Erlendur had intended to question Bergmundur more closely about Thurí, but by the time he made it down to the station, the man had woken from his stupor and gone on his way. So Erlendur had taken his time walking to Amtmannsstígur in the fine summer weather. He had a word with the warden, who knew Thurí and informed him that her proper name was Thurídur. Though formerly a resident, she was currently sober. Nevertheless, she often dropped in to share the wisdom of her experience, especially with the younger women. In fact, she had only just popped out and would be back soon. Declining the warden’s invitation to wait for her inside, Erlendur decided to walk around town and try again later.
After an hour he returned to find that Thurí had still not shown up, so he took a seat in a spacious living room where three women of varying ages were engaged in a quiet game of Ludo. They looked up and said hello as he entered but otherwise ignored him. The last thing he wanted was to eavesdrop, but although their voices were listless, hardly rising above a murmur, he couldn’t help hearing that their conversation revolved around nasty drinks.
‘If you want the industrial stuff you need to know a barber.’
‘But it’s so disgusting. Bloody Portugal hair tonic.’
‘If you ask me, cardamom extract’s the worst. Can hardly get it down without gagging.’
‘Tell you one thing, though. It’s easy to smuggle into bars. You can stick it up your fanny. The bouncers won’t look there.’
She stole a glance at Erlendur as she rolled the dice, then moved her counter.
‘I couldn’t swear to it but I reckon the craving’s not as bad,’ one remarked a little later.
She was the eldest, in her fifties perhaps; a fleshy woman with grizzled hair, a large mouth and coarse features. The second, clearly the youngest, looked to be in her twenties. She was thin, with long lank hair and a slight squint. The third was fortyish, Erlendur guessed, though most of her upper teeth were missing, which had made her cheeks cave in, and her hair was a colourless mess.
‘You have to want to quit,’ the eldest continued with conviction, moving her counter. ‘Or it won’t work. It’ll never work. There’s no point saying you’re quitting, then constantly going back on the booze again.’
‘The Antabuse helps,’ put in the youngest.
‘Antabuse is nothing but a crutch.’
Just then a woman appeared in the doorway.
‘Were you asking for me?’ she said to Erlendur.
‘Are you Thurí?’
‘Yes, I am. Who are you?’
Erlendur stood up and introduced himself, then asked if they could talk in private. The three women looked up from their game.
‘What do you want?’ asked Thurí.
‘It’s about an acquaintance of mine, who I believe you knew.’
‘Bit young for you, isn’t he, Thurí?’ said the woman with the sunken jaw.
At this the three Ludo players perked up and started to laugh. The eldest, evidently out of practice, broke into a fit of coughing, accompanied by much wheezing and gasping. The toothless woman bared her gums. Ignoring them, Thurí beckoned Erlendur to follow her.
‘Oi, leave some for us!’ called the eldest, and they all howled with laughter again.
Erlendur and Thurí went outside and stood in front of the house. Thurí produced a small tin of roll-ups, lit one and sucked in the smoke.
‘Stupid bitches,’ she said, in a hoarse, inarticulate voice. ‘They’re only jealous because I’ve been dry for four months and they know I have the guts to drag myself out of this shitty life.’
She was short, dark and scrawny, and wore a threadbare jumper and jeans. Brown blotches disfigured her wizened, hollow face. Erlendur thought she couldn’t be much under fifty. She was jittery; her beady eyes constantly searching, never still.
‘I wanted to ask you about a man called Hannibal,’ Erlendur began. ‘I gather you used to know him.’
Thurí regarded him in astonishment. ‘Hannibal?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about him?’
‘Did you know him well?’
‘Well enough,’ she said guardedly. ‘Why are you asking about him? You know he’s dead?’
‘Yes, I do. And I’m aware of the circumstances. But it occurred to me you might be able to fill me in a bit more.’
‘About how he died, you mean? He drowned.’
‘Were you surprised when you heard? Did it strike you as unexpected?’
