Reykjavik Nights

by Arnaldur Indridason

  The brothers gave him a cool reception. They invited him in, but only as far as the hall this time. Having no wish to stay, Erlendur did not beat about the bush. He asked them again about the fire, reminding them of what he had said before about a rumour doing the rounds that they had started it themselves to get rid of Hannibal.

  ‘What’s this rumour you keep going on about?’ demanded Vignir. ‘Are you spreading this bullshit yourself?’

  ‘Hannibal was adamant,’ Erlendur replied, undeterred. ‘He said so to his friends.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t us,’ said Ellert, with a glance at his brother. ‘Is that what he claimed, the old sod?’

  ‘Did you want him out of the cellar?’

  The brothers’ eyes met. The day’s programming had not yet begun and the television stood dark and silent in the sitting room.

  ‘That was none of our business,’ said Vignir. ‘And we had nothing to do with the fire either. The tramp started it himself. It was us who put it out. Not that he thanked us.’

  ‘But he was afraid of fire,’ said Erlendur. ‘Didn’t even dare light a candle down there. You said you found one by the door where the blaze started, but I don’t believe it was his.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t ours,’ said Vignir. ‘Have you asked Frímann if he did it himself?’

  ‘Frímann?’

  ‘Maybe he had his own reasons for torching the place.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘An insurance scam.’

  ‘Insurance scam?’

  ‘He’s always trying to make money from that dump, isn’t he?’

  ‘You think Frímann…?’

  ‘I really wouldn’t know,’ answered Vignir. ‘Ask him. But we sure as hell didn’t light a fire. We put it out, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘If we weren’t responsible,’ added his brother, ‘and the tramp wasn’t either, maybe Frímann’s the man you’re after.’

  ‘Did you have any contact with Hannibal after he was kicked out?’

  ‘No,’ said Ellert.

  ‘None at all,’ confirmed Vignir.

  ‘Remember hearing about his death?’

  ‘Saw his name in the papers,’ said Ellert. ‘Wasn’t the poor bastard drunk as usual?’

  ‘Were you in Reykjavík at the time?’

  ‘What the hell’s that got to do with you?’

  ‘Did you know where he was sleeping?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You don’t seriously believe we hurt him?’ said Vignir. ‘Why are you asking us all these stupid questions?’

  ‘Did you hurt him?’ asked Erlendur bluntly. ‘Did he have something on you?’

  ‘What do you mean? Are you implying we killed him?’ exclaimed Vignir.

  ‘On us?’ spluttered Ellert. ‘How the hell do you work that out?’

  The brothers’ eyes met again.

  ‘Were you selling alcohol? From your own still? Or smuggled stuff?’

  Erlendur scrutinised them each in turn, waiting for their reactions. They were not long in coming.

  ‘What is all this bollocks?’ said Vignir.

  ‘You get out right now, you hear me?’ said Ellert. ‘I don’t want to see your face round here again.’ He hustled Erlendur out and slammed the door behind him.

  19

  Shortly before midday Erlendur was woken, as so often lately, by the phone. He heaved himself out of bed.

  ‘Hello, it’s Halldóra.’

  ‘Oh, hello.’

  ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘No, that’s all right.’

  ‘You sound so far away.’

  ‘Is that better?’ He raised his voice. ‘I was working over the weekend.’

  ‘You’re always working.’

  ‘Yes. Been on night duty for weeks.’

  ‘Were you working last night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Anything interesting happen?’

  ‘Oh, the usual,’ said Erlendur, beginning to wake up properly. ‘Nothing special.’

  ‘I don’t think I could stand working nights. Doesn’t it mess up your sleep patterns – staying awake all night like that?’

  ‘It can be a bit wearing,’ Erlendur admitted. ‘But it’s not too bad.’

  She was silent for a moment, then said: ‘I hardly ever hear from you.’

  ‘I’ve been busy.’

  ‘I’m always the one who gets in touch. It makes me feel … like I’m bothering you.’

  ‘That’s rubbish.’

  ‘Perhaps you want to end it.’

  ‘I … Oh, please,’ said Erlendur. ‘You’re not bothering me at all. It’s just … I’ve been working so much.’

  They lapsed into awkward silence, neither knowing what to say. It lasted so long he thought she’d hung up.

  ‘Hello?’ he said.

  ‘I thought maybe we could meet up, do something fun,’ said Halldóra. ‘I’m free this afternoon.’

  ‘Sure, great, all right.’ Erlendur scratched his head.

  ‘Want to go to a film or…?’

  ‘Or into town maybe?’ he suggested. ‘To a cafe?’

  ‘The weather’s nice. Perhaps we could buy an ice cream and go for a wander. Then see.’

  ‘Sure, I’m up for that.’

  They agreed to meet in town at four, then rang off. Erlendur hastily showered, put on some coffee and ate a light breakfast. Halldóra was right. He was bad at getting in touch with her; she was usually the one who rang to suggest they see each other, go on dates; she kept their relationship going. There was much about her that he found appealing: her smile when she was speaking from the heart; her wariness when they made love; the interest that she alone took in him. His life was stagnating; perhaps it was time for a change. To try something new. Break the monotony of routine. Perhaps Halldóra was the answer.

