“Take it easy,” Erlendur said, reaching for a plate. He began piling an assortment of delicacies onto the plate as if he had always intended to have the buffet.

“Did you know Santa Claus?” he asked to change the subject from the ox tongue.

“Santa Claus?” the cook said. “What Santa Claus? And please don’t put your fingers on the food. It’s not—”

“Gudlaugur,” Erlendur interrupted him. “Did you know him? He was a doorman and jack of all trades here, I’m told.”

“You mean Gulli?”

“Yes, Gulli.” Erlendur repeated his nickname as he put a generous slice of cold ham on his plate and a dash of yoghurt sauce over it. He wondered whether to call in Elinborg to appraise the buffet; she was a gourmet and had been assembling a book of recipes for many years.

“No, I… what do you mean by “did I know him”?” the cook asked.

“You haven’t heard?”

“What? Is something wrong?”

“He’s dead. Murdered. Hasn’t word got around yet?”

“Murdered?” the cook groaned. “Murdered! What, here? Who are you?”

“In his little room. Down in the basement. I’m from the police.”

Erlendur went on choosing goodies to put on his plate. The cook had forgotten the ox tongue.

“How was he murdered?”

“The least said the better.”

“At the hotel?”

“Yes.”

The cook looked all around.

“I don’t believe it,” he said. “Won’t there be hell to pay?”

“Yes,” Erlendur said. “There will be hell to pay?

He knew that the hotel would never be able to shake off the murder. It would never wipe away the smear. After this it would always be known as the hotel where Santa was found dead with a condom on his penis.

“Did you know him?” Erlendur asked. “Gulli?”

“No, hardly at all. He was a doorman here and fixed all sorts of stuff?