Voices

by Arnaldur Indridason

  His hotel room was dark and cold. The sun would not be up for a few hours yet. He lay thinking about the dream, his father and the loss of his brother. How the unbearable loss had made a hole in his world. And how the hole was continually growing and he stepped back from its edge to look down into the void that was ready to swallow him when finally he let go.

  He shook off these waking fantasies and thought about his tasks for the day. What was Henry Wapshott hiding? Why did he tell lies and make a forlorn attempt to flee, drunk and without luggage? His behaviour puzzled Erlendur. And before long his thoughts stopped at the boy in the hospital bed and his father: Elínborgs case, which she had explained to him in detail.

  Elínborg suspected that the boy had been maltreated before and there were strong indications that it happened at home. The father was under suspicion. She insisted on having him remanded in custody for the duration of the investigation. A week's custody was granted, against vociferous protests from both the father and his lawyer. When the warrant was issued Elínborg went to fetch him with four uniformed police officers and accompanied him down to Hverfisgata. She led him along the prison corridor and locked the door to his cell herself. She pulled back the hatch on the door and looked in at the man who was standing on the same spot with his back turned to her, hunched up and somehow helpless, like everyone who is removed from human society and kept like an animal in a cage.

  He slowly turned round and looked her in the eye from the other side of the steel door, and she slid the hatch shut on him.

  Early the next morning she began questioning him. Erlendur took part but Elínborg was in charge of the interrogation. The two of them sat facing him in the interrogation room. On the table between them was an ashtray screwed down to the table. The father was unshaven, wearing a crumpled suit and a scruffy white shirt buttoned at the neck with a tie knotted impeccably, as if it represented the last vestiges of his self-respect.

  Elínborg switched on the tape recorder and recorded the interview, the names of those present and the number assigned to the case. She had prepared herself well. She had met the boy's supervisor from school who talked about dyslexia, attention deficit disorder and poor school performance; a psychologist, a friend of hers, who talked about disappointment, stress and denial; and talked to the boy's friends, neighbours, relatives, everyone whom it occurred to her to ask about the boy and his father.

  The man would not yield He accused them of persecution, announced that he would sue them, and refused to answer their questions. Elínborg looked at Erlendur. A warden appeared who pushed the man to his cell again.

  Two days later he was brought back for questioning. His lawyer had brought him more comfortable clothes from home and he was now dressed in jeans and a T-shirt with a designer label on one of the breast pockets, which he wore like a medal rewarding him for absurdly expensive shopping. He was in a different frame of mind now. Three days in custody had dampened his arrogance, as it tends to do, and he saw that it depended on him alone whether he would stay confined in the cells or not.

  Elínborg made sure that he came in for interrogation barefoot. His shoes and socks were taken away without explanation. When he sat down in front of them he tried to pull his feet under his chair.

  Elínborg and Erlendur sat facing him, intractable. The tape recorder whirred softly.

  'I talked to your son's teacher,' Elínborg said. 'And although what happens and passes between parent and teacher is confidential and she was very firm about that, she wanted to help the boy, help in the criminal case. She told me you assaulted him once in front of her.'

  Assaulted him! I gave him a little rap on the jaw. That's hardly what you call assault. He was being naughty, that's all. Fidgeting all over the place. He's difficult. You don't know about that sort of thing. The strain.'

  'So it's right to punish him?'

  'We're good friends, my boy and I,' the father said. 'I love him. I'm responsible for him all by myself. His mother...'

  'I know about his mother,' Elínborg said. And of course it can be difficult bringing up a child by yourself. But what you did to him and do to him is ... it's indescribable.'

  The father sat and said nothing.

  'I didn't do anything,' he said eventually.

  Elínborg crossed her legs and caught her foot on the father's shin as she did so.

  'Sorry? Elínborg said.

  He winced, unsure whether she had done it on purpose.

  "The teacher said you make unrealistic demands on your son,' she said, unruffled. 'Is that true?'

  'What's unrealistic? I want him to get an education and make something of himself.'

  'Understandably,' Elínborg said. 'But he's eight years old, dyslexic and borderline hyperactive. You didn't finish school yourself?

  'I own and run my own business.'

