Arnaldur Indridason - Voices

“Why did he need scissors or a knife, did he tell you?”

“It was something to do with the Santa suit.”

“The Santa suit?”

“He didn’t go into detail, just some stitches he needed to unpick.”

“Did he return the knife?”

“No, not while I was here, then I left at noon and that’s all I know.”

“What sort of a knife was it?”

“He said it had to be a sharp one,” Denni said.

“It was the same kind as this,” the manager said, reaching into a drawer to take out a small steak knife with a wooden handle and fine-serated blade. “We lay these for people who order our T-bone steak. Have you tried one? Delicious. The knives go through them like butter.”

Erlendur took the knife, examined it and thought to himself that Gudlaugur may have provided his murderer with the weapon that was used to kill him. Wondered whether that business about the stitching of his Santa suit was just a ploy. Whether Gudlaugur had expected someone in his room and wanted to have the knife at hand; or had the knife been lying on his desk because he needed to mend his Santa suit and the attack was sudden, unpremeditated and sparked by something that happened in the little room? In that case, the attacker had not gone to Gudlaugur’s room armed, not gone there with the purpose of killing him.

“I need to take that knife,” he said. “We need to know if the size and type of blade match the wounds. Is that all right?”

The hotel manager nodded.

“Isn’t it that British chap?” he said. “Have you got anyone else?”

“I’d like to have a quick word with Denni here,” Erlendur said without answering him.

The manager nodded again and stayed where he was, until the penny dropped and he gave Erlendur an offended look. He was accustomed to being the centre of attention. When he did get the message he noisily invented some business to attend to in his office and disappeared. Dennis relief when his boss was no longer present proved shortlived.

“Did you go down to the basement and stab him?” Erlendur asked.

Denni looked at him like a doomed man.

“No,” he said hesitantly, as if not quite sure himself. The next question left him even more in doubt.

“Do you chew tobacco?” Erlendur asked.

“No,” he said. “Chew tobacco? What…?”

“Have you had a sample taken?”

“Eh?”

“Do you use condoms?”

“Condoms?” said Denni, still at a total loss.

“No girlfriend?”

“Girlfriend?”

“That you have to make sure you don’t get pregnant?”

Denni said nothing.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he said in the end; Erlendur sensed a note of regret. “What are you asking me all this for?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Erlendur said. “You knew Gudlaugur. What kind of a man was he?”

“He was cool.”

Denni told Erlendur that Gudlaugur had felt comfortable at the hotel, did not want to leave and in fact feared moving out after he was sacked. He used all the hotel services and was the only member of staff who got away with that for years. He ate cheaply at the hotel, put his clothes in with the hotel laundry and didn’t pay a penny for his Utile room in the basement. Redundancy came as a shock to him, but he said he could manage if he lived frugally and might not even have to earn himself a living any more.

“What did he mean by that?” Erlendur asked.

Denni shrugged.

“I don’t know. He was quite mysterious sometimes. Said lots of things I couldn’t suss out.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, something about music. Sometimes. When he drank. Most of the time he was just normal.”

“Did he drink a lot?”

“No, not at all. Sometimes at weekends. He never missed a day’s work. Never. He was proud of that although it’s not such a remarkable job. Being a doorman and stuff

“What did he say to you about music?”

“He liked beautiful music. I don’t remember exactly what he said.”

“Why do you think he said he didn’t need to earn himself a living any more?”

“He seemed to have money. And he never paid for anything so he could save up for ever. I guess that’s what he meant. That he’d saved enough.”

Erlendur remembered asking Sigurdur Oli to check Gudlaugur’s bank accounts and resolved to remind him. He left Denni in the kitchen in a state of confusion, wondering about chewing tobacco and condoms and girlfriends. As he walked past the lobby he caught sight of a young woman arguing noisily with the head of reception. He seemed to want her out of the hotel, but she refused to leave. It crossed Erlendur’s mind that the woman who wanted to invoice this man for his night of fun had shown up, and he was about to go away when the young woman noticed him and stared.

“Are you the cop?” she called out.

“Get out of here!” the head of reception said in an unusually harsh tone.

“You look exactly like Eva Lind described you,” she said, sizing up Erlendur. “I’m Stina. She told me to talk to you.”

They sat down in the bar. Erlendur bought them coffee. He tried to ignore her breasts but had his work cut out doing so. Never in his life had he seen such a huge bosom on such a slim and delicate body. She was wearing an ankle-length beige coat with a fur collar, and she draped it over the chair at their table to reveal a skintight red top that hardly covered her stomach and black flared trousers that barely stretched above the crease between her buttocks. She was heavily painted, wore thick, dark lipstick and smiled to reveal a beautiful set of teeth.

“Three hundred thousand,” she said, carefully rubbing under her right breast as if it itched. “Were you wondering about the tits?”

“Are you all right?”

“It’s the stitches” She winced “I mustn’t scratch them too much. Have to be careful.”

“What-?”

“New silicon,” Stina interrupted him. “I had a boob job the other day.”

Erlendur took care not to stare at her new breasts.

“How do you know Eva Lind?” he asked.

“She said you’d ask that and told me to tell you that you don’t want to know. She’s right. Trust me. And she also told me you’d help me with a Utile business and then I could help you, know what I mean?”

“No,” Erlendur said. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Eva said you would.”

“Eva was lying. What are you talking about? A little business, what does that involve?”

Stina sighed.

“My friend was busted with some hash at Keflavik airport. Not much, but enough for them to put him away for maybe three years. They sentence them like murderers, those fuckers. A bit of hash. And a few tabs, right! He says he’ll get three years. Three! Paedophiles get three months, suspended. Fucking wankers!”

Erlendur didn’t see how he could help her. She was like a child, unaware of how big and complicated and difficult it is to deal with the world.

“Was he caught at the terminal?”

“Yeah.”

“I can’t do anything,” Erlendur said. “And I don’t feel inclined to. You don’t keep particularly good company. Dope smuggling and prostitution. What about a straightforward office job?”

“Won’t you just try?” Stina said. “Talk to someone. He mustn’t get three years!”

“To get this perfectly straight,” Erlendur said with a nod, “you’re a prostitute?”

“Prostitute, prostitute,” Stina said, producing a cigarette from a little black handbag over her shoulder. “I dance at The Marquis. She leaned forwards and whispered con-spiratorially to Erlendur: “But there’s more money in the other business.”

“And you’ve had customers at this hotel?”

“A few,” Stina said.