“The Japanese had one copy of Gudlaugur’s first single,” Wapshott said. “The one I showed you last night. I bought it from them. Cost me a fortune but I don’t regret it. When I asked about its background they said they’d bought it from a collector from Bergen in Norway at a record fair in Liverpool. I got in touch with the Norwegian collector and found out that he’d bought some records from the estate of a music publisher in Trondheim. He may have had the copy sent from Iceland, possibly even by someone who wanted to promote the boy abroad.”
“A lot of research for an old record,” Erlendur said.
“Collectors are like genealogists. Part of the fun is tracing the origin. Since then I’ve tried to acquire more copies of his records, but it’s very tough. He only made the two recordings.”
“You said the Japanese sold you your copy for a fortune. Are these records worth anything?”
“Only to collectors,” Wapshott said. “And we’re not talking about huge sums”
“But big enough for you to come up here to Iceland to buy more. That’s why you wanted to meet Gudlaugur. To find out if he had any copies”
“I’ve been dealing with two or three Icelandic collectors for some time now. That goes back long before I became interested in Gudlaugur. Unfortunately, virtually none of his records are around any more. The Icelandic collectors couldn’t locate any. I might have a copy on the way through the Internet from Germany. I came here to meet those collectors, to meet Gudlaugur because I adore his singing, and to go to record shops here and look at the market.”
“Do you make a living from this?”
“Hardly,” Wapshott said, chugging on his Chesterfield, his fingers yellow after decades of smoking. “I came into an inheritance. Properties in Liverpool. I manage them, but most of my time goes on collecting records. You could call it a passion.”
“And you collect choirboys”
“Yes.”
“Have you found anything interesting on this trip?”
“No. Nothing. There doesn’t seem to be much interest in preserving anything here. It all has to be modern. Old stuff is rubbish. Nothing is worth keeping. People seem to treat records badly here. They’re just thrown away. From dead people’s estates, for example. No one is called in to examine them. They’re just driven off to the dump. For a long time I used to think that a company in Reykjavik called Sorpa was a collectors” society. It was always being mentioned in correspondence. It turned out to be a recycling plant that runs a second-hand outlet on the side. Collectors here find all kinds of valuables among the rubbish and sell them over the Internet for good money.”
“Is Iceland of special interest to collectors?” Erlendur asked. “On its own.”
“The big plus about Iceland for collectors is the small size of the market. Only a few copies of each record are released and it doesn’t take long for them to disappear and become lost. Like Gudlaugur’s records.”
“It must be exciting to be a collector in a world where people hate everything old and useless. It must make you happy to think you’re rescuing things of cultural value.”
“We’re a few nutters who resist destruction,” Wapshott said.
“And you profit from it.”
“You can.”
“What happened to Gudlaugur Egilsson? What happened to the child star?”
“What happens to all child stars,” Wapshott said. “He grew up. I don’t know exactly what became of him, but he never sang as a teenager or adult. His career was short but beautiful, then he vanished into the crowd and stopped being unique. Nobody championed him any more and he surely missed it. You need strong nerves to withstand admiration and fame at such a young age, and even stronger nerves when people turn their backs on you.”
Wapshott looked at the clock that hung above the bar, then at his watch, and cleared his throat.
“I’m taking the evening flight to London and need to run a few errands before I set off. Was there anything else you wanted to know?”
Erlendur looked at him.
“No, I think that’s all. I thought you were going to leave tomorrow.”
“If there’s anything further I can help you with, here’s my card,” Wapshott said as he took a card out of his breast pocket and handed it to Erlendur.
“It’s changed,” Erlendur said. “Your flight.”
“Because I didn’t meet Gudlaugur,” Wapshott said. “I’ve finished most of what I planned to do on this trip and I’ll save myself the price of a night at the hotel.”
“There’s just one thing,” Erlendur said.
“OK.”
“A biotechnician is coming here to take a saliva sample from you, if that’s all right.”
“A saliva sample?”
“For the murder investigation.”
“Why saliva?”
“I can’t tell you at the moment.”
“Am I a suspect?”
“We’re taking samples from everyone who knew Gudlaugur. For the investigation. That says nothing about you.”
“I understand,” Wapshott said. “Saliva! How queer.”
He smiled, and Erlendur stared at the teeth in his lower jaw, stained black from nicotine.
11
They entered the hotel through the revolving doors: he was old and frail and in a wheelchair; and she followed behind, short and slim, with a thin, hooked nose and tough, piercing eyes that scoured the lobby. The woman was in her fifties, dressed in a thick, brown winter coat and long leather boots, pushing him along in front of her. The man looked about eighty, white straggles of hair stood out from under the brim of his hat and his skinny face was deathly pale. He sat hunched up, white bony hands protruding from the sleeves of a black coat. He had a scarf around his neck and thick black horn-rimmed glasses that magnified his eyes like a fish’s.
The woman pushed him to the check-in desk. The head of reception, who was leaving his office, watched them approach.
“Can I help you?” he asked when they reached the desk.
The man in the wheelchair ignored him, but the woman asked for a detective named Erlendur who she had been told was at work at the hotel. Leaving the bar with Wapshott, Erlendur had seen them enter. They caught his attention immediately. There was something reminiscent of death about them.
He wondered whether to ground Wapshott and stop him from going back to the UK for the time being, but could not think of a good enough reason to detain him. He was pondering who those people could be, the man with haddock eyes and the woman with the eagle’s beak, when the head of reception saw him and waved to him. Erlendur was about to say goodbye to Wapshott, but suddenly he was gone.
“They’re asking for you,” the head of reception said as Erlendur approached the check-in desk.
Erlendur walked behind the desk. The haddock’s eyes stared at him from beneath the hat.
“Are you Erlendur?” the man in the wheelchair asked in an old and slurred voice.
“Do you want to talk to me?” Erlendur asked. The eagle’s beak pointed up in the air.
“Are you in charge of the investigation into the death of Gudlaugur Egilsson at this hotel?” the woman asked.
Erlendur said he was.
“I’m his sister,” she said. “And this is our father. Can we talk somewhere quiet?”
“Do you want me to help you with him?” Erlendur offered. She looked insulted and pushed the wheelchair along. They followed Erlendur into the bar and over to the table where he had been sitting with Wapshott. They were the only people inside. Even the waiter had disappeared. Erlendur did not know whether the bar was open before noon as a rule. Since the door was unlocked he assumed that it must be, but few people seemed to know about it.
The woman steered the wheelchair up to the table and locked the wheels. Then she sat down facing Erlendur.