When the local boys and Gudlaugur’s classmates called round for him the usual answer was that he had to stay in and do his homework, either for school or for singing and piano practice. Sometimes he was allowed to go out with them and they noticed that he was not as coarse as they were, and strangely sensitive. His clothes never got dirty, he never jumped in puddles, he was rather a wimp at football and spoke very properly. Sometimes he talked about people with foreign names. Some Schubert bloke. And when they told him about the latest action comics they were reading or what they had seen at the cinema, he told them he read poetry. Maybe not necessarily because he really wanted to, but because his father said it was good for him to read poetry. They had a hunch that his father set him lessons to learn and was very strict about it. One poem every evening.
His sister was different. Tougher. More like her father. The father did not seem to make such great demands on her as on the boy. She was learning the piano and like her brother, had joined the children’s choir when it was set up. Her friends described how she was sometimes jealous of her brother when their father praised him; their mother appeared to favour the son as well. People thought Gudlaugur and his mother were close. She was like his guardian angel.
One of Gudlaugur’s classmates was shown into the drawing room once while the family debated whether he could go out to play. The father stood on the stairs wearing his thick glasses, Gudlaugur on the landing and his mother by the door to the drawing room, and she said it did not matter if the boy went out to play. He did not have so many friends and they did not call for him very often. He could go on practising later.
“Get on with your exercises!” the father shouted. “Do you think it’s something you can pick up and put down as you please? You don’t understand the dedication it involves, do you? You’ll never understand that!”
“He’s just a child,” his mother said. “And he doesn’t have many friends. You can’t keep him shut up indoors all day. He must be allowed to be a child too.”
“It’s all right,” Gudlaugur said, and walked over to the boy visiting him. “I might come out later. Go home and I’ll come afterwards.”
As the boy left, before the door closed behind him, he heard Gudlaugur’s father shout down the stairs: “You shall never do that again, argue with me in front of strangers.”
Over time Gudlaugur became isolated at school and the boys in the top form started to tease him. It was very innocent at first. They all teased each other and there were fights in the playground and pranks just as in all schools, but by the age of eleven Gudlaugur had clearly become the butt of the bullying and practical jokes. It was not a large school by modern standards and everyone knew that Gudlaugur was different. He was wan and sickly. A stay-at-home. The boys where he lived stopped calling for him and started teasing him at school. His satchel would go missing or be empty when he picked it up. Boys pushed him over. They ripped his clothes. He was beaten up. He was called names. No one invited him to birthday parties.
Gudlaugur did not know how to fight back. He did not understand what was going on. His father complained to the headmaster, who promised to put an end to it, but it proved to be beyond his control and Gudlaugur would go home from school as before covered in bruises and clutching his empty satchel. His father contemplated removing him from the school, even moving out of the town, but he was obstinate and refused to give in, having taken part in founding the children’s choir. He was pleased with the young conductor, and, knowing that choir was a place for Gudlaugur to practise and draw attention to himself eventually, felt that the bullying — for which there was no word in the Icelandic language in those days, Elinborg interjected — was something Gudlaugur simply had to put up with.
The boy responded with total surrender and became a dreamy loner. He concentrated on singing and the piano and appeared to derive some peace of mind from them. In that field everything went in his favour. He could see what he was capable of. But most of the time he felt bad and when his mother died it was as if he turned to nothing.
He was always seen alone and tried to smile if he met children from the school. He made a record that was reported in the newspapers. It was as if his father had been right all the time. Gudlaugur would be something special in life.
And soon, because of a closely guarded secret, he earned a new name in the neighbourhood.
“What was he called?” Erlendur asked.
“The headmaster didn’t know,” Elinborg said, “and his classmates either pretended not to remember or refused to tell. But it had a profound effect on the boy. They all agreed on that.”
“What time is it anyway?” Erlendur suddenly asked, as if in panic.
“I suppose it must be past seven,” Elinborg said. “Is something wrong?”
“Bugger it, I’ve slept all day,” Erlendur said, leaping to his feet. “I have to find Henry Wapshott. They were supposed to take a sample from him at lunchtime and he wasn’t here.”
Elinborg looked at the record player, loudspeakers and records.
“Is he any good?” she asked.
“He’s brilliant,” Erlendur said. “You ought to listen to him.”
“I’m going home,” Elinborg said, standing up now too.
“Are you going to stay at the hotel over Christmas? Aren’t you going to get yourself home?”
“I don’t know,” Erlendur said. “I’ll see.”
“You’re welcome to join us. You know that. I’ll be having cold leg of pork. And ox tongue.”
“Don’t worry so much,” Erlendur said as he opened the door. “You get off home, I’m going to check on Wapshott.”
“Where’s Sigurdur Oli been all day?” Elinborg asked.
“He was going to see if he could find out anything about Wapshott from Scotland Yard. He’s probably home by now.”
“Why’s it so cold in your room?”
“The radiator’s broken,” Erlendur said, closing the door behind them.
When they went down to the lobby he said goodbye to Elinborg and found the head of reception in his office. Henry Wapshott had not been seen at the hotel all day. His key card was not in the pigeon hole and he had not checked out. He still had to pay the bill. Erlendur knew that he was catching the evening flight to London and he had nothing concrete to prevent him from leaving the country. He had not heard from Sigurdur Oli. He dithered in the lobby.
“Could you let me into his room?” he asked the reception manager.
The manager shook his head.
“He could have fled,” Erlendur said. “Do you know when the plane for London leaves tonight? What time?”
“The afternoon flight was badly delayed,” the man said. Knowing all about the flights was part of his job. “It will take off around nine, they think.”
Erlendur made a couple of telephone calls. He found out that Henry Wapshott had a flight booked to London. He had not checked in yet. Erlendur took measures for passport control to apprehend him at the airport and have him sent back to Reykjavik. Needing to find a reason for the Keflavik police to detain him, he hesitated for a moment and wondered whether to invent something. He knew that the press would have a field day if he told the truth, but he couldn’t think of a plausible lie on the spot, and in the end he said, which was true, that Wapshott was under suspicion in a murder inquiry.
“Can’t you let me into his room?” Erlendur asked the manager again. “I won’t touch anything. I just need to know if he’s done a runner. It would take me ages to get a warrant. I just need to put my head round the door.”