Arnaldur Indridason - Voices

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Voices: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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At a grand Reykjavik hotel the doorman has been repeatedly stabbed in the dingy basement room he called home. It is only a few days before Christmas and he was preparing to appear as Santa Claus at a children’s party. The manager tries to keep the murder under wraps. A glum detective taking up residence in his hotel and an intrusive murder investigation are not what he needs. As Erlendur quietly surveys the cast of grotesques who populate the hotel, the web of malice, greed and corruption that lies beneath its surface reveals itself. Everyone has something to hide. But most shocking is the childhood secret of the dead man who, many years before, was the most famous child singer in the country: it turns out to be a brush with stardom which would ultimately cost him everything. As Christmas Day approaches Erlendur must delve deeply into the past to find the man’s killer.

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“Is Iceland of special interest to collectors?” Erlendur asked. “On its own.”

“The big plus about Iceland for collectors is the small size of the market. Only a few copies of each record are released and it doesn’t take long for them to disappear and become lost. Like Gudlaugur’s records.”

“It must be exciting to be a collector in a world where people hate everything old and useless. It must make you happy to think you’re rescuing things of cultural value.”

“We’re a few nutters who resist destruction,” Wapshott said.

“And you profit from it.”

“You can.”

“What happened to Gudlaugur Egilsson? What happened to the child star?”

“What happens to all child stars,” Wapshott said. “He grew up. I don’t know exactly what became of him, but he never sang as a teenager or adult. His career was short but beautiful, then he vanished into the crowd and stopped being unique. Nobody championed him any more and he surely missed it. You need strong nerves to withstand admiration and fame at such a young age, and even stronger nerves when people turn their backs on you.”

Wapshott looked at the clock that hung above the bar, then at his watch, and cleared his throat.

“I’m taking the evening flight to London and need to run a few errands before I set off. Was there anything else you wanted to know?”

Erlendur looked at him.

“No, I think that’s all. I thought you were going to leave tomorrow.”

“If there’s anything further I can help you with, here’s my card,” Wapshott said as he took a card out of his breast pocket and handed it to Erlendur.

“It’s changed,” Erlendur said. “Your flight.”

“Because I didn’t meet Gudlaugur,” Wapshott said. “I’ve finished most of what I planned to do on this trip and I’ll save myself the price of a night at the hotel.”

“There’s just one thing,” Erlendur said.

“OK.”

“A biotechnician is coming here to take a saliva sample from you, if that’s all right.”

“A saliva sample?”

“For the murder investigation.”

“Why saliva?”

“I can’t tell you at the moment.”

“Am I a suspect?”

“We’re taking samples from everyone who knew Gudlaugur. For the investigation. That says nothing about you.”

“I understand,” Wapshott said. “Saliva! How queer.”

He smiled, and Erlendur stared at the teeth in his lower jaw, stained black from nicotine.

11

They entered the hotel through the revolving doors: he was old and frail and in a wheelchair; and she followed behind, short and slim, with a thin, hooked nose and tough, piercing eyes that scoured the lobby. The woman was in her fifties, dressed in a thick, brown winter coat and long leather boots, pushing him along in front of her. The man looked about eighty, white straggles of hair stood out from under the brim of his hat and his skinny face was deathly pale. He sat hunched up, white bony hands protruding from the sleeves of a black coat. He had a scarf around his neck and thick black horn-rimmed glasses that magnified his eyes like a fish’s.

The woman pushed him to the check-in desk. The head of reception, who was leaving his office, watched them approach.

“Can I help you?” he asked when they reached the desk.

The man in the wheelchair ignored him, but the woman asked for a detective named Erlendur who she had been told was at work at the hotel. Leaving the bar with Wapshott, Erlendur had seen them enter. They caught his attention immediately. There was something reminiscent of death about them.

He wondered whether to ground Wapshott and stop him from going back to the UK for the time being, but could not think of a good enough reason to detain him. He was pondering who those people could be, the man with haddock eyes and the woman with the eagle’s beak, when the head of reception saw him and waved to him. Erlendur was about to say goodbye to Wapshott, but suddenly he was gone.

“They’re asking for you,” the head of reception said as Erlendur approached the check-in desk.

Erlendur walked behind the desk. The haddock’s eyes stared at him from beneath the hat.

“Are you Erlendur?” the man in the wheelchair asked in an old and slurred voice.

“Do you want to talk to me?” Erlendur asked. The eagle’s beak pointed up in the air.

“Are you in charge of the investigation into the death of Gudlaugur Egilsson at this hotel?” the woman asked.

Erlendur said he was.

“I’m his sister,” she said. “And this is our father. Can we talk somewhere quiet?”

“Do you want me to help you with him?” Erlendur offered. She looked insulted and pushed the wheelchair along. They followed Erlendur into the bar and over to the table where he had been sitting with Wapshott. They were the only people inside. Even the waiter had disappeared. Erlendur did not know whether the bar was open before noon as a rule. Since the door was unlocked he assumed that it must be, but few people seemed to know about it.

The woman steered the wheelchair up to the table and locked the wheels. Then she sat down facing Erlendur.

“I was just on my way to see you,” Erlendur lied; he had intended to let Sigurdur Oli and Elinborg talk to Gudlaugur’s family. He could not remember whether he had actually asked them to do so.

“We’d prefer not to have the police inside our house,” the woman said. “That has never happened. A lady phoned us, presumably your colleague, I think she said her name was Elinborg. I asked who was in charge of the investigation and she told me you were one of them. I was hoping we could get this over with and that you would then leave us in peace.”

There was no hint of sorrow in their demeanour. No mourning for a loved one. Only cold nastiness. They felt they had certain duties to dispatch, felt obliged to give a report to the police, but clearly had a repulsion against doing so and did not mind showing it. It didn’t seem as if the corpse found in the hotel basement was any concern of theirs in the slightest. As if they were above that.

“You know the circumstances in which Gudlaugur was found,” Erlendur said.

“We know he was killed,” the old man said. “We know he was stabbed.”

“Do you know who could have done it?”

“We don’t have the faintest idea,” the woman said. “We had no contact with him. We don’t know who he associated with. Don’t know his friends, nor his enemies if he had any”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

Elinborg walked into the bar. She approached them and sat down beside Erlendur. He introduced her to them but they showed no reaction, both equally determined to allow none of this to ruffle them.

“I suppose he must have been about twenty then,” the woman said. “The last time we saw him.”

“Twenty?” Erlendur thought he must have misheard.

“As I said, there was no contact.”

“Why not?” Elinborg asked.

The woman did not even look at her.

“Isn’t it enough for us to talk to you?” she asked Erlendur. “Does this woman have to be here too?”

Erlendur looked at Elinborg. He seemed to cheer up slightly.

“You don’t seem to be mourning his fate very much,” he said without answering her. “Gudlaugur. Your brother” he said, and looked at the woman again. “Your son,” he said, and looked at the old man. “Why? Why haven’t you seen him for thirty years? And as I told you, her name is Elinborg,” he added. “If you have any more comments to make we’ll take you down to the police station and continue there, and you can lodge a formal complaint. We’ve got a police car outside.”

The eagle’s beak rose, offended. The haddock’s eyes narrowed.

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