  Just then Erlendur remembered that he had been meaning to call Rebekka ever since Thurí told him about the earring. Rebekka had given him her number, saying he could phone her any time. They had also talked about meeting up again but nothing had come of it.

  She answered after three rings, and once they’d exchanged pleasantries he got straight to the point.

  ‘Did you ever visit the pipeline where Hannibal was sleeping?’

  ‘You mean while he was alive?’

  ‘Or after he died. Either.’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘Did he leave any personal effects? Were any of his belongings passed on to you?’

  ‘No, nothing really, apart from a few rags, a handful of books and a tatty suitcase. The police handed them over to me. They’d been looking after them. Didn’t want anyone to steal them. As if they would. Why do you ask?’

  ‘It’s just that I was talking to a woman, an old drinking pal of Hannibal’s, and she did go up there. Right after he died. She found a big gold earring where he used to sleep.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It occurred to me that you might know about it. Haven’t seen it yet myself. This woman still has it. But it sounds like it’s a nice piece of jewellery – could be expensive – so…’

  ‘You thought it might be mine?’

  ‘Seemed only right to ask.’

  ‘But I never went there.’

  ‘Any idea whose it might have been, then?’

  ‘No, I can’t think of any woman who’d have visited Hannibal in that awful place. In fact, I don’t know anyone who was in touch with him in the past few years. I’m afraid I can’t help you there. Though I assure you it’s not mine.’

  ‘We probably shouldn’t read too much into it,’ said Erlendur. ‘There are various ways it could have ended up there. It may have no connection to Hannibal. I just wanted to check.’

  ‘I wonder…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No, nothing … I’m not into jewellery, but some women wear so much you can hear them jangling a mile off. Though what a woman like that could have wanted with Hannibal is beyond me.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ said Erlend
ur. ‘Anyway, I’ll let you know if I get hold of it.’

  ‘Yes, please do. I’d like to see it.’

  Before ringing off, they arranged to meet again later in the week. Next, Erlendur headed into town for his date with Halldóra. He kept racking his brains as to how the earring could have wound up in Hannibal’s camp but couldn’t come up with anything useful.

  His conversation with Rebekka continued to preoccupy him too: something she’d said was niggling at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t work out what it was. He hurried down Laugavegur, so engrossed in his thoughts that he paid no attention to the shop displays. He glanced at a large jeweller’s as he strode by, then stopped, turned and took a second look in the window. Behind the glass lay an array of gleaming watches, gold and silver rings – some embellished with diamonds – necklaces, bracelets and earrings, all in handsome presentation boxes stamped with the name of the jeweller.

  As Erlendur examined the jewellery, he finally worked out what it was that had been nagging at him ever since he spoke to Rebekka. It came to him as his gaze fell on a box containing a pair of beautiful earrings.

  You can hear them jangling a mile off …

  ‘Mad about jewellery,’ he murmured to the glass. ‘It can’t be.’

  He stared at the earrings.

  ‘It can’t be, can it?’

  Not until he was standing in front of that glittering display did he remember the detail from the police file about the woman who had vanished on her way home from Thórskaffi. She was mad about jewellery, loved to wear all kinds: rings, bracelets, necklaces, earrings …

  He stared at the box, unable to imagine what possible connection Hannibal could have had to her disappearance.

  20

  They reached the scene of a major accident on Skúlagata before the ambulance did. It was four o’clock on Sunday morning, and it was raining. There was little traffic, yet it was the third crash they had dealt with that night. The most serious too. A man driving a jeep had dropped a glowing cigarette ember on his seat and in trying to sweep it onto the floor had lost control of his vehicle, swerved into the left-hand lane and collided with an oncoming car. Both occupants of the car were badly injured: a woman was trapped, unconscious, behind the steering wheel; her daughter was moaning beside her in the passenger seat. The driver of the jeep, his face bleeding, wandered, shocked and bewildered, around the crash site. Erlendur led him to the police van.

  ‘I didn’t see what happened,’ the man said. ‘Didn’t see a thing. They’ll be all right, won’t they? You do think they’ll be all right?’

  ‘The ambulances are on their way.’

  ‘I tried to avoid them but it was too late and I smashed straight into them,’ the man said. ‘I tried to open her door but it’s jammed. They’re trapped inside. You’ve got to get them out.’

  Though he did not appear drunk, Erlendur assumed they would test him at the hospital anyway.

  Marteinn and Gardar managed to force open the rear door of the car and Marteinn crawled inside in a vain attempt to free the girl in the front seat. There was blood on her face and hands, and her legs were crushed under the dashboard. She had already lost a lot of blood. Her mother was showing signs of coming round. She had smacked into the steering wheel so hard that she had broken it, then cracked her head on the windscreen, knocking herself out. Her face was bleeding too and Marteinn didn’t want to move her. He reassured them that a team was on the way to get them out as quickly as possible so they could be taken to hospital.

