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lived in his parents” house and his neighbours regarded him as an eccentric loner; kindly and polite but strange and withdrawn.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”
“Was Gudlaugur tied up in it in any way?” Elinborg asked.
“Judging from the state he was in when he was found, we can’t rule it out,” Sigurdur Oli said.
“How’s it going with your man?” Erlendur asked.
“He was poker-faced in the district court,” Elinborg said, sipping her beer.
“The boy still hasn’t testified against his father, has he?” asked Sigurdur Oli, who was also familiar with the case.
“Silent as the grave, poor kid,” Erlendur said. “And that bastard sticks to his statement. Flatly denies hitting the boy. And he’s got good lawyers too.”
“So he’ll get the boy back?”
“It could well be.”
“And the boy?” Erlendur asked. “Does he want to go back?”
“That’s the weirdest part of all,” Elinborg said. “He’s still attached to his father. It’s as if he feels he deserved it.”
They fell silent.
“Are you going to spend Christmas at this hotel, Erlendur?” Elinborg asked. There was a tone of accusation in her voice.
“No, I suppose I’ll get myself home,” Erlendur said. “Spend some time with Eva. Boil some smoked lamb.”
“How’s she doing?” Elinborg asked.
“So-so,” Erlendur said. “Fine, I suppose.” He thought they could tell that he was lying. They were well aware of the problems his daughter had run into but rarely mentioned them. They knew he wanted to discuss them as little as possible and never asked in detail.
“St Thorlac’s Day tomorrow,” Sigurdur Oli said. “Got everything done, Elinborg?”
“Nothing.” She sighed.
“I’m wondering about that record collecting,” Erlendur said.
“What about it?” Elinborg said.
“Isn’t it something that starts in childhood?” Erlendur said. “Not that I know anything about it. I’ve never collected anything. But isn’t it an interest that develops when you’re a kid, when you collect cards and model planes, stamps of course, theatre programmes, records? Most people grow out of it but some go on collecting books and records until their dying day.”
“What are you trying to tell us?”
“I’m wondering about record collectors like Wapshott, although of course they’re not all perverts like him, whether the collecting fad is connected with some kind of yearning for lost youth. Connected with a need to keep hold of something that otherwise would disappear from their lives but which they want to retain for as long as they can. Isn’t collecting an attempt to preserve something from your childhood? Something to do with your memories, something you don’t want to let go but keep on cultivating and nourishing with this obsession?”