is Osp still working here?” she said.
“Osp? Do you know her?” Erlendur’s mobile began ringing in his pocket.
“I thought she’d quit. I used to talk to her sometimes when I was here.”
“How did you know her?”
“We were just together in—”
“She wasn’t whoring with you, was she?” Erlendur took out his mobile and was about to answer.
“No,” Stina said. “She’s not like her little brother.”
“Her brother?” Erlendur said. “Has she got a brother?”
“He’s a bigger tart than I am.”
23
Erlendur stared at Stina while he tried to puzzle out her comment about Osp’s brother. Stina dithered in front of him.
“What?” she said. “What’s wrong? Aren’t you going to answer the phone?”
“Why did you think Osp had quit?”
“It’s just a shitty job.”
Erlendur answered his phone almost absent-mindedly.
“About time too,” Elinborg said down the line.
She and Sigurdur Oli had gone to Hafnarfjordur to bring Gudlaugur’s sister in for questioning at the police station in Reykjavik, but she refused to go with them. When she asked for an explanation they refused to give one, and then she said she could not abandon her father in his wheelchair. They offered to provide a carer for him and also invited her to talk to a lawyer, who could be present, but she didn’t seem to realise the seriousness of the matter. She would not entertain the notion of going to the police station, so Elinborg suggested a compromise, flatly against Sigurdur Oli’s wishes. They would take her to Erlendur at the hotel and after he had talked to her they would decide the next move. She thought about it. On the verge of losing his patience, Sigurdur Oli was about to drag her off forcibly when she agreed. She phoned a neighbour who came round immediately, clearly accustomed to looking after the old man when needed. Then she began resisting again, which infuriated Sigurdur Oli.
“He’s on his way to you with her,” Elinborg said over the telephone. “He would have much preferred to have had her locked up. She kept asking us why we wanted to talk to her and wouldn’t believe us when we said we didn’t know. Why do you want to talk to her anyway?”
“She came to the hotel a few days before her brother was murdered but told us she hadn’t seen him for decades. I want to know why she didn’t tell us that, why she’s lying. See the look on her face.”
“She might be rather peeved,” Elinborg said. “Sigurdur Oli wasn’t exactly pleased at the way she behaved.”
“What happened?”
“He’ll tell you.”
Erlendur rang off.
“What do you mean, he’s a bigger tart than you?” he said to Stina, who was peering into her bag and wondering whether she could be bothered to light another cigarette. “Osp’s brother. What are you talking about?”
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