Erlendur introduced himself, shook her dry hand and asked her when she had last spoken to the, aahemm, man in the basement. He did not know whether to say doorman or Santa, he had forgotten his name. He felt he could hardly say Santa.

“Gulli?” she said, solving the problem. “It was just this morning, to remind him of the Christmas party. I met him by the revolving doors. He was working. He was a doorman here as you perhaps know. And more than a doorman, a caretaker really. Mended things and all that.”

“Easy-going?”

“Pardon?”

“Helpful, easy-going, didn’t need much nagging?”

“I don’t know. Does that matter? He never did anything for me. Or rather, I never needed his help.”

“Why was he playing Santa? Was he fond of children? Funny? Fun?”

“That goes back before I started here. I’ve been working here for three years and this is the third Christmas party I’ve organised. He was the Santa the other two times and before that too. He was OK. As Santa. The kids liked him.”

Gudlaugur’s death did not seem to have had the slightest effect on the woman. It was none of her business. All that the murder did was to disturb the marketing and PR for a while. Erlendur wondered how people could be so insensitive and boring.

“But what sort of person was he?”

“I don’t know. I never got to know him. He was a doorman here. And the Santa. That was really the only time I ever spoke to him. When he was the Santa.”

“What happened to the Christmas party? When you found out that Santa was dead?”

“We called it off. Nothing else for it. Also out of respect for him,” she added, as if to show a hint of feeling at last. It was futile. Erlendur could tell that she could not care less about the body in the basement.

“Who knew this man best?” he asked. “Here at the hotel, I mean.”