“For God’s sake,” the manager groaned, squeezing his handkerchief with an imploring look at Erlendur. “It’s only the doorman!”

Mary and Joseph would never have been given a room here, Erlendur thought to himself.

“This … this … filth has nothing to do with my guests,” the manager spluttered with indignation. “They’re tourists, almost all of them, and regional people, businessmen and the like. No one who has anything to do with the doorman. No one. This is one of the largest hotels in Reykjavik. It’s packed over the holidays. You can’t just close it down! You just can’t!”

“We could, but we won’t,” Erlendur said, trying to calm the manager down. “We’ll need to question some of the guests and most of the staff, I expect.”

“Thank God,” the manager sighed, regaining his composure.

“What was the man’s name?”

“Gudlaugur,” the manager said. “I think he’s around fifty. And you’re right about his family, I don’t think he has any.”

“Who visited him?”

“I haven’t got a clue,” the manager puffed.

“Has anything unusual happened at the hotel involving this man?”

“No.”

“Theft?”

“No. Nothing’s happened.”

“Complaints?”

“No.”

“He hasn’t become embroiled in anything that could explain this?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Was he involved in any conflicts with anyone at this hotel?”

“Not that I know of

“Outside the hotel?”

“Not that I know of but I don’t know him very well. Didn’t,” the manager corrected himself.

“Not after twenty years?”

“No, not really. He wasn’t very sociable, I don’t think. Kept himself to himself as much as he could.”

“Do you think a hotel is the right place for a man like him?”

“Me? I don’t know … He was always very polite and there were never really any complaints about him.”