“Who’s that?” Sigurdur Oli asked from the doorway as he looked at the poster.

“It says on it,” Erlendur said. “Shirley Temple.”

“Who’s that then? Is she dead?”

“Who’s Shirley Temple?” Elinborg was astonished at Sigurdur Oli’s ignorance. “Don’t you know who she was? Didn’t you study in America?”

“Was she a Hollywood star?” Sigurdur Oli asked, still looking at the poster.

“She was a child star,” Erlendur said curtly. “So she’s dead in a sense anyway.”

“Eh?” Sigurdur Oli said, failing to grasp the remark.

“A child star,” Elinborg said. “I think she’s still alive. I don’t remember. I think she’s something with the United Nations”

It dawned on Erlendur that there were no other personal effects in the room. He looked around but could see no bookshelf, CDs or computer, no radio or television. Only a desk, chair, wardrobe and bed with a scruffy pillow and dirty duvet cover. The little room reminded him of a prison cell.

He went out into the corridor and peered into the darkness at the far end, and could make out a faint smell of burning, as if someone had been playing with matches there or possibly lighting their way.

“What’s down there?” he asked the manager.

“Nothing,” he replied and looked up at the ceiling. “Just the end of the corridor. A couple of bulbs have gone. I’ll have that fixed.”

“How long had he lived here, this man?” Erlendur asked as he went back into the room.

“I don’t know, since before my time.”

“So he was here when you became the manager?”

“Yes.”

“Are you telling me he lived in this hole for twenty years?”

“Yes.”