correspondence. It turned out to be a recycling plant that runs a second-hand outlet on the side. Collectors here find all kinds of valuables among the rubbish and sell them over the Internet for good money.'
'Is Iceland of special interest to collectors?' Erlendur asked. 'On its own.'
'The big plus about Iceland for collectors is the small size of the market. Only a few copies of each record are released and it doesn't take long for them to disappear and become lost. Like Gudlaugur's records.'
'It must be exciting to be a collector in a world where people hate everything old and useless. It must make you happy to think you're rescuing things of cultural value.'
'We're a few nutters who resist destruction,' Wapshott said.
'And you profit from it.'
'You can.'
'What happened to Gudlaugur Egilsson? What happened to the child star?'
'What happens to all child stars,' Wapshott said. 'He grew up. I don't know exactly what became of him, but he never sang as a teenager or adult. His career was short but beautiful, then he vanished into the crowd and stopped being unique. Nobody championed him any more and he surely missed it. You need strong nerves to withstand admiration and fame at such a young age, and even stronger nerves when people turn their backs on you.'
Wapshott looked at the clock that hung above the bar, then at his watch, and cleared his throat.
'I'm taking the evening flight to London and need to run a few errands before I set off. Was there anything else you wanted to know?'
Erlendur looked at him.
'No, I think that's all. I thought you were going to leave tomorrow.'
'If there's anything further I can help you with, here's my card,' Wapshott said as he took a card out of his breast pocket and handed it to Erlendur.
'It's changed,' Erlendur said. "Your flight.'
'Because I didn't meet Gudlaugur,' Wapshott said. 'I've finished most of what I planned to do on this trip and I'll save myself the price of a night at the hotel.'
"There's just one thing,' Erlendur said.
'OK.'
'A biotechnician is coming here to take a saliva sample from you, if that's all right.'
'A saliva sample?'
'For the murder investigation.'
'Why saliva?'
'I can't tell you at the moment.'
'Am I a suspect?'
'We're taking samples from everyone who knew Gudlaugur. For the investigation. That says nothing about you.'
'I understand,' Wapshott said. 'Saliva! How queer.'
He smiled, and Erlendur stared at the teeth in his lower jaw, stained black from nicotine.
11
They entered the hotel through the revolving doors: he was old and frail and in a wheelchair; and she followed behind, short and slim, with a thin, hooked nose and tough, piercing eyes that scoured the lobby. The woman was in her fifties, dressed in a thick, brown winter coat and long leather boots, pushing him along in front of her. The man looked about eighty, white straggles of hair stood out from under the brim of his hat and his skinny face was deathly pale. He sat hunched up, white bony hands protruding from the sleeves of a black coat. He had a scarf around his neck and thick black horn-rimmed glasses that magnified his eyes like a fish's.
The woman pushed him to the check-in desk. The head of reception, who was leaving his office, watched them approach.
'Can I help you?' he asked when they reached the desk.
The man in the wheelchair ignored him, but the woman asked for a detective named Erlendur who she had been told was at work at the hotel. Leaving the bar with Wapshott, Erlendur had seen them enter. They caught his attention immediately. There was something reminiscent of death about them.
He wondered whether to ground Wapshott and stop him from going back to the UK for the time being, but could not think of a good enough reason to detain him. He was pondering who those people could be, the man with haddock eyes and the woman with the eagle's beak, when the head of reception saw him and waved to him. Erlendur was about to say goodbye to Wapshott, but suddenly he was gone.
'They're asking for
'Is Iceland of special interest to collectors?' Erlendur asked. 'On its own.'
'The big plus about Iceland for collectors is the small size of the market. Only a few copies of each record are released and it doesn't take long for them to disappear and become lost. Like Gudlaugur's records.'
'It must be exciting to be a collector in a world where people hate everything old and useless. It must make you happy to think you're rescuing things of cultural value.'
'We're a few nutters who resist destruction,' Wapshott said.
'And you profit from it.'
'You can.'
'What happened to Gudlaugur Egilsson? What happened to the child star?'
'What happens to all child stars,' Wapshott said. 'He grew up. I don't know exactly what became of him, but he never sang as a teenager or adult. His career was short but beautiful, then he vanished into the crowd and stopped being unique. Nobody championed him any more and he surely missed it. You need strong nerves to withstand admiration and fame at such a young age, and even stronger nerves when people turn their backs on you.'
Wapshott looked at the clock that hung above the bar, then at his watch, and cleared his throat.
'I'm taking the evening flight to London and need to run a few errands before I set off. Was there anything else you wanted to know?'
Erlendur looked at him.
'No, I think that's all. I thought you were going to leave tomorrow.'
'If there's anything further I can help you with, here's my card,' Wapshott said as he took a card out of his breast pocket and handed it to Erlendur.
'It's changed,' Erlendur said. "Your flight.'
'Because I didn't meet Gudlaugur,' Wapshott said. 'I've finished most of what I planned to do on this trip and I'll save myself the price of a night at the hotel.'
"There's just one thing,' Erlendur said.
'OK.'
'A biotechnician is coming here to take a saliva sample from you, if that's all right.'
'A saliva sample?'
'For the murder investigation.'
'Why saliva?'
'I can't tell you at the moment.'
'Am I a suspect?'
'We're taking samples from everyone who knew Gudlaugur. For the investigation. That says nothing about you.'
'I understand,' Wapshott said. 'Saliva! How queer.'
He smiled, and Erlendur stared at the teeth in his lower jaw, stained black from nicotine.
11
They entered the hotel through the revolving doors: he was old and frail and in a wheelchair; and she followed behind, short and slim, with a thin, hooked nose and tough, piercing eyes that scoured the lobby. The woman was in her fifties, dressed in a thick, brown winter coat and long leather boots, pushing him along in front of her. The man looked about eighty, white straggles of hair stood out from under the brim of his hat and his skinny face was deathly pale. He sat hunched up, white bony hands protruding from the sleeves of a black coat. He had a scarf around his neck and thick black horn-rimmed glasses that magnified his eyes like a fish's.
The woman pushed him to the check-in desk. The head of reception, who was leaving his office, watched them approach.
'Can I help you?' he asked when they reached the desk.
The man in the wheelchair ignored him, but the woman asked for a detective named Erlendur who she had been told was at work at the hotel. Leaving the bar with Wapshott, Erlendur had seen them enter. They caught his attention immediately. There was something reminiscent of death about them.
He wondered whether to ground Wapshott and stop him from going back to the UK for the time being, but could not think of a good enough reason to detain him. He was pondering who those people could be, the man with haddock eyes and the woman with the eagle's beak, when the head of reception saw him and waved to him. Erlendur was about to say goodbye to Wapshott, but suddenly he was gone.
'They're asking for
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