Arnaldur Indridason: Voices

At last the moment arrived. The curtain went up, the auditorium unfolded; he felt glorious seeing all the people watching him and his shyness vanished in an instant. He saw some of his schoolmates and teachers, and the headmaster who seemed to nod approvingly at him. But most of them were strangers. All these people had come to listen to him and his beautiful voice, which had commanded attention, even outside Iceland.

The murmuring in the auditorium gradually died down and all eyes focused on him in silent expectation.

He saw his father sitting in the middle of the front row in his black horn-rimmed glasses, his legs crossed, and holding his hat on his knees. He saw him watching through the thick lenses and smiling encouragingly; this was the big moment in their lives. From now on, nothing would ever be the same.

The choirmaster raised his arms. Silence descended upon the auditorium.

And he began to sing with the clear, sweet voice that his father had described as divine.

Elinborg was waiting for them at the hotel.

A large Christmas tree stood in the lobby and there were decorations, fir branches and glittering baubles all around. “Silent night, holy night”, over an invisible sound system. A large shuttle coach stood in front of the hotel and a group approached the reception desk. Tourists who were planning to spend Christmas and the New Year in Iceland because it seemed to them like an adventurous and exciting country. Although they had only just landed, many had apparently already bought traditional Icelandic sweaters, and they checked into the exotic land of winter. Erlendur brushed the sleet off his raincoat. Sigurdur Oli looked around the lobby and caught sight of Elinborg by the lifts. He tugged at Erlendur and they walked over to her. She had examined the scene. The first police officers to arrive there had made sure that it would remain untouched.

The hotel manager had asked them not to cause a fracas. Used that phrase when he rang. This was a hotel and hotels thrive on their reputations, and he asked them to take that into account. So there were no sirens outside, nor uniformed policemen bursting in through the lobby. The manager said that at all costs they should avoid arousing fear among the guests.

Iceland mustn’t be too exciting, too much of an adventure.

Now he was standing next to Elinborg and greeted Erlendur and Sigurdur Oli with a handshake. He was so fat that his suit hardly encompassed his body. His jacket was done up across the stomach by one button that was on the verge of giving up. The top of his trousers was hidden beneath a huge paunch that bulged out of his jacket and the man sweated so furiously that he could never put away the large white handkerchief with which he mopped his forehead and the back of his neck at regular intervals. The white collar of his shirt was soaked in perspiration. Erlendur shook his clammy hand.

“Thank you,” the hotel manager said, puffing like a grampus. In his twenty years of managing the hotel he had never encountered anything like this.

“In the middle of the Christmas rush,” he groaned. “I can’t understand how this could happen! How could it happen?” he repeated, leaving them in no doubt as to how totally perplexed he was.

“Is he up or down?” Erlendur asked.

“Up or down?” the fat manager puffed. “Do you mean whether he’s gone to heaven?”

“Yes,” Erlendur said. “That’s exactly what we need to know…”

“Shall we take the lift upstairs?” Sigurdur Oli asked.

“No,” the manager said, casting an irritated look at Erlendur. “He’s down here in the basement. He’s got a little room there. We didn’t want to chuck him out. And then you get this for your troubles.”

“Why would you have wanted to chuck him out?” Erlendur asked.

The hotel manager looked at him but did not reply.

They walked slowly down the stairs beside the lift. The manager went first. Going down the stairs was a strain for him and Erlendur wondered how he would get back up.

Apart from Erlendur, they had agreed to show a certain amount of consideration, to try to approach the hotel as discreetly as possible. Three police cars were parked at the back, with an ambulance. Police officers and paramedics had gone in through the back door. The district medical officer was on his way. He would certify the death and call out a van to transport the body.

They walked down a long corridor with the panting manager leading the way. Plain-clothes policemen greeted them. The corridor grew darker the further they walked, because the light bulbs on the ceiling had blown and no one had bothered to change them. Eventually, in the darkness, they reached the door, which opened onto a little room. It was more like a storage space than a dwelling, but there was a narrow bed inside, a small desk and a tattered mat on the dirty tiled floor. There was a little window up near the ceiling.

The man was sitting on the bed, leaning against the wall. He was wearing a bright red Santa suit and still had the Santa cap on his head, but it had slipped down over his eyes. A large artificial Santa beard hid his face. He had undone the thick belt around his waist and unbuttoned his jacket. Beneath it he was wearing only a white vest. There was a fatal wound to his heart. Although there were other wounds on the body, the stabbing through the heart had finished him off. His hands had slash marks on them, as if he had tried to fight off the assailant. His trousers were down round his ankles. A condom hung from his penis.

“Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer,” Sigurdur Oli warbled, looking down at the body.

Elinborg hushed him.

In the room was a small wardrobe and the door was open. It contained folded trousers and sweaters, ironed shirts, underwear and socks. A uniform hung on a coat-hanger, navy blue with golden epaulettes and shiny brass buttons. A pair of smartly-polished black leather shoes stood beside the cupboard.

Newspapers and magazines were strewn over the floor. Beside the bed was a small table and lamp. On the table was a single book: A History of the Vienna Boys” Choir.

“Did he live here, this man?” Erlendur asked as he surveyed the scene. He and Elinborg had entered the room. Sigurdur Oli and the hotel manager were standing outside. It was too small for them all inside.

“We let him stay here,” the manager said awkwardly, mopping the sweat from his brow. “He’s been working for us for donkey’s years. Since before my time. As a doorman.”

“Was the door open when he was found?” Sigurdur Oli asked, trying to be formal, as if to compensate for his little ditty.

“I asked her to wait for you,” the manager said. “The girl who found him. She’s in the staff coffee room. Gave her quite a shock, poor thing, as you can imagine.” The manager avoided looking into the room.

Erlendur walked up to the body and peered at the wound to the heart. He had no idea what kind of blade had killed the man. He looked up. Above the bed was an old, faded poster for a Shirley Temple film, sellotaped at the corners. Erlendur didn’t know the film. It was called The Little Princess. The poster was the only decoration in the room.

“Who’s that?” Sigurdur Oli asked from the doorway as he looked at the poster.