Voices (20 page)

'Who's the pimp?"

"That fucking fat bastard of a manager,' the chef said through gritted teeth.

Erlendur's mobile started ringing 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.

20

Erlendur asked for the hotel manager at reception and was told he had popped out. The head chef refused to explain the pimp moniker when he mentioned the 'fucking fat bastard of a manager'. Erlendur had rarely met anyone with such a temper. The chef must have realised that in his agitation he had let slip something. Erlendur made no headway. All he could get out of him were snide remarks and abuse, since the man was on home ground in the kitchen. To level the playing field and irritate the chef even further Erlendur thought of arranging for four uniformed police officers to turn up at the hotel and take him off for questioning at the station on Hverfisgata.

After toying with the idea he decided to shelve it for the time being.

Instead, he went up to Henry Wapshotts room. He broke the police seal that had been put on the door. The forensics team had taken care not to move anything. Erlendur stood still for a long time, scanning all around. He was looking for some kind of wrapper from a packet of chewing tobacco.

It was a twin room with two single beds, both unmade as if Wapshott had either slept in both of them or had had a guest for the night. On one table was an old record player connected to an amplifier and two small speakers, and on the other was a 14-inch television set and a video player. Two tapes lay beside it. Erlendur put one in the player and turned on the television, but switched it off as soon as the picture came on. Ösp was right about the pornography.

He opened the drawer of the bedside table, took a good look inside Wapshotts suitcase, checked the cupboard and went into the bathroom, but did not find chewing tobacco anywhere. He looked in the wastepaper basket, but it was empty.

'Elínborg was right,' said Sigurdur Óli, who suddenly appeared in the room.

Erlendur turned round.

'What do you mean?' he said.

'Scotland Yard sent us some information about him at last,' Sigurdur Óli said, looking around the room.

'I'm looking for chewing tobacco,' Erlendur said. "They found some on the condom.'

'I think I know why he doesn't want to contact his embassy or a lawyer and is just hoping all this will blow over,' Sigurdur Óli said before relaying Scotland Yard's information on the record collector.

Henry Wapshott, unmarried with no children, was born on the eve of the Second World War, in 1938, in Liverpool. His father's family owned several valuable properties in the city. Some were bombed during the war and rebuilt as quality residential and office premises, which ensured a certain degree of wealth. Wapshott had never needed to work. An only child, he had the best education, Eton and Oxford, but did not complete his degree. When his father died he took over the family business but, unlike the old man, he had little interest in property management and soon attended only the most important meetings, until he stopped that as well and handed over the operations entirely to his managers.

He always lived in his parents' house and his neighbours regarded him as an eccentric loner; kindly and polite but strange and withdrawn. His only interest was collecting records and he filled his house with albums that he bought from the estates of dead people or at markets. He did a great deal of travelling for his hobby and was said to own one of the largest private record collections in Britain.

He had twice been found guilty of a criminal offence and was on Scotland Yard's register of sex offenders. On the first occasion he was imprisoned for raping a twelve-year-old boy. The boy was a neighbour of Wapshott's and they got to know each other through a common interest in collecting records. The incident took place at Wapshott's parents' house, and when his mother heard of her son's behaviour she had a breakdown; it was blown up in the British media, especially the tabloids, which portrayed Wapshott, born into the privileged class, as a beast. Investigations revealed that he paid boys and young men handsomely to perform sexual acts.

By the time he finished his sentence his mother had died, and he sold his parents' house and moved to another district. Several years later he was back in the news when two boys in their early teens revealed how Wapshott had offered them money to undress at his home, and he was charged with rape again. When the matter came to light Wapshott was in Baden Baden in Germany and was arrested at Brenner's Hotel & Spa.

The second rape charge could not be proved and Wapshott moved abroad, to Thailand, but retained his British citizenship and kept his record collection in the UK, which he often visited on collecting missions. He used his mothers surname then, Wapshott; his real name was Henry Wilson. He had not fallen foul of the law since emigrating from Britain, but little was known about what he did in Thailand.

'So it's not surprising that he wanted to keep a low profile,' Erlendur said when Sigurdur Óli had finished his account.

'He sounds like a pervert big time,' Sigurdur Óli said. 'You can imagine why he chose Thailand.'

'Don't they have anything on him at the moment?' Erlendur asked. 'Scotland Yard.'

'No, but I'll bet they're relieved to be rid of him,' Sigurdur Óli said.

They had gone back to the ground floor and into the small bar there. The buffet table was packed. The tourists at the hotel were merry and noisy and gave the impression of being happy with everything they had seen and done, rosy-cheeked in their traditional Icelandic sweaters.

'Have you found any bank account in Gudlaugur's name?' Erlendur asked. He lit a cigarette, looked around him and noticed that he was the only smoker at the bar.

'I've still got to look into that,' Sigurdur Óli said, and sipped his beer.

Elínborg appeared in the doorway and Sigurdur Óli waved her over. She nodded and elbowed her way to the bar, bought a large beer and sat down with them. Sigurdur Óli gave Elínborg a resume of Scotland Yard's dossier on Wapshott, and she took the liberty of smiling.