  'Which is bankrupt. You're losing your house, your fancy car, the wealth that's brought you a certain social status. People look up to you. When the old classmates have a reunion you're sure to be the big shot. Those golfing trips with your mates. You're losing everything. How infuriating, especially when you bear in mind that your wife is in a psychiatric ward and your son's behind at school. It all mounts up, and in the end you explode when Addi, who's surely spilled milk and dropped plates on the floor all his life, knocks a bottle of Drambuie onto the marble floor of your lounge.'

  The father looked at her. His expression did not change.

  Elínborg had visited his wife at Kleppur mental hospital. She suffered from schizophrenia and sometimes had to be admitted when she began hallucinating and the voices overwhelmed her. When Elínborg met her she was on such strong medication that she could hardly speak. Sat rocking backwards and forwards and asked Elínborg for a cigarette. Had no idea why she was visiting her.

  'I'm trying to bring him up as best I can,' the father said in the interrogation room.

  'By pricking the back of his hand with needles.'

  'Shut your mouth.'

  Elínborg had talked to the man's sister, who said she sometimes thought the boy's upbringing rather harsh. She cited one example from a visit to their home. The boy was four at the time and complained that he was not feeling well, he cried a little and she thought he might even have the flu. Her brother lost his patience when the boy had been moaning at him for some while, and he picked him up and held him.

  'Is anything wrong?' he asked the child brashly.

  'No,' Addi said, his voice low and nervous, as if giving in.

  'You shouldn't be crying.'

  'No,' the boy said.

  'If there's nothing wrong, then stop crying.'

  'Yes.'

  'So is there anything wrong?'

  'No.'

  'So everything's OK.'

  'Yes.'

  'Good. You shouldn't blubber about nothing.'

  Elínborg recounted this story to the father, but his expression remained unchanged.

  'My sister and I don't get on,' he said. 'I don't remember that.'

  'Did you assault your son with the result that he was admitted to hospital?' Elínborg asked.

  The father looked at her.

  Elínborg repeated the question.

  'No,' he said. 'I didn't. Do you think any father would do that? He was beaten up at school.'

  The boy was out of hospital. Child welfare had found a foster home for him and Elínborg went to see him when the interrogation was over. She sat down beside him and asked how he was doing. He hadn't said a word to her since the first time they met, but now he looked at her as if he wanted to say something.

  He cleared his throat, faltering.

  'I miss my dad,' he said, choking back the sobs.

  Erlendur was sitting at the breakfast table when he saw Sigurdur Óli come in followed by Henry Wapshott. Two detectives sat down at another table behind them. The British record collector was scruffier than before, his ruffled hair standing out in all directions and a look of suffering on his face, which expressed total humiliati
on and a lost battle with a hangover and imprisonment.

  'What's going on?' Erlendur asked Sigurdur Óli, and stood up. 'Why did you bring him here? And why isn't he done up?'

  'Done up?'

  'In handcuffs.'

  'Does that look necessary to you?'

  Erlendur looked at Wapshott.

  'I couldn't be bothered to wait for you,' Sigurdur Óli said. 'We can only detain him until this evening, so you'll have to make a decision on charges as soon as possible. And he wanted to meet you here. Refused to talk to me. Just wanted to talk to you. Like you were old friends. He hasn't insisted on bail, hasn't asked for legal aid or help from his embassy. We've told him he can contact the embassy but he just shakes his head.'

  'Have you found out anything about him from Scotland Yard?' Erlendur said with a glance at Wapshott, who was standing behind Sigurdur Óli, his head hung low.

  'I'll explore that when you take him over,' said Sigurdur Óli, who had done nothing on the matter. 'I'll let you know what they've got on him, if anything.'

  Sigurdur Óli said goodbye to Wapshott, stopped briefly with the two detectives, then left. Erlendur offered the British man a seat. Wapshott perched on a chair, looking down at the floor.

  'I didn't kill him,' he said in a low voice. 'I could never have killed him. I've never been able to kill anything, not even flies. To say nothing of that wonderful choirboy.'

  Erlendur looked at Wapshott.

  'Are you talking about Gudlaugur?'

  'Yes,' Wapshott said. 'Of course.'

  'He was a long way from being a choirboy,' Erlendur said. 'Gudlaugur was almost fifty and played Santa Claus at Christmas parties.'

  'You don't understand,' Wapshott said.

  'No, I don't,' Erlendur said. 'Maybe you can explain it to me.'

