Voices (16 page)

'What is it?' Erlendur said as he looked at the paper. He saw Henry Wapshott's name and some dates.

'He's spent Christmas at this hotel for the past three years,' the manager said. 'If that helps at all.'

Erlendur stared at the dates.

'He said he's never been to Iceland before.'

'I don't know anything about that,' the man said. 'But he's been at this hotel before.'

'Do you remember him? Is he a regular?'

'I don't remember ever checking him in. There are more than two hundred rooms at this hotel and Christmas is always busy, so he can easily disappear into the crowd, besides which, he only makes short stops. Just a couple of days. I haven't noticed him this time around but the penny dropped when I looked at the printout. He's just like you in one respect. He has the same special needs.'

'What do you mean, like me? Special needs?' Erlendur could not imagine what he had in common with Henry Wapshott.

'He appears to be interested in music'

'What are you talking about?'

'You can see here,' the manager said, pointing at the sheet of paper. 'We make a note of our guests' special requirements. In most cases.'

Erlendur read down the list.

'He wanted a player in his room,' the manager said. 'Not a smart CD player, but some old heap. Just like you.'

'Bloody liar,' Erlendur hissed, and took out his mobile again.

16

A warrant for Henry Wapshott's arrest was issued that evening. He was apprehended when he went to catch the plane for London. Wapshott was taken to the cells in the police station on Hverfisgata and Erlendur obtained a warrant to search his room. The forensics team arrived at the hotel around midnight. They combed the room in search of the murder weapon, but found nothing. All they found was a suitcase that Wapshott clearly intended to leave behind, his shaving kit in the bathroom, an old record player similar to the one Erlendur had borrowed from the hotel, a television and video player, and several British newspapers and magazines. Including
Record Collector.

Fingerprint experts looked for clues that Gudlaugur had been in his room, scouring the edges of the table and the door frame. Erlendur stood out in the corridor watching the forensics team. He wanted a cigarette and even a glass of Chartreuse because Christmas was coming, wanted his armchair and books. He intended to go home. Did not really know why he stayed at that deathly hotel. Did not really know what to do with himself.

White dust from the fingerprinting sprinkled onto the floor.

Erlendur saw the hotel manager waddling along the corridor. He wielded his handkerchief and was puffing and blowing. After taking a look inside the room where the forensics team were at work, he smiled all over his face.

'I heard you've caught him,' he said, wiping his neck. 'And that it was a foreigner.'

'Where did you hear that?' Erlendur asked.

'On the radio,' the manager said, unable to conceal his glee at all this good news. The man had been found, it was not an Icelander who committed the deed and it was not one of the hotel staff either. The manager panted: 'They said on the news that he was arrested at Keflavík airport on his way to London. A Brit?'

Erlendur's mobile started ringing.

'We don't know whether he's the one we're looking for,' he said as he took out his phone.

'You don't need to come down to the station,' Sigurdur Óli said when Erlendur answered. 'Not for the time being.'

'Shouldn't you be doing the Christmas bread?' Erlendur asked, and turned away from the manager with his mobile in his hand.

'He's drunk,' Sigurdur Óli said. 'Henry Wapshott. It's pointless trying to talk to him. Shall we let him sleep it off tonight and talk to him in the morning?'

'Did he cause any trouble?'

'No, not at all. They told me he went along with them without saying a word. They stopped him immediately at passport control and kept him in the body search room, and when the police arrived they took him straight out to the van and drove to Reykjavík. No trouble. He was apparently very reticent and fell asleep in the van on his way into town. He's sleeping in his cell now.'

'It was on the news, so I'm told,' Erlendur said. 'About the arrest' He looked at the manager. 'People are hoping we've got the right man.'

'He only had a case with him. A big briefcase.'

'Is there anything in it?'

'Records. Old ones. The same sort of vinyl crap we found in the room in the basement.'

'You mean Gudlaugur's records?'

'Looked like it. Not many. And he had some others. You can examine it all tomorrow.'

'He's hunting for Gudlaugur's records.'

'Maybe he managed to add to his collection,' Sigurdur Óli said. 'Should we meet down here at the station tomorrow morning?'

'We need a saliva sample from him,' Erlendur said.

'I'll see to that,' Sigurdur Óli said, and they rang off.

Erlendur put his mobile back in his pocket.

'Has he confessed?' the hotel manager asked. 'Did he confess?'

'Do you remember seeing him in the hotel before? Henry Wapshott. From Liverpool. Looks about sixty. He told me this was his first visit to Iceland, then it turns out that he's stayed here before.'

'I don't remember anyone by that name. Do you have a photograph of him?'

'I need to get one. Find out if any of the staff recognise him. It might ring a bell somewhere. Even the tiniest detail could be important.'

'Hopefully you'll get it all sorted,' the manager grunted. 'We've had cancellations because of the murder. Icelanders mostly The tourists haven't heard so much about it. But the buffet's not so busy and our bookings are down. I should never have allowed him to live down there in the basement. Bloody kindness will be the death of me.'

'You positively ooze with it,' Erlendur said.

The manager looked at Erlendur, unsure whether he was mocking him. The head of forensics came out into the corridor to them, greeted the manager and drew Erlendur to one side.

'It all looks like a typical tourist in a double room in a Reykjavik hotel,' he said. "The murder weapon isn't lying on his bedside table, if that's what you were hoping for, and there are no bloodstained clothes in his suitcase – nothing to connect him with the man in the basement really. The room's covered with fingerprints. But he's obviously done a runner. He left his room as if he was on his way down to the bar. His electric shaver is still plugged in. Spare pairs of shoes on the floor. And some slippers he'd brought with him. That's really all we can say at this stage. The man was in a hurry. He was fleeing.'