‘No, not particularly,’ she said, thinking back. ‘Every year a few of the homeless guys cop it. When I heard I just thought to myself that Hannibal’s number was up. But then … I was in a mess back then, so everything’s a bit of a blur.’
‘Did you know he was sleeping up by the pipeline?’
‘Yes. Went to see him there once. Not long before they found him in the pool. Wanted to talk him out of sleeping rough; make him come home with me. I had OK digs at the time. He didn’t take it too badly. Was getting fed up with life in the pipeline. Feeling the cold at night, though he wouldn’t admit it.’
‘But nothing came of it?’
‘No, he wanted to think it over. He could be such an awkward bugger. Couldn’t hack it when I … couldn’t hack some of the things I did. Then right after that I heard he was dead.’
‘What couldn’t he hack?’
‘The things I did to get hold of booze and pills.’
‘Things…?’
‘Look, I sold myself, OK?’ Thurí blurted out angrily. ‘It happens. Go ahead and judge me, if you like. I don’t give a shit.’
‘I’m not judging you,’ said Erlendur.
‘That’s what you think.’
‘Were you close?’
‘Me and Hannibal used to knock about together. But then I cleaned up my act and turned my back on that world. You have to if you want a real shot at life. Only saw him on and off for a while. Then I lapsed. Ended up in the same old rut. We started seeing each other again. Went on like that for years. Always ending up in the same old rut.’
‘Did you live together?’
‘Yes. Shared a dump of a room on Skipholt – for a whole year, I think. That was the longest. We used to get up to all sorts. Hannibal was a bit of a loner but he could be good company. He…’
She paused to inhale.
‘He was a good man. Could be an awkward sod at times. Boring. Moody. But he had a good heart. Was always understanding. Treated me like an equal.’
She blew out a cloud of smoke.
‘He was a dear friend to me. Terrible what happened to him.’
‘Do you know of anyone who had it in for him? Did he ever mention being afraid of anyone? Like people he’d got on the wrong side of?’
‘Hannibal used to get himself into a hell of a mess sometimes. He’d lose his rag with people and push them too far. Got into fights for all kinds of stupid reasons. But I can’t think of anyone who’d have wanted to do him in.’
‘Last time I spoke to him he’d been beaten up.’
‘It wouldn’t have been the first time,’ said Thurí. ‘When he was in good shape he could take the bastards on. But not by the end. By then he was no match for anyone.’
‘So you can’t think of anybody he was frightened of or –’
‘He wasn’t frightened of anyone; didn’t hate anyone either,’ Thurí answered quickly, then changed her mind. ‘Except maybe those brothers.’
‘The brothers from next door?’
‘It’s thanks to them he was chucked out of the cellar,’ she said. ‘They accused him of setting fire to the place but really they’d done it to get rid of him. The landlord didn’t believe him. That’s how he wound up sleeping by the hot-water pipes.’
‘Did Hannibal have any dealings with them after that?’
‘Haven’t a clue. But he didn’t have a good word to say about them. Out-and-out criminals, he called them.’
‘Any idea what he meant by that?’
‘No, he never explained. But he was scared of the
m. Shit-scared, I reckon. Look, can we call it a day? I need to get going.’
‘Of course. Thanks for your help.’
‘I went to fetch his stuff from the pipeline,’ Thurí added, opening the front door of the hostel. ‘A few days after they found his body. But the police had taken the best bits – sent them to his family, probably. At least I hope so. Hope they weren’t stolen.’
‘Surely not.’
‘Wouldn’t have been worth much.’ She paused in the doorway. ‘He wasn’t one for hoarding stuff. Though he did have a little suitcase with a few books and other odds and ends he’d picked up. That’d gone.’
‘I’m sure the police passed his possessions on to his family.’
‘Wanted something to remind me of him,’ Thurí said. ‘Something that … Anyway, it had all gone. Only thing I found was the earring.’
‘Earring?’
‘Yes, lying under the pipe.’
‘You found an earring where he used to sleep?’
‘Yes.’
‘What … what kind of earring?’
