“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 glimpse 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.”