'I bloody knew it,' she said.

'What?'

'That his interest in choirboys was sexually motivated. His interest in Gudlaugur too for certain.'

'Do you mean that he was having a bit of fun with Gudlaugur downstairs?' Sigurdur Óli said.

'Maybe Gudlaugur was forced to take part,' Erlendur said. 'Someone was carrying a knife.'

'What a way to spend Christmas, having to puzzle all this out,' Elínborg sighed.

'Not exactly good for the appetite,' Erlendur said and finished his Chartreuse. He wanted another. Looked at his watch. If he had been at the office he would have finished work by now. The bar was a little less busy and he waved the waiter over.

"There must have been at least two people in there with him because you can't threaten anyone if you're down on your knees' Sigurdur Óli cast a glance at Elínborg and thought he might have gone a little too far.

'It gets better all the time,' Elínborg said.

'Ruins the taste of the Christmas cookies,' Erlendur said.

'OK, but why did he stab Gudlaugur?' Sigurdur Óli said. 'Not just once, but repeatedly. As if he lost control of himself. If Wapshott attacked him first, something must have happened or been said in the basement room that made the pervert snap.'

Erlendur was going to order but the others declined and looked at their watches – Christmas was drawing quickly closer.

'I reckon he had a woman in there,' Sigurdur Óli said.

'They measured the level of Cortisol in the saliva on the condom,' Erlendur said. 'It was normal. Any woman who was with Gudlaugur could have been gone by the time he was murdered.'

'I don't think that's likely, judging from how we found him,' Elínborg said.

'Whoever was with him wasn't forced into anything,' Erlendur said. 'I think that's established. If any level of Cortisol had been found it would have been a sign of excitement or tension in the body.'

'So it was a whore then,' Sigurdur Óli said, going about her job.'

'Can't we talk about something nicer?' Elínborg asked.

'It could be that they were fleecing the hotel and Santa knew about it,' Erlendur said.

'And that's why he was killed?' Sigurdur Óli said.

'I don't know. There might also be some low-key prostitution going on with the manager's complicity. I haven't quite worked out all this but we may need to look into these things'

'Was Gudlaugur tied up in it in any way?' Elínborg asked.

'Judging from the state he was in when he was found, we can't rule it out,' Sigurdur Óli said.

'How's it going with your man?' Erlendur asked.

'He was poker-faced in the district court,' Elínborg said, sipping her beer.

'The boy still hasn't testified against his father, has he?' asked Sigurdur Óli, who was also familiar with the case.

'Silent as the grave, poor kid,' Erlendur said. 'And that bastard sticks to his statement. Flatly denies hitting the boy. And he's got good lawyers too.'

'So he'll get the boy back?'

'It could well be.'

'And the boy?' Erlendur asked. 'Does he want to go back?'

'That's the weirdest part of all,' Elínborg said. 'He's still attached to his father. It's as if he feels he deserved it.'

They fell silent.

'Are you going to spend Christmas at this hotel, Erlendur?' Elínborg asked. There was a tone of accusation in her voice.

'No, I suppose I'll get myself home,' Erlendur said. 'Spend some time with Eva. Boil some smoked lamb.'

'How's she doing?' Elínborg asked.

'So-so,' Erlendur said. 'Fine, I suppose.' He thought they could tell that he was lying. They were well aware of the problems his daughter had run into but rarely mentioned them. They knew he wanted to discuss them as little as possible and never asked in detail.

'St Thorlac's Day tomorrow,' Sigurdur Óli said. 'Got everything done, Elínborg?'

'Nothing.' She sighed.

'I'm wondering about that record collecting,' Erlendur said.

'What about it?' Elínborg said.

'Isn't it something that starts in childhood?' Erlendur said. 'Not that I know anything about it. I've never collected anything. But isn't it an interest that develops when you're a kid, when you collect cards and model planes, stamps of course, theatre programmes, records? Most people grow out of it but some go on collecting books and records until their dying day.'

'What are you trying to tell us?'

'I'm wondering about record collectors like Wapshott, although of course they're not all perverts like him, whether the collecting fad is connected with some kind of yearning for lost youth. Connected with a need to keep hold of something that otherwise would disappear from their lives but which they want to retain for as long as they can. Isn't collecting an attempt to preserve something from your childhood? Something to do with your memories, something you don't want to let go but keep on cultivating and nourishing with this obsession?'

'So Wapshott's record collecting, the choirboys, is some kind of nostalgia for youth?' Elínborg asked.

'And then when the nostalgia for youth appears before him in the flesh at this hotel, something snaps inside him?' said Sigurdur Óli. 'The boy turned into a middle-aged man. Do you mean something like that?'

'I don't know.'

Erlendur vacantly watched the tourists at the bar and noticed one who was middle-aged, Asian in appearance and American-sounding. He had a new video camera and was filming his friends. Suddenly it occurred to Erlendur that there might be security cameras at the hotel. The hotel manager had not mentioned it, nor the reception manager. He looked at Sigurdur Óli and Elínborg.