‘Looked newish. Quite big. Nice too. Gold. Hannibal must have picked it up somewhere, then dropped it in the tunnel.’
17
That weekend Erlendur was busy at work. It was mid July, summer was at its height, the nights were light and sunny, and the warm weather brought people out in droves. The bars were packed. At closing time, crowds poured out into the streets to mill around in the mild air. The party continued in Austurvöllur Square or Hljómskálagardur, the park by the lake. Bottles were produced and passed round. Scraps broke out in alleyways, maybe over a girl. Then there were the habitual troublemakers, brainless thugs who roved around town in various stages of inebriation, provoking fights, looking to get even. If apprehended, they were thrown in the cells, but it could take as many as three officers to subdue them. Break-ins were all too common as thieves took advantage of the holiday period to clean out empty homes. It was up to vigilant neighbours to raise the alert.
Erlendur attended two such incidents that weekend. On Friday night, in the new suburb of Fossvogur, a neighbour had noticed figures sneaking round the back of a detached house at the bottom of the valley. Erlendur, who was driving, let the van roll noiselessly down the hill in neutral and parked by the house. They took care not to slam the doors. Marteinn went round the front; Erlendur and Gardar took the garden. There was a broken pane of glass in the back door, which was standing ajar. They crept closer but could see no movement inside. On entering, they found themselves in a smart sitting room where a middle-aged woman was slumped fast asleep on the sofa, cradling a brandy bottle. They heard a noise from the hallway. Gardar stayed with the woman while Erlendur tiptoed towards the master bedroom. When he peered inside he saw a man stooping over a handsome chest of drawers. He had found a jewellery box and was turning out its clinking contents into his hand, before stuffing them into his trouser pocket.
Erlendur watched him for a minute or two, then barked sternly: ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
The thief was so shocked that he jumped and emitted a high-pitched shriek. Then he whipped round and, before Erlendur could react, charged straight at him. Erlendur lost his balance and tried to grab at the burglar who shot out of the bedroom, cast a glance into the sitting room where Gardar was standing guard over his sleeping girlfriend, then made a beeline for the front door. He flung it open, only to run straight into Marteinn, who forced him onto the ground. Erlendur came to his aid and between them they handcuffed the man and loaded him into the van. He was not one of the usual suspects and remained obstinately silent when asked for his name.
Nor did they recognise his accomplice, who was still sleeping like a baby. She must have been either dead drunk or completely exhausted to have nodded off on the job and slept right through her partner’s arrest. In low voices they discussed what to do. Gardar thought it a pity to disturb her but it couldn’t be helped. Tapping her knee he commanded her to wake up, and after several tries she began to stir and finally opened her eyes. Blinking, she peered at the three police officers.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.
‘What are we doing?’ said Marteinn. ‘What about you?’
‘No, I mean –’
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us,’ said Gardar.
‘I … no, I mean … eh, you what? Where’s Dúddi?’ She sat up.
They exchanged glances. The cuddly nickname seemed singularly inappropriate for the thug they had just loaded into the van.
‘Dúddi?’ said Marteinn, trying not to laugh.
‘What the…? Where is he?’
‘Dúddi’s waiting for you outside in the van,’ Gardar told her. ‘Care to join him?’ He offered her his hand.
They couldn’t work out whether she was still plastered or merely woozy from her nap. She sized up these three men in their black uniforms, before eventually accepting Gardar’s hand and tottering out of the house on his arm. She was still clutching the brandy bottle and took a long swig, then held it out to Gardar.
‘Want some?’
‘No, you hang on to it,’ he said. ‘You can share it with Dúddi.’
Erlendur avoided Marteinn’s eye. His colleague was shaking with silent laughter. Dúddi subjected the woman to a torrent of abuse when they put her in the van with him. He was not impressed with her failure as a lookout.
‘You drunken bitch,’ he snarled, unsurprisingly incensed.
‘Oh, why don’t you shut up?’ the woman snapped back, hanging her head as if used to bearing the brunt of his rages.
