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. Osp 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.
“Elinborg was right,” said Sigurdur Oli, 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 Oli 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 Oli 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lived in his parents” house and his neighbours regarded him as an eccentric loner; kindly and polite but strange and withdrawn.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 Oli had finished his account.
“He sounds like a pervert big time,” Sigurdur Oli 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 Oli 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 Oli said, and sipped his beer.
Elinborg appeared in the doorway and Sigurdur Oli waved her over. She nodded and elbowed her way to the bar, bought a large beer and sat down with them. Sigurdur Oli gave Elinborg 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 Oli 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,” Elinborg 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 Oli cast a glance at Elinborg and thought he might have gone a little too far.
“It gets better all the time,” Elinborg said.
“Ruins the taste of the Christmas cookies,” Erlendur said.
“OK, but why did he stab Gudlaugur?” Sigurdur Oli 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 Oli 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,” Elinborg 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 Oli said, going about her job.”
“Can’t we talk about something nicer?” Elinborg 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 Oli 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”