The head of forensics went back into the room and Erlendur walked over to the manager.

"Who does the cleaning on this corridor?' he asked. 'Who goes into the rooms? Don't the cleaners share the floors out between them?'

'I know which women do this floor,' the manager said. 'There are no men. For some reason.'

He said this sarcastically, as if cleaning was obviously not a man's job.

'And who are they then?' Erlendur asked.

'Well, the girl you talked to, for example.'

'Which girl I talked to?'

*

'The one in the basement,' the manager said. 'Who found the body. The girl who found the dead Santa. This is her floor.'

When Erlendur went back to his room two storeys above, Eva Lind was waiting for him in the corridor. She was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, with her knees up under her chin, and appeared to be asleep. When he walked over she looked up and smoothed out her clothes.

'It's fantastic coming to this hotel,' she said. 'When are you going to get your arse back home?'

'The plan was soon,' Erlendur said. 'I'm growing tired of this place too.'

He slid his card into the slot on the door. Eva Lind got to her feet and followed him inside. Erlendur closed the door and Eva threw herself flat out onto his bed. He sat down at the desk.

'Getting anywhere with the bizz?' Eva asked, lying on her stomach with her eyes closed as if trying to fall asleep.

'Very slowly,' Erlendur said. 'And stop calling it "bizz". What's wrong with "business", or even "case"?'

'Aw, shut your face,' Eva Lind said, her eyes still closed. Erlendur smiled. He looked at his daughter on the bed and wondered what kind of parent he would have been. Would he have made great demands on her? Signed her up for ballet classes? Hoped she was a little genius? Would he have hit her if she had knocked his chartreuse onto the floor?

'Are you there?' she asked, eyes still closed.

'Yes, I'm here,' Erlendur said wearily.

'Why don't you say anything?'

'What am I supposed to say? What are people ever supposed to say?'

'Well, what you're doing at this hotel, for instance. Seriously.'

'I don't know. I didn't want to go back to the flat. It's a bit of a change.'

'Change! What's the difference between hanging around by yourself in this room and hanging around by yourself at home?'

'Do you want to hear some music?' Erlendur asked, trying to steer the conversation away from himself. He began outlining the case to his daughter, point by point, to gain some kind of a picture of it himself. He told her about the girl who found a stabbed Santa, once an exceptionally gifted choirboy who had made two records that were sought-after by collectors. His voice was unique.

He reached for the record he had yet to listen to. It contained two hymns and was clearly designed for Christmas. On the sleeve was Gudlaugur wearing a Santa hat, with a wide smile showing his adult teeth, and Erlendur thought about the irony of fate. He put the record on and the choirboy's voice resounded around the room in beautiful, bitter-sweet song. Eva Lind opened her eyes and sat up on the bed.

'Are you joking?' she said.

'Don't you think it's magnificent?'

'I've never heard a kid sing like that,' Eva said. 'I don't think I've ever heard anyone sing so beautifully' They sat in silence and listened to the end of the song. Erlendur reached over to the record player, turned the record over and played the hymn on the other side. They listened to it, and when it was over Eva Lind asked him to play it again.

Erlendur told her about Gudlaugur's family, the concert in Hafnarfjördur, his father and sister who had not been in touch with him for more than thirty years, and the British collector who tried to leave the country and was only interested in choirboys. Told her that Gudlaugur's records might be valuable today.

'Do you think that's why he got done?' Eva Lind asked. 'Because of the records? Because they're valuable now?'

'I don't know.'

'Are there any still around?'

'I don't think so,' Erlendur said, 'and that's probably what makes them collectors' items. Elínborg says collectors look for something that's unique. But that might not be important. Maybe someone at the hotel attacked him. Someone who didn't know about the choirboy at all.'

Erlendur decided not to tell his daughter about the way Gudlaugur was found. He knew that when she was taking drugs she had prostituted herself and knew how it operated in Reykjavík. Yet he flinched from broaching that subject with her. She lived her own life and had her own way without him ever having any say in the matter. But since he thought there was a possibility that Gudlaugur had paid for sex at the hotel, he asked her if she knew of any prostitution there.

Eva Lind looked at her father.

'Poor bloke,' she said without answering him. Her mind was still on the choirboy. 'There was a girl like that at my school. Primary school. She made a few records. Her name was Vala Dögg. You remember anything by her? She was really hyped. Sang Christmas carols. A pretty little blonde girl.'

Erlendur shook his head.

'She was a child star. Sang on children's hour and TV shows and sang really well, a little sweetie-pie sort of type. Her dad was some obscure pop singer but it was her mum who was a bit of a nutter and wanted to make a pop star out of her. She got teased big time. She was really nice, not a show-off or pretentious in the least, but people were always bugging her. Icelanders get jealous and annoyed so easily. She was bullied, so she left school and got a job. I met her a lot when I was doing dope and she'd turned into a total creep. Worse than me. Burned-out and forgotten. She told me it was the worst thing that ever happened to her.'

'Being a child star?'

'It ruined her. She never escaped from it. Was never allowed to be herself. Her mum was really bossy. Never asked her if it was what she wanted. She liked singing and being in the spotlight and all that, but she had no idea what was going on. She could never be anything more than the little cutie on children's hour. She was only allowed to have one dimension. She was pretty little Vala Dögg. And then she got teased about it, and couldn't understand why until she got older and realised that she'd never be anything but a pretty little dolly singing in her frock. That she'd never be a world-famous pop star like her mum always told her.'