“Can’t you let me into his room?” Erlendur asked the manager again. “I won’t touch anything. I just need to know if he’s done a runner. It would take me ages to get a warrant. I just need to put my head round the door.”

“He may yet check out,” the manager said stiffly. “There’s a good while before the flight yet and he has plenty of time to come back here, pack, pay his bill, check out and take the shuttle to Keflavik airport. Won’t you hang on a while?”

Erlendur pondered.

“Can’t you send someone up to tidy his room and I can walk past the door when it’s open? Is that any problem?”

“You must understand the position I’m in,” the manager said. “Above all we safeguard the interests of our guests. They’re entitled to privacy, just like being at home. If I break that rule and word gets out or it’s reported in the trial documents, our guests won’t be able to trust us any longer. It couldn’t be simpler. You must understand.”

“We’re investigating a murder that was committed at this hotel,” Erlendur said. “Isn’t your reputation gone to buggery anyway?”

“Bring a warrant and there won’t be any problem.”

Erlendur walked away from reception with a sigh. He took out his mobile and called Sigurdur Oli. The phone rang for a long while before he answered. Erlendur could hear voices in the background.

“Where on earth are you?” Erlendur asked.

“I’m doing the bread,” Sigurdur Oli said.

“Doing the bread?”

“Carving patterns in the wafer bread. For Christmas. With Bergthora’s family. It’s a regular feature on our Christmas agenda. Have you gone home?”

“What did you find out from Scotland Yard about Henry Wapshott?”

“I’m waiting to hear. I’ll find out tomorrow morning. Is anything happening with him?”

“I think he’s trying to dodge the saliva sample,” Erlendur said, noticing the head of reception walking up with a sheet of paper in his hand. “I think he’s trying to leave the country without saying goodbye to us. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Don’t cut your fingers”

Erlendur put his mobile in his pocket. The manager was standing in front of him.

“I decided to check out about Henry Wapshott,” he said, handing Erlendur the piece of paper. “To help you a bit. I shouldn’t be doing this but…”

“What is it?” Erlendur said as he looked at the paper. He saw Henry Wapshott’s name and some dates.

“He’s spent Christmas at this hotel for the past three years,” the manager said. “If that helps at all.”

Erlendur stared at the dates.

“He said he’s never been to Iceland before.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” the man said. “But he’s been at this hotel before.”

“Do you remember him? Is he a regular?”

“I don’t remember ever checking him in. There are more than two hundred rooms at this hotel and Christmas is always busy, so he can easily disappear into the crowd, besides which, he only makes short stops. Just a couple of days. I haven’t noticed him this time around but the penny dropped when I looked at the printout. He’s just like you in one respect. He has the same special needs.”

“What do you mean, like me? Special needs?” Erlendur could not imagine what he had in common with Henry Wapshott.

“He appears to be interested in music”

“What are you talking about?”

“You can see here,” the manager said, pointing at the sheet of paper. “We make a note of our guests” special requirements. In most cases.”

Erlendur read down the list.

“He wanted a player in his room,” the manager said. “Not a smart CD player, but some old heap. Just like you.”

“Bloody liar,” Erlendur hissed, and took out his mobile again.

A warrant for Henry Wapshott’s arrest was issued that evening. He was apprehended when he went to catch the plane for London. Wapshott was taken to the cells in the police station on Hverfisgata and Erlendur obtained a warrant to search his room. The forensics team arrived at the hotel around midnight. They combed the room in search of the murder weapon, but found nothing. All they found was a suitcase that Wapshott clearly intended to leave behind, his shaving kit in the bathroom, an old record player similar to the one Erlendur had borrowed from the hotel, a television and video player, and several British newspapers and magazines. Including Record Collector.

Fingerprint experts looked for clues that Gudlaugur had been in his room, scouring the edges of the table and the door frame. Erlendur stood out in the corridor watching the forensics team. He wanted a cigarette and even a glass of Chartreuse because Christmas was coming, wanted his armchair and books. He intended to go home. Did not really know why he stayed at that deathly hotel. Did not really know what to do with himself.

White dust from the fingerprinting sprinkled onto the floor.

Erlendur saw the hotel manager waddling along the corridor. He wielded his handkerchief and was puffing and blowing. After taking a look inside the room where the forensics team were at work, he smiled all over his face.

“I heard you’ve caught him,” he said, wiping his neck. “And that it was a foreigner.”

“Where did you hear that?” Erlendur asked.

“On the radio,” the manager said, unable to conceal his glee at all this good news. The man had been found, it was not an Icelander who committed the deed and it was not one of the hotel staff either. The manager panted: “They said on the news that he was arrested at Keflavik airport on his way to London. A Brit?”

Erlendur’s mobile started ringing.

“We don’t know whether he’s the one we’re looking for,” he said as he took out his phone.

“You don’t need to come down to the station,” Sigurdur Oli said when Erlendur answered. “Not for the time being.”

“Shouldn’t you be doing the Christmas bread?” Erlendur asked, and turned away from the manager with his mobile in his hand.

“He’s drunk,” Sigurdur Oli said. “Henry Wapshott. It’s pointless trying to talk to him. Shall we let him sleep it off tonight and talk to him in the morning?”

“Did he cause any trouble?”

“No, not at all. They told me he went along with them without saying a word. They stopped him immediately at passport control and kept him in the body search room, and when the police arrived they took him straight out to the van and drove to Reykjavik. No trouble. He was apparently very reticent and fell asleep in the van on his way into town. He’s sleeping in his cell now.”

“It was on the news, so I’m told,” Erlendur said. “About the arrest” He looked at the manager. “People are hoping we’ve got the right man.”

“He only had a case with him. A big briefcase.”

“Is there anything in it?”

“Records. Old ones. The same sort of vinyl crap we found in the room in the basement.”

“You mean Gudlaugur’s records?”

“Looked like it. Not many. And he had some others. You can examine it all tomorrow.”

“He’s hunting for Gudlaugur’s records.”

“Maybe he managed to add to his collection,” Sigurdur Oli said. “Should we meet down here at the station tomorrow morning?”

“We need a saliva sample from him,” Erlendur said.

“I’ll see to that,” Sigurdur Oli said, and they rang off.

Erlendur put his mobile back in his pocket.

“Has he confessed?” the hotel manager asked. “Did he confess?”

“Do you remember seeing him in the hotel before? Henry Wapshott. From Liverpool. Looks about sixty. He told me this was his first visit to Iceland, then it turns out that he’s stayed here before.”

“I don’t remember anyone by that name. Do you have a photograph of him?”

“I need to get one. Find out if any of the staff recognise him. It might ring a bell somewhere. Even the tiniest detail could be important.”

“Hopefully you’ll get it all sorted,” the manager grunted. “We’ve had cancellations because of the murder. Icelanders mostly The tourists haven’t heard so much about it. But the buffet’s not so busy and our bookings are down. I should never have allowed him to live down there in the basement. Bloody kindness will be the death of me.”