“Did you find his records?” the woman asked.
“Two,” Erlendur said. “Did he make any more?”
“No, there weren’t any more,” the old man said, glaring at Erlendur for an instant but quickly averting his gaze.
“Could we have the records?” the woman asked.
“I assume you’ll inherit everything he left,” Erlendur replied. “When we consider the investigation to be over you’ll get everything he owned. He had no other family, did he? No children? We haven’t been able to locate anything of that kind.”
“The last time I knew he was single,” the woman said. “Can we help you any further?” she then asked, as if they had made a major contribution to the investigation by taking the trouble to call at the hotel.
“It wasn’t his fault that he matured and lost his voice,” Erlendur said. He could stand their indifference and haughtiness no longer. A son had lost his life. A brother had been murdered. Yet it was as if nothing had happened. As if it was nothing to do with them. As if his life had long ago ceased to be part of their lives, because of something that was being kept from Erlendur.
The woman looked at Erlendur.
“If there wasn’t anything else,” she said again, and released the brake on the wheelchair.
“We’ll see,” Erlendur said.
“You don’t think we show enough sympathy, do you?” she suddenly said.
“I don’t think you show any sympathy,” Erlendur said. “But that’s no business of mine.”
“No,” the woman said. “It’s no business of yours.”
“But all the same, what I want to know is whether you had any feelings towards the man. He was your brother.” Erlendur turned to the old man in the wheelchair. “Your son.”
“He was a stranger to us,” the woman said, and stood up. The old man grimaced.
“Because he didn’t live up to your expectations?” Erlendur rose to his feet as well. “Because he failed you at the age of twelve. When he was a child. What did you do? Did you throw him out? Did you throw him out on the street?”
“How dare you talk to my father and me in that tone?” the woman said through clenched teeth. “How dare you? Who appointed you the conscience of the world?”
“Who took your conscience away?” Erlendur snarled back.
She looked daggers at him. Then she seemed to give up. She jerked the wheelchair towards her, swung it away from the table and pushed it in front of her out of the bar. She strode across the lobby towards the revolving door. Over the sound system an Icelandic soprano was singing melancholically… O touch my harp, you heaven-born goddess … . Erlendur and Elinborg set off after them and watched them leave the hotel, the woman holding her head high but the old man sunk even deeper into his wheelchair, nothing of him visible apart from his head nodding above the back.
… And others will little children e’er abide…
12
When Erlendur went back to his room shortly after midday, the reception manager had set up a record player and two loudspeakers. The hotel had a few old turntables that had not been used for some time. Erlendur owned one himself so he quickly worked out how to operate it. He had never had a CD player and hadn’t bought a record for years. He didn’t listen to modern music. For a long time after hearing people at work talking about hip-hop he thought it was a variation on hopscotch.
Elinborg was on her way to Hafnarfjordur. Erlendur had told her to go there and find out where Gudlaugur attended school. He had intended to ask the father and sister but hadn’t had the chance when their meeting came to its abrupt end. He would talk to them again later. In the meantime, he wanted Elinborg to locate people who knew Gudlaugur when he was a child star, to talk to his schoolmates. He wanted to know what effect his reputed fame had on the boy at such a young age. Also what his schoolmates had thought about it, and he wanted to know whether any remembered what happened when he lost his voice, and what became of him in the first few years afterwards. He was also wondering whether anyone knew of any enemies of Gudlaugur s from that time.
Outlining all this to Elinborg in the lobby, he noticed her irritation at having it all spelled out. She knew what the case involved and was quite capable of setting targets for herself.
“And you can buy yourself an ice cream on the way he added to tease her even more. With a few muttered curses about male chauvinist pigs, she went out of the door.
“How do I recognise this tourist?” said a voice behind him, and when he turned round he saw Valgerdur standing there, sampling kit in hand.
“Wapshott? You met him last night. He’s the haggard old Brit with stained teeth who collects choirboys,” Erlendur said.
She smiled.
“Stained teeth?” she said. “And collects choirboys?”
“It’s a long, long story that I’ll tell you some time. Any news about all those samples?”
He was strangely pleased to see her again. His heart almost skipped a beat when he heard her behind him. The gloom lifted from him for a moment and his voice became animated. He felt slightly breathless.
“I don’t know how it’s going,” she said. “There’s an incredible amount of samples”
“I, er …” Erlendur groped for an excuse for what had happened the previous night “I really seized up last night. Deaths and fatalities. I didn’t quite tell you the truth when you asked about my interest in people dying in the wilds”
“You don’t have to tell me anything,” she said.
“Yes, I definitely do need to tell you,” Erlendur said. “Is there any chance we could do that again?”
“Don’t…” She paused. “Don’t make an issue of it. It was great. Let’s forget it. OK?”
“OK, if that’s the way you want it,” Erlendur said, much against his wishes.
“Where is this Wapshott guy?”
Erlendur accompanied her to reception where she was given the number of his room. They shook hands and she walked over to the lift. He watched her. She waited for the lift without looking back. He wondered whether to pounce and was on the verge of doing so when the door opened and she stepped inside. She glanced at him the moment that the door closed, smiling an almost imperceptible smile.
Erlendur stood still for a moment and watched the number of the lift as it stopped on Wapshott’s floor. Then he pressed the button and ordered it back. He could smell Valgerdur’s perfume on the way up to his floor.
He put a recording of choirboy Gudlaugur Egilsson on the turntable and made sure the speed was set to 45 rpm. Then he stretched out on the bed. The record was brand new. It sounded as though it had never been played. Not a scratch or speck of dust on it. After a slight crackle at the beginning came the prelude, and finally a pure and celestial boy soprano started to sing “Ave Marial
He stood alone in the passageway, carefully opened the door to his father’s room and saw him sitting on the edge of the bed, staring into space in silent anguish. His father did not take part in the search. He had battled his way home to the farm after losing sight of his two sons on the moor in the storm that broke without warning. He had roamed around in the blizzard calling to them, unable to see a thing with the howling of the storm smothering his shouts. His desperation defied description. He had taken the boys along to help round up the sheep and bring them back to the folds. Winter had arrived but it seemed to be a fine day when they set off. But it was only a forecast and only an outlook. The storm came unannounced.
Erlendur approached his father and stopped by his side. He could not understand why he was sitting on the bed instead of joining the search party up on the moor. His brother had still not been found. He might be alive, though it was unlikely. Erlendur read the hopelessness in the faces of the exhausted men returning home to rest and eat before setting out again. They came from the villages and farms all around, everyone who was up to the task, bringing dogs and long sticks that they plunged into the snow. That was how they had found Erlendur. That was how they were going to find his brother.