“You positively ooze with it,” Erlendur said.

The manager looked at Erlendur, unsure whether he was mocking him. The head of forensics came out into the corridor to them, greeted the manager and drew Erlendur to one side.

“It all looks like a typical tourist in a double room in a Reykjavik hotel,” he said. “The murder weapon isn’t lying on his bedside table, if that’s what you were hoping for, and there are no bloodstained clothes in his suitcase — nothing to connect him with the man in the basement really. The room’s covered with fingerprints. But he’s obviously done a runner. He left his room as if he was on his way down to the bar. His electric shaver is still plugged in. Spare pairs of shoes on the floor. And some slippers he’d brought with him. That’s really all we can say at this stage. The man was in a hurry. He was fleeing.”

The head of forensics went back into the room and Erlendur walked over to the manager.

“Who does the cleaning on this corridor?” he asked. “Who goes into the rooms? Don’t the cleaners share the floors out between them?”

“I know which women do this floor,” the manager said. “There are no men. For some reason.”

He said this sarcastically, as if cleaning was obviously not a man’s job.

“And who are they then?” Erlendur asked.

“Well, the girl you talked to, for example.”

“Which girl I talked to?”

“The one in the basement,” the manager said. “Who found the body. The girl who found the dead Santa. This is her floor.”

When Erlendur went back to his room two storeys above, Eva Lind was waiting for him in the corridor. She was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, with her knees up under her chin, and appeared to be asleep. When he walked over she looked up and smoothed out her clothes.

“It’s fantastic coming to this hotel,” she said. “When are you going to get your arse back home?”

“The plan was soon,” Erlendur said. “I’m growing tired of this place too.”

He slid his card into the slot on the door. Eva Lind got to her feet and followed him inside. Erlendur closed the door and Eva threw herself flat out onto his bed. He sat down at the desk.

“Getting anywhere with the bizz?” Eva asked, lying on her stomach with her eyes closed as if trying to fall asleep.

“Very slowly,” Erlendur said. “And stop calling it “bizz”. What’s wrong with “business”, or even “case”?”

“Aw, shut your face,” Eva Lind said, her eyes still closed. Erlendur smiled. He looked at his daughter on the bed and wondered what kind of parent he would have been. Would he have made great demands on her? Signed her up for ballet classes? Hoped she was a little genius? Would he have hit her if she had knocked his chartreuse onto the floor?

“Are you there?” she asked, eyes still closed.

“Yes, I’m here,” Erlendur said wearily.

“Why don’t you say anything?”

“What am I supposed to say? What are people ever supposed to say?”

“Well, what you’re doing at this hotel, for instance. Seriously.”

“I don’t know. I didn’t want to go back to the flat. It’s a bit of a change.”

“Change! What’s the difference between hanging around by yourself in this room and hanging around by yourself at home?”

“Do you want to hear some music?” Erlendur asked, trying to steer the conversation away from himself. He began outlining the case to his daughter, point by point, to gain some kind of a picture of it himself. He told her about the girl who found a stabbed Santa, once an exceptionally gifted choirboy who had made two records that were sought-after by collectors. His voice was unique.

He reached for the record he had yet to listen to. It contained two hymns and was clearly designed for Christmas. On the sleeve was Gudlaugur wearing a Santa hat, with a wide smile showing his adult teeth, and Erlendur thought about the irony of fate. He put the record on and the choirboy’s voice resounded around the room in beautiful, bitter-sweet song. Eva Lind opened her eyes and sat up on the bed.

“Are you joking?” she said.

“Don’t you think it’s magnificent?”

“I’ve never heard a kid sing like that,” Eva said. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone sing so beautifully” They sat in silence and listened to the end of the song. Erlendur reached over to the record player, turned the record over and played the hymn on the other side. They listened to it, and when it was over Eva Lind asked him to play it again.

Erlendur told her about Gudlaugur’s family, the concert in Hafnarfjordur, his father and sister who had not been in touch with him for more than thirty years, and the British collector who tried to leave the country and was only interested in choirboys. Told her that Gudlaugur’s records might be valuable today.

“Do you think that’s why he got done?” Eva Lind asked. “Because of the records? Because they’re valuable now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are there any still around?”

“I don’t think so,” Erlendur said, “and that’s probably what makes them collectors” items. Elinborg says collectors look for something that’s unique. But that might not be important. Maybe someone at the hotel attacked him. Someone who didn’t know about the choirboy at all.”

Erlendur decided not to tell his daughter about the way Gudlaugur was found. He knew that when she was taking drugs she had prostituted herself and knew how it operated in Reykjavik. Yet he flinched from broaching that subject with her. She lived her own life and had her own way without him ever having any say in the matter. But since he thought there was a possibility that Gudlaugur had paid for sex at the hotel, he asked her if she knew of any prostitution there.

Eva Lind looked at her father.

“Poor bloke,” she said without answering him. Her mind was still on the choirboy. “There was a girl like that at my school. Primary school. She made a few records. Her name was Vala Dogg. You remember anything by her? She was really hyped. Sang Christmas carols. A pretty little blonde girl.”

Erlendur shook his head.

“She was a child star. Sang on children’s hour and TV shows and sang really well, a little sweetie-pie sort of type. Her dad was some obscure pop singer but it was her mum who was a bit of a nutter and wanted to make a pop star out of her. She got teased big time. She was really nice, not a show-off or pretentious in the least, but people were always bugging her. Icelanders get jealous and annoyed so easily. She was bullied, so she left school and got a job. I met her a lot when I was doing dope and she’d turned into a total creep. Worse than me. Burned-out and forgotten. She told me it was the worst thing that ever happened to her.”

“Being a child star?”

“It ruined her. She never escaped from it. Was never allowed to be herself. Her mum was really bossy. Never asked her if it was what she wanted. She liked singing and being in the spotlight and all that, but she had no idea what was going on. She could never be anything more than the little cutie on children’s hour. She was only allowed to have one dimension. She was pretty little Vala Dogg. And then she got teased about it, and couldn’t understand why until she got older and realised that she’d never be anything but a pretty little dolly singing in her frock. That she’d never be a world-famous pop star like her mum always told her.”

Eva Lind stopped talking and looked at her father.

“She totally fell to bits. She said the bullying was the worst thing, it turns you into shit. You end up with exactly the same opinion of yourself as the people who persecute you.”

“Gudlaugur probably went through the same,” Erlendur said. “He left home young. It must be a strain for kids having to go through all that.”

They fell silent.

“Of course there are tarts at this hotel,” Eva Lind suddenly said, throwing herself back on the bed. “Obviously.”