Arnaldur Indridason - Voices

“I thought you were a record collector,” Wapshott said. “Like me.”

“What kind of record collector? Records? You mean …?”

“I collect old records,” Wapshott said. “Old gramophone records. LPs, EPs, singles. That’s how I know Gudlaugur. I was going to meet him here just now and was looking forward to it, so you must understand it’s quite a shock for me to hear that he’s dead. Murdered! Who could have wanted to murder him?”

His surprise seemed genuine.

“Did you meet him last night maybe?” Erlendur asked.

At first, Wapshott didn’t realise what Erlendur meant, until it dawned on him and he stared at the detective.

“Are you implying… do you think I’m lying to you? Am I …? Are you saying I’m a suspect? Do you think I had something to do with his death?”

Erlendur watched him, saying nothing.

“How absurd!” Wapshott raised his voice. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting that man for a long time. For years. You can’t be serious.”

“Where were you around this time last night?” Erlendur asked.

“In town,” Wapshott said. “I was in town. I was at a collectors” shop on the high street, then I had dinner at an Indian restaurant not far away.”

“You’ve been at the hotel for a few days. Why didn’t you meet Gudlaugur before?”

“But… weren’t you just saying that he’s dead? What do you mean?”

“Didn’t you want to meet him as soon as you checked in? You looked forward to meeting him, you said. Why did you wait so long?”

“He decided the time and venue. Oh my God, what have I got myself into?”

“How did you contact him? And what did you mean by “one-sided worship”?”

Henry Wapshott looked at him.

“I mean—” Wapshott began, but Erlendur didn’t allow him to complete the sentence.

“Did you know he worked at this hotel?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I’d found out. I make a point of researching my subjects. For collection purposes”

“And that’s why you stayed at this hotel?”

“Yes.”

“Were you buying records from him?” Erlendur continued. “Is that how you knew each other? Two collectors, the same interest?”

“As I said, I didn’t know him, but I was going to meet him in person.”

“What do you mean?”

“You haven’t got the faintest idea who he was, have you?” Wapshott said, surprised that Erlendur had never heard of Gudlaugur Egilsson.

“He was a caretaker or a doorman and a Father Christmas,” Erlendur said. “Is there anything else I need to know?”

“Do you know my specialist field?” Wapshott replied. “I’m not sure how much you know about collecting in general or record collecting in particular, but most collectors specialise in a certain field. People can be rather eccentric about it. It’s incredible what people can be bothered to collect. I’ve heard of a man who has sick bags from every airline in the world. I also know a woman who collects hair from Barbie dolls”

Wapshott looked at Erlendur.

“Do you know what I specialise in?”

Erlendur shook his head. He was not completely convinced that he had understood the part about airline sick bags. And what was all that about Barbie dolls?

“I specialise in boys” choirs.”

“Boys” choirs?”

“Not only boys” choirs. My special interest is choirboys.”

Erlendur hesitated, unsure whether he had misunderstood.

“Choirboys?”

“Yes.”

“You collect records of choirboys?”

“I do. Of course I collect other records, but choirboys are — how should I put it? — my passion.”

“How does Gudlaugur fit in with all this?”

Henry Wapshott smiled. He stretched out for a black leather briefcase that he had with him. Opening it, he took out the sleeve of a 45 single.

He took his glasses out of his breast pocket and Erlendur noticed that he dropped a white piece of paper onto the floor. Erlendur reached for it and saw the name Brenner’s printed on it in green.

“Thank you. A serviette from a hotel in Germany? Wapshott said. “Collecting is an obsession,” he added apologetically.

Erlendur nodded.

“I was going to ask him to autograph this sleeve for me,” Wapshott said, handing it to Erlendur.

On the front of the sleeve was the name’GUDLAUGUR EGILSSON” in a little arc of golden letters, with a black-and-white photograph of a young boy, hardly more than twelve years old, slightly freckled, his hair carefully smoothed down, who smiled at Erlendur.

“He had a marvellously sensitive voice,” Wapshott said. “Then along comes puberty and …” He shrugged in resignation. There was a hint of sadness and regret in his tone. “I’m astonished you haven’t heard of him or don’t know who he was, if you’re investigating his death. He must have been a household name in his day. According to my sources, he could be described as a well-known child star.”

Erlendur looked up from the album sleeve, at Wapshott.

A child star?”

“He performed on two records, singing solo and with church choirs. He must have been quite a name in this country. In his day.”

“A child star,” Erlendur repeated. “You mean like Shirley Temple? That kind of child star?”

“Probably, by your standards, I mean here in Iceland, a small country off the beaten track. He must have been pretty famous even if everyone seems to have forgotten him now. Shirley Temple was of course …”

“The Little Princess,” Erlendur muttered to himself.

“Pardon?”

“I didn’t know he was a child star.”

“It was ages ago.”

“And? He made records?”

“Yes.”

“That you collect?”

“I’m trying to acquire copies. I specialise in choirboys like him. He was a unique boy soprano.”

“Choirboy?” Erlendur said almost to himself. He recalled the poster of The Little Princess and was about to ask Wapshott in more detail about the child star Gudlaugur, when someone disturbed him.

“So here you are,” Erlendur heard someone say above him. Valgerdur was standing behind him, smiling. She no longer carried her sampling kit. She was wearing a thin, black, knee-length leather coat with a beautiful red sweater underneath, and she had put on her make-up so carefully that it hardly showed. “Does the invitation still stand?” she asked.

Erlendur leaped to his feet. But Wapshott had already stood up.

“Sorry,” Erlendur said, “I didn’t realise … Of course.” He smiled. “Of course.”

They moved to the bar next to the dining room when they had eaten their fill of the buffet and drunk coffee afterwards. Erlendur bought them drinks and they sat down at a booth well inside the bar. She said she couldn’t stay long, from which Erlendur read polite caution. Not that he was planning to invite her up to his room — the thought didn’t even cross his mind and she knew that — but he felt a sense of insecurity about her and the same kind of barriers he encountered from people who were sent to him for interrogation. Perhaps she didn’t know herself what she was doing.

Talking to a detective intrigued her and she wanted to know everything about his job, the crimes and how he went about catching criminals. Erlendur told her that it was mostly boring administrative work.

“But crimes have become more vicious,” she said. “You read it in the papers. Nastier crimes”

“I don’t know,” Erlendur said. “Crimes are always nasty”

“You’re always hearing stories about the drug world; debt collectors attacking kids who owe money for their dope, and if the kids can’t pay, their families are attacked instead.”

“Yes,” said Erlendur, who sometimes worried about Eva Lind for precisely that reason. “It’s quite a changed world. More brutal.”