Two days later, Erlendur was up and about again. He stood beside his father, helpless and afraid. Strange pangs of conscience had haunted him when he began to recover and regain his strength. Why him? Why him and not his brother? And if they had not found him, would they possibly have found his brother instead? He wanted to ask his father about this and wanted to ask why he was not taking part in the search. But he asked nothing. Just watched him, the deep lines etched into his face, his stubble, his eyes black with sorrow.
A long time elapsed and his father ignored him. Erlendur put his hand on his father’s and asked whether it was his fault. That his brother was missing. Because he had not held him tightly enough, should have taken better care of him, should have had him by his side when he himself was found. He asked in a soft and hesitant voice but lost control of himself and began whimpering. His father bowed his head. Tears welled up in his eyes, he hugged Erlendur and started to weep as well, until his huge body shook and trembled in his son’s arms.
All this passed through Erlendur’s mind until the record began crackling again. He had not allowed himself these contemplations for a long time, but suddenly the memories unfolded within him and he once again felt the heavy sorrow that he knew would never be completely buried or forgotten.
Such was the power of the choirboy.
13
The telephone on the bedside table rang. He sat up, lifted the needle from the record and switched off the player. Valgerdur was calling. She told him that Henry Wapshott was not in his room. When she had the hotel staff call his room and look for him, he was nowhere to be found.
“He was going to wait around for the sample,” Erlendur said. “Has he checked out of the hotel? I understand he had a flight booked for tonight.”
“I haven’t asked about that,” Valgerdur said. “I can’t wait here much longer and …”
“No, of course not, sorry” Erlendur said. “I’ll send him to you when I find him. Sorry about that”
“OK then, I’m off?
Erlendur hesitated. Although he didn’t know what to say, he didn’t want to let her go immediately. The silence became prolonged and suddenly there was a knock on his door. He thought Eva Lind had come to visit him.
“I’d so like to meet you again,” he said, “but I understand if you can’t be bothered.”
Again there was a knock on the door, harder this time.
“I wanted to tell you the truth about that deaths and ordeals business,” Erlendur said. “If you can be bothered to listen.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you fancy that?”
He didn’t know himself exactly what he meant Why he wanted to tell this woman what he had never told anyone but his daughter before. Why he would not wind up the matter, get on with his life and let nothing disturb it, not now or ever.
Valgerdur did not answer immediately, and there was a third knock on the door. Erlendur put down the phone and opened the door without looking outside to see who was there; he assumed it could only be Eva. When he picked up the telephone again, Valgerdur had gone.
“Hello,” he said. “Hello?” There was no reply.
After putting down the receiver again, he turned around. In his room stood a man he had never seen before. He was short, wearing a thick, dark blue winter coat and a scarf, with a blue peaked cap on his head. Drops of water glittered on his cap and coat where the snow had melted. He was fairly fat-faced with thick lips, and enormous, dark bags beneath small, tired eyes. He reminded Erlendur of photographs of the poet W. H. Auden. A drip hung from the end of his nose.
“Are you Erlendur?” he said.
“Yes.”
“I was told to come to this hotel and talk to you,” the man said. He took off his cap, tapped it against his coat and wiped the drip from his nose.
“Who told you that?” Erlendur asked.
“Someone by the name of Marion Briem. I don’t know who that is. Something about the Gudlaugur Egilsson investigation and talking to everyone who knew him in the past. I used to know him and that Marion told me to talk to you about it.”
“Who are you?” Erlendur said, trying to recall where he had seen his face before.
“My name’s Gabriel Hermannsson and I used to conduct the Hafnarfjordur Children’s Choir once,” the man said. “May I sit down on the bed? Those long corridors…”
“Gabriel? Be my guest. Have a seat.” The man unbuttoned his coat and loosened his scarf. Erlendur picked up one of Gudlaugur’s record sleeves and looked at the photograph of the Hafnarfjordur Children’s Choir. The choirmaster stared cheerfully into the camera. “Is this you?” he asked, handing him the sleeve.
Gabriel looked at the sleeve and nodded.
“Where did you get that?” he asked. “Those records have been unavailable for decades. I stupidly lost mine somehow or other. Lent it to someone. You should never lend anything.”
“It belonged to Gudlaugur,” Erlendur said.
“I’m only, what, twenty-eight there,” Gabriel said. “When the photo was taken. Incredible how time flies”
“What did Marion say to you?”
“Not much. I said what I knew about Gudlaugur and was told to talk to you. I was coming to Reykjavik anyway so I thought it would be ideal to use the opportunity.”
Gabriel hesitated.
“I couldn’t quite tell from the voice,” he said, “but I was wondering whether it was a man or a woman. Marion. I thought it would be rude to ask but I couldn’t make up my mind. Normally you can tell from the voice. Funny name. Marion Briem.”
Erlendur discerned in his voice a note of interest, almost eagerness, as if it mattered to know.
“I’ve never thought about that,” Erlendur said. “That name. Marion Briem. I was listening to this record,” he said, pointing to the sleeve. “His voice has a strong effect, there’s no denying that. Considering how young the lad was.”
“Gudlaugur was probably the best choirboy we ever had,” Gabriel said as he looked at the sleeve. “In retrospect. I don’t think we realised what we had in our hands until much later, maybe not even until only a few years ago.”
“When did you first get to know him?”
“His father brought him to me. The family lived in Hamarfiordur then, and still do, I think. The mother died a little while later and he brought the children up entirely by himself: Gudlaugur and a girl who was some years older. The father knew that I’d just got back from studying music abroad. I taught music, private lessons and other things. I was appointed choirmaster when I managed to round up enough children to form a choir. It was mostly girls, as always, but we advertised specially for boys and Gudlaugur’s father brought him to my house one day. He was ten at the time and had a wonderful voice. That wonderful voice. And he knew how to sing. I could tell straight away that his father made great demands on the boy and was strict with him. He said he’d taught him everything he knew about singing. I later found out that he was hard on the boy, punished him, kept him indoors when he wanted to go out and play. I don’t think you could call it a good upbringing because so much was expected of him and he wasn’t allowed to hang around with friends much. He was a classic example of parents taking control of their children and trying to turn them into what they want. I don’t think Gudlaugur had a particularly happy childhood.”