The father sat and said nothing.

“I didn’t do anything,” he said eventually.

Elinborg crossed her legs and caught her foot on the father’s shin as she did so.

“Sorry? Elinborg said.

He winced, unsure whether she had done it on purpose.

“The teacher said you make unrealistic demands on your son,” she said, unruffled. “Is that true?”

“What’s unrealistic? I want him to get an education and make something of himself.”

“Understandably,” Elinborg said. “But he’s eight years old, dyslexic and borderline hyperactive. You didn’t finish school yourself?

“I own and run my own business.”

“Which is bankrupt. You’re losing your house, your fancy car, the wealth that’s brought you a certain social status. People look up to you. When the old classmates have a reunion you’re sure to be the big shot. Those golfing trips with your mates. You’re losing everything. How infuriating, especially when you bear in mind that your wife is in a psychiatric ward and your son’s behind at school. It all mounts up, and in the end you explode when Addi, who’s surely spilled milk and dropped plates on the floor all his life, knocks a bottle of Drambuie onto the marble floor of your lounge.”

The father looked at her. His expression did not change.

Elinborg had visited his wife at Kleppur mental hospital. She suffered from schizophrenia and sometimes had to be admitted when she began hallucinating and the voices overwhelmed her. When Elinborg met her she was on such strong medication that she could hardly speak. Sat rocking backwards and forwards and asked Elinborg for a cigarette. Had no idea why she was visiting her.

“I’m trying to bring him up as best I can,” the father said in the interrogation room.

“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.”