Arnaldur Indridason - Voices

“That’s why you went to the hotel to meet him,” Erlendur said. “To get your cut of the sale.”

“He was wearing his doorman’s uniform,” Stefania said. “He was in the lobby carrying suitcases out to a car for some tourists. I watched him for a while and then he saw me. I said I had to talk to him about the records. He asked about Dad…”

“Did your father send you to see Gudlaugur?”

“No, he would never have done that. After the accident he never wanted to hear his name mentioned.”

“But he was the first thing Gudlaugur asked about when he saw you at the hotel.”

“Yes. We went down to his room and I asked where the records were.”

“They’re in a safe place,” Gudlaugur said, smiling at his sister. “Henry told me he’d talked to you.”

“He told us you were planning to sell him the records. Dad said half of them are his and we want half of the proceeds.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Gudlaugur said. “I’m not going to sell them.”

“What did Wapshott say to that?”

“He wasn’t pleased.”

“He’s offering a very good price for them.”

“I can get more for them if I sell them myself, one at a time. Collectors are very interested in them. I think Wapshott’s going to do the same even if he told me he wants to buy them to keep them out of circulation. I expect he’s lying. He’s planning to sell them and make money out of me. Everyone was going to make money out of me in the old days, especially Dad, and that hasn’t changed. Not in the least.”

They stared at each other.

“Come home and talk to Dad,” she said. “He doesn’t have much time left.”

“Did Wapshott talk to him?”

“No, he wasn’t there when Wapshott came. I told Dad about him.”

“And what did he say?”

“Nothing. Only that he wanted his share.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Why have you never left him? Why haven’t you got married and had a family of your own? It’s not your life that you’re living, it’s his life. Where’s your life?”

“I suppose it’s in the wheelchair you put him in,” Stefania snorted, “and don’t you dare ask about my life.”

“He has the same power over you that he had over me in the old days.”

Stefania exploded with rage.

“Someone had to look after him! His favourite, his star, turned into a voiceless queer who pushed him down the stairs and hasn’t dared talk to him since. Prefers sitting in his house at night and creeping out before he wakes up. What power does he have over you? You think you got rid of him for once and for all, but just look at you! Look at yourself! What are you? Tell me that! You’re nothing. You’re scum.”

She stopped.

“Sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

She didn’t answer him.

“Does he ask about me?”

“No.”

“He never talks about me?”

“No, never.”

“He hates the way I live. He hates the way I am. He hates me. After all these years.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Erlendur said. “Why this game of hide-and-seek?”

“Hide-and-seek? Well, you can imagine. I didn’t want to talk about family matters. I thought I could protect us, our privacy.”

“Was this the last time you saw your brother?”

“Yes.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“Yes.” Stefania looked at him. “What are you implying?”

“Didn’t you catch him with a young man just as your father did, and throw a fit? That recalled the root of the unhappiness in your life and so you decided to put an end to it.”

“No, what…?”

“We have a witness.”

“A witness?”

“The lad who was with him. A young man who did your brother favours for money. You caught them in the basement, the lad ran away and you attacked your brother. Saw a knife on his desk and attacked him.”

“That’s all wrong!” Stefania said, sensing that Erlendur meant what he was saying, sensing the noose genuinely closing on her. She stared at Erlendur, unable to believe her own ears.

“There’s a witness—” Erlendur began, but didn’t manage to finish the sentence.

“What witness? What witness are you talking about?”

“Do you deny having caused your brothers death?”

The hotel telephone began ringing and before Erlendur could answer his mobile began ringing in his jacket pocket as well. He cast an apologetic look at Stefania, who glared back at him.

“I must take this call,” Erlendur said.

Stefania backed off and he saw her take one of Gudlaugur’s records, which was on the desk, out of its cover. When Erlendur answered the hotel telephone she was scrutinising the record. It was Sigurdur Oli. Erlendur answered his mobile and asked the caller there to hold.

“A man got in touch with me just now about the murder at the hotel and I gave him your mobile number,” Sigurdur Oli said. “Has he called you?”

“There’s someone on the other line right now,” Erlendur said.

“It looks as though we’ve solved this case. Talk to him and call me. I sent three cars over. Elinborg’s with them.”

Erlendur put the receiver down and picked up his mobile again. He didn’t recognise the voice, but the man introduced himself and started his account. He had barely begun before Erlendur’s suspicions were confirmed and he figured it all out. They had a long talk and at the end of the conversation Erlendur asked the caller to go down to the police station and give a statement to Sigurdur Oli. He called Elinborg and gave her instructions. Then he put his mobile away and turned to Stefania, who had put Gudlaugur’s record on the turntable and switched it on.

“Sometimes, in the old days,” she said, “when records like this were being made, there was all kinds of background noise that got onto the recordings, maybe because people didn’t take much care about making them, the technology was primitive and the recording facilities were poor too. You can even hear passing traffic on them. Did you know that?”

“No,” Erlendur said, not grasping the point.

“You can hear it on this song, for example, if you listen carefully. I don’t think anyone would notice unless they knew it was there.”

She turned up the volume. Erlendur pricked up his ears and noticed a background sound in the middle of the song.

“What is that?” he asked.

“It’s Dad,” Stefania said.

She played the part of the song again and Erlendur could hear it clearly, although he couldn’t make out what was being said.

“That’s your father?” Erlendur said.

“He’s telling him he’s wonderful,” Stefania said remotely. “He was standing near the microphone and couldn’t contain himself:

She looked at Erlendur.

“My father died yesterday,” she said. “He lay down on the sofa after dinner and fell asleep as he sometimes did, and never woke up again. As soon as I entered the room I could tell he was gone. I sensed it before I touched him. The doctor said he had had a heart attack. That’s why I came to the hotel to see you, to make a clean sweep. It doesn’t matter any more. Not for him and not for me either. None of this matters any more.”

She played the snatch of song a third time and on this occasion Erlendur thought he could make out what was said. A single word attached to the song like a footnote.

Wonderful.

“I went down to Gudlaugur’s room the day he was murdered to tell him that Dad wanted a reconciliation. By then I’d told Dad that Gudlaugur kept a key to the house and had sneaked inside, sat in the living room and crept back out without our noticing. I didn’t know how Gudlaugur would react, whether he wanted to see Dad again or whether it was hopeless to try to reconcile them, but I wanted to try. The door to his room was open…”