18
Erlendur had to psych himself up to pay a second visit to the brothers. He wanted to question them further about the fire in the cellar. Out-and-out criminals, Hannibal had called them. The more details Erlendur uncovered about Hannibal’s case, the more his curiosity grew.
On the way there his thoughts returned to the gold earring Thurí had found in Hannibal’s camp. She had told Erlendur he was welcome to come round and see it. How on earth had it ended up in the heating conduit? Rebekka could hardly have lost it there. As far as Erlendur could recall, she wasn’t wearing earrings, nor had she mentioned visiting the pipeline, either before or after her brother’s death. It couldn’t have belonged to a policewoman, either, because although women had long been employed on the force in other capacities, the first female officers had gone out on the beat only this summer. That ruled out their presence at the scene last year.
On the other hand, Hannibal might well have chanced upon it, wandering around town, as Thurí suggested. He had a magpie’s eye for valuables lying in the gutter. Thurí had the same training, which is how she had spotted the earring under the pipes.
Before saying goodbye on the steps of the hostel, Erlendur had put another question to her: how do women lose earrings? It was the only time during their conversation that she had cracked a smile. It didn’t take much, she said. This one was a clip-on. Clip-ons slipped off so easily that women were always losing them.
‘So it wouldn’t require a struggle?’
‘Not necessarily. Though obviously they’d be more likely to come loose in a struggle. But they just fall off anyway. For no reason. All the time.’
‘Could the woman who owned it have got into a fight with Hannibal?’
‘Listen,’ said Thurí, ‘Hannibal would never have come to blows with a woman. I knew him from way back. He’d never in a million years have laid hands on a woman.’
Erlendur walked along Sudurgata past the old graveyard. He sometimes came this way on his evening rambles, drawn by the fact that an author he admired lived on the street. He had twice spied him walking round the lake, though he hadn’t wanted to bother him. Years ago the author had written a book – one of the funniest Erlendur had ever read – about a young man who moved from the countryside to Reykjavík during the war and became a journalist. Whenever he walked this way Erlendur would look up at the writer’s window and send him a silent greeting. Anoth
er writer he liked to pause briefly beside, a poet this time, was no longer of this world but lay in his grave in the old cemetery. Erlendur used to peer over the black wall that separated the living from the dead, and hail Benedikt Gröndal.
By now he could hear the sound of a match in progress at Melavellir football ground. He crossed Hringbraut and followed the long, yellow perimeter fence, listening to the shouts of the spectators. He took no interest in sport so didn’t know who was playing. Back in his early twenties he had boxed for a while after a friend from the building site he was working on took him along. He had trained with him for two years, mainly out of curiosity. Erlendur was powerfully built, with a strong pair of fists, and the man who owned the gym and lent him his gloves had said he had promise. Pity, he had added, that like the rest of the men who trained there he couldn’t put it to use. Boxing was banned in Iceland and the sessions were not widely advertised. Since then, Erlendur had not been tempted by any other sports.
Little by little he had become better acquainted with the city to which he had moved when he was twelve, learning about the buildings, the streets and their inhabitants, both living and dead. They had moved into a small house on the outskirts, which had once been a bathhouse for British soldiers. Later, after his father died, he and his mother had rented a basement flat in the west of town, not far from the harbour, and his route had often led him past the graveyard. Soon he had taken to lingering there, exploring its narrow paths and deciphering the inscriptions on the headstones. The dead held no fear for him. Nor did the cemetery, though it could be eerie in winter when the trees reached up their twisted branches into the blackness. Rather he found peace and solace among the sleeping souls of the departed.
Beyond Melavellir, there was a view across Sudurgata to the recently completed Arnamagnæan Institute where Iceland’s medieval manuscripts were housed. He had visited once to see the most precious treasure in the collection, the Codex Regius of Eddic poetry, and was principally struck by the fact that the manuscript containing these cultural gems was so small, grubby, dog-eared and generally unimpressive.
Reykjavik Nights Page 8
