Sigurdur Oli looked around the bare room.

“Are you going to spend Christmas here?”

Erlendur didn’t answer.

“Why don’t you get yourself off home?”

Silence.

“The invitation still stands”

“Thank you, and give my regards to Bergthora,” Erlendur said, deep in thought.

“What’s the name of the game anyway?”

“It’s none of your business, if the game … actually has a name.”

“I’m off home, anyway,” Sigurdur Oli said.

“How’s it going with starting a family?”

“Not too well.”

“Is it your problem or just a coincidence between the two of you?”

“I don’t know. We haven’t had ourselves checked. But Bergthora’s started talking about it”

“Do you want children anyway?”

“Yes. I don’t know. I don’t know what I want”

“What’s the time?”

“Just gone half past six.”

“Go home,” Erlendur said. “I’m going to check out our other Henry”

Henry Wapshott had returned to the hotel but was not in his room. Erlendur had reception call him, went up to the floor he was staying on and knocked on his door, but met no response. He wondered whether to get the manager to open the room for him, but first he would need a search warrant from a magistrate, which could take well into the night, besides which it was altogether uncertain whether Henry Wapshott was in fact the Henry whom Gudlaugur was supposed to meet at 18.30.

Erlendur was standing in the corridor weighing up the options when a man probably in his early sixties came around the corner and walked in his direction. He was wearing a shabby tweed jacket, khaki trousers and a blue shirt with a bright red tie; he was balding, with his dark hair fondly combed right across the patch.

“Is it you?” he asked in English when he reached Erlendur. “I was told someone was asking after me. An Icelander. Are you a collector? Did you want to see me?”

“Is your name Wapshott?” Erlendur asked. “Henry Wapshott?” His English was not good. These days he could understand the language reasonably well, but spoke it badly. Global crime had forced the police force to organise special English courses, which Erlendur had attended and enjoyed. He was beginning to read books in English.

“My name’s Henry Wapshott,” the man said. “What do you want to see me about?”

“Maybe we shouldn’t stand out here in the corridor,” Erlendur said. “Can we go in your room? Or…?”

Wapshott looked at the door, then back at Erlendur.

“Maybe we should go down to the lobby,” he said. “What is it you want to see me about? Who are you?”

“Let’s go downstairs,” Erlendur said.

Hesitantly, Henry Wapshott followed him to the lift. When they were down in the lobby Erlendur went to the smokers” table and seats to one side of the dining room, and they sat down. A waitress appeared at once. Guests were beginning to sit down to the buffet, which Erlendur found no less tempting than the day before. They ordered coffee.

“It’s very odd,” Wapshott said. “I was supposed to meet someone at precisely this spot half an hour ago, but the man never came. I didn’t get any message from him, and then you’re standing right outside my door and you bring me down here.”

“What man were you going to meet?”

“He’s an Icelander. Works at this held. His name’s Gudlaugur.”

“And you were going to meet him here at half past six today?”

“Right,” Wapshott said. “What…? Who are you?”

Erlendur told him he was from the police, described Gudlaugur’s death and how they had found a note in his room referring to a meeting with a man called Henry, who was clearly him. The police wanted to know why they were going to meet. Erlendur did not mention his suspicion that Wapshott may well have been in the room when Santa was murdered. He just mentioned that Gudlaugur had worked at the hotel for twenty years.

Wapshott stared at Erlendur while he gave this account, shaking his head in disbelief as if he failed to grasp the full implications of what he was being told.

“Is he dead?”

“Yes.”

“Murdered?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my God,” Wapshott groaned.

“How did you know Gudlaugur?” Erlendur asked.

Wapshott seemed rather remote, so he repeated the question.

“I’ve known him for years,” Wapshott said eventually, smiling to reveal small, tobacco-stained teeth, some of the lower ones with black crests. Erlendur thought he must be a pipe smoker.

“When did you first meet?” Erlendur asked.

“We’ve never met,” Wapshott said. “I’ve never seen him. I was going to meet him for the first time today. That’s why I came to Iceland.”

“You came to Iceland to meet him?”

“Yes, among other things.”

“So how did you know him? If you never met, what kind of relationship did you have?”

“There was no relationship,” Wapshott said.

“I don’t understand.”

“There’s never been any “relationship”,” Wapshott repeated, putting the final word in quotation marks with his fingers.

“What then?” Erlendur asked.

“Only one-sided worship,” Wapshott said. “On my part.”

Erlendur asked him to repeat the last words. He could not understand how this man, who had come all the way from England and had never met Gudlaugur, could worship him. A hotel doorman. A man who lived in a dingy little room in a hotel basement and was found dead with his trousers round his ankles and a knife wound through his heart. One-sided worship of a man who played Father Christmas at children’s parties.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Erlendur said. Then he remembered that, in the corridor upstairs, Wapshott had asked him if he was a collector. “Why did you want to know if I was a collector?” he asked. “What did you mean?”

“I thought you were a record collector,” Wapshott said. “Like me.”

“What kind of record collector? Records? You mean …?”

“I collect old records,” Wapshott said. “Old gramophone records. LPs, EPs, singles. That’s how I know Gudlaugur. I was going to meet him here just now and was looking forward to it, so you must understand it’s quite a shock for me to hear that he’s dead. Murdered! Who could have wanted to murder him?”

His surprise seemed genuine.

“Did you meet him last night maybe?” Erlendur asked.

At first, Wapshott didn’t realise what Erlendur meant, until it dawned on him and he stared at the detective.

“Are you implying… do you think I’m lying to you? Am I …? Are you saying I’m a suspect? Do you think I had something to do with his death?”

Erlendur watched him, saying nothing.

“How absurd!” Wapshott raised his voice. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting that man for a long time. For years. You can’t be serious.”

“Where were you around this time last night?” Erlendur asked.

“In town,” Wapshott said. “I was in town. I was at a collectors” shop on the high street, then I had dinner at an Indian restaurant not far away.”

“You’ve been at the hotel for a few days. Why didn’t you meet Gudlaugur before?”

“But… weren’t you just saying that he’s dead? What do you mean?”

“Didn’t you want to meet him as soon as you checked in? You looked forward to meeting him, you said. Why did you wait so long?”

“He decided the time and venue. Oh my God, what have I got myself into?”

“How did you contact him? And what did you mean by “one-sided worship”?”

Henry Wapshott looked at him.

“I mean—” Wapshott began, but Erlendur didn’t allow him to complete the sentence.

“Did you know he worked at this hotel?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I’d found out. I make a point of researching my subjects. For collection purposes”

“And that’s why you stayed at this hotel?”

“Yes.”

“Were you buying records from him?” Erlendur continued. “Is that how you knew each other? Two collectors, the same interest?”

“As I said, I didn’t know him, but I was going to meet him in person.”

“What do you mean?”