  'I wasn't at the hotel when he was attacked,' Wapshott said.

  'Where were you?'

  'I was looking for records.' Wapshott looked up and a pained smile passed across his face. 'I was looking at the stuff you Icelanders throw away. Seeing what comes out of that recycling plant. They told me a dead person's estate had come in. Including gramophone records for disposal.'

  'Who?'

  'Who what?'

  'Told you about the dead person's things?'

  'The staff. I give them a tip if they let me know. They have my card. I've told you that. I go to the collectors' shops, meet other collectors and go to the markets. Kolaportid, isn't that the name? I do what all collectors do, try to find something worth owning.'

  'Was anyone with you at the time of the attack on Gudlaugur? Someone we can talk to?'

  'No,' Wapshott said.

  'But they must remember you at those places'

  'Of course.'

  'And did you find anything worth having? Any choirboys?'

  'Nothing. I haven't found anything on this trip.'

  'Why were you running away from us?' Erlendur asked.

  'I wanted to get home.'

  'And you left all your stuff at the hotel?'

  'Yes.'

  Apart from a few of Gudlaugur's records'

  'Yes.'

  'Why did you tell me you'd never been to Iceland before?'

  'I don't know. I didn't want to attract unnecessary attention. The murder has nothing to do with me.'

  'It's very easy to prove the opposite. You must have known, when you were lying, that I'd find out. That I'd find out you'd been at this hotel before.'

  'The murder is nothing to do with me.'

  'But now you've convinced me it is something to do with you. You couldn't have drawn more attention to yourself?

  'I didn't kill him.'

  'What was your relationship with Gudlaugur?'

  'I've told you that story and I wasn't lying then. I became interested in his singing, in old records by him as a choirboy, and when I heard he was still alive I contacted him.'

  'Why did you lie? You've been to Iceland before, you've stayed at this hotel before and you've definitely met Gudlaugur before.'

  'It's nothing to do with me. The murder. When I heard about it I was afraid you'd find out that I knew him. I got more paranoid by the minute and I had to apply amazing self-discipline not to make a run for it at once, which would have pointed the finger at me. I had to let a few days go by, but then I couldn't stand it any longer and I had to get away. My nerves couldn't take it any more. But I didn't kill him.'

  'How much did you know about Gudlaugur's background?'

  'Not much.'

  'Isn't the point about collecting records to dig up information about what you collect? Have you done that?'

  'I don't know much,' Wapshott said. 'I know he lost his voice at a concert, only two recordings of his songs were released, he fell out with his father...'

  'Wait a minute, how did you hear about how he died?'

  'What do you mean?'

  "The hotel guests weren't told it was a murder, but an accident or heart attack. How did you find out he'd been murdered?'

  'How did I find out? You told me.'

  'Yes, I told you and you were very surprised, but now you say that when you heard about the murder you were afraid we would link you to him. In other words, it was before we met. Before we linked you to him.'

  Wapshott stared at him. Erlendur could tell when people were stalling for time, and he let Wapshott have all the time he needed. The two detectives sat calmly at a suitable distance. Erlendur had been late for breakfast and there were few people in the dining hall. He caught a glimpse of the big chef who had gone berserk when the saliva sample was supposed to be taken. Erlendur's thoughts turned to Valgerdur. The biotechnician. What would she be doing? Sticking needles into children who were fighting back their tears or trying to kick her?

  'I didn't want to get involved in this,' Wapshott said.

  'What are you hiding? Why don't you want to talk to the British embassy? Why don't you want a lawyer?'

  'I heard people talking about it down here. Hotel guests. They were saying someone had been murdered. Some Americans. That's how I heard. And I was worried that you would connect us and I'd end up in precisely the situation in which I now find myself. That's why I fled. It's as simple as that.'

  Erlendur remembered the American Henry Bartlet and his wife. Cindy, she had told Sigurdur Óli with a smile.

  'How much are Gudlaugur's records worth?'

  'What do you mean?'

  'They must be worth a lot to make you come all the way up to the cold north here in the middle of winter to get hold of them. How much are they worth? One record. What does it cost?'

  'If you want to sell it you auction it, even on E-bay, and there's no telling how much it will fetch in the end.'

  'But at a guess. What do you guess it would sell for?'

  'I cant say.'

  'Did you meet Gudlaugur before he died?'