  The woman reached over to the girl and took her hand.

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ she said soothingly. ‘It’ll be all right. They’ll be here any minute to get us out and then everything’ll be all right.’

  The girl squeezed her hand.

  They heard the ambulances approaching, and in no time at all a fire crew arrived to release the mother and daughter from the wreckage. Marteinn and Gardar began to sketch out the scene of the accident, measuring distances and tyre marks. Gardar pushed a small measuring wheel in front of him and scribbled in his notebook. Erlendur took charge of directing what little traffic there was around the crash site. He watched as the women were freed and carried on stretchers to the ambulance, which sped off with flashing lights and loud sirens. The driver of the jeep left in the second ambulance. Tow trucks were brought in to drag away the wrecked cars and soon it looked as though nothing had happened there. Having swept up the broken glass, Erlendur and the others climbed back into the police van and resumed their patrol.

  Next they arrested two men suspected of drink driving, which involved taking samples and preparing reports. Paperwork bored Erlendur, though he understood why it was necessary. It took up too much of their time; everything had to be accounted for and carefully recorded. Names had to be taken, incident reports written up, one form after another meticulously filled in and filed. Nothing must be neglected. Accuracy was paramount.

  Gardar and Marteinn were now discussing their chances of taking any leave that summer. Erlendur was only half listening.

  ‘Maybe after the anniversary celebrations at Thingvellir,’ said Gardar.

  ‘I suppose we’ll all have to be there for that?’ asked Marteinn.

  Preparations were in full swing for the national holiday at the end of July when Icelanders were to celebrate the eleven hundredth anniversary of the settlement of their island. There had been meetings about extra policing and overtime. A huge crowd was expected to attend the festival at the ancient assembly site of Thingvellir, and the police would have a vital role to play in ensuring that everything went smoothly.

  ‘It’s incredible really,’ said Gardar.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘That we’ve bothered to scrape a living on this rock for eleven hundred years.’

  A little while later they were summoned to a basement flat in the centre of town. Someone had complained about noise, but by the time they arrived all was quiet. They climbed out of the van and Erlendur checked they had the right address. The neighbour who had phoned the police emerged from one of the houses, clothes hastily pulled on over his pyjamas.

  ‘They’ve been making a hell of a racket,’ he said as he approached. ‘Then suddenly just before you arrived everything went silent.’

  ‘Who lives there?’ asked Erlendur.

  ‘A pack of dope fiends. They’ve taken over the basement and cause nothing but trouble. Music on full blast, yelling and shouting. And their friends come round here revving their motorbikes and roaring up and down the street. It goes on all the time, but especially at night. Wakes you up with a jerk. Disturbs the children. We’ve complained repeatedly to the tenants, a couple of idiot boys. Tried talking to the landlord too but he doesn’t do a thing.’

  ‘Why do you say they’re dope fiends?’ asked Marteinn.

  ‘Because it’s a drug den. There are all kinds of undesirables hanging about, so it’s obvious they’re selling dope. Earlier today one of them threatened to beat me up. He was standing here smoking and I had the audacity to ask him not to chuck his cigarette stubs on the pavement. He almost went for me. Told me to eat shit. You can see the stubs everywhere.’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s not much we can –’

  They jumped when heavy rock music started blasting out of the flat. It was cranked right up.

  ‘There you go! They carry on like that till the early hours,’ the neighbour exclaimed. ‘Can you imagine what it’s like putting up with that?’

  ‘Does anyone else live there apart from the two boys?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said the neighbour. ‘People are coming and going all the time. It’s impossible to tell.’

  They knocked on the door. Nobody answered, so they hammered long and hard. When there was still no answer, they saw no alternative but to enter. Erlendur opened the door and found himself in a hall with a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. He could see into the sitting room where the source of the disturbance, a brand-new stereo, was set up on a table. Gard
ar and Marteinn followed him inside. They discovered two young men lounging on a squashy sofa, sharing a pipe. Billows of blue smoke curled around the flat. The men were so spaced out that they didn’t even bat an eyelid when they saw three police officers enter the room.

  Gardar walked over to the turntable and lifted the needle. In the sudden peace that followed, one of the men on the sofa finally noticed that something was wrong.

  ‘Hey, quit that, man,’ he cried. ‘Don’t turn off the record.’

  ‘We’ve received a complaint about noise from this address,’ Gardar informed him. ‘We have to ask you to turn off your music so your neighbours can get some sleep.’

  ‘Why are you hassling us? Leave us alone, man,’ his friend said. Neither made any effort to stand up; they were far too stoned, their eyes swimming with incomprehension.

  On the table in front of them, amid all the other mess, Erlendur could see three flat brown cakes the size of wallets, one of which had several chunks cut out of it. There were also three small plastic bags containing white powder; three pipes; a stash of matchboxes and lighters; several bottles of alcohol and packets of cigarettes; and various jars of pills.

  The neighbour had not been exaggerating when he called it a drug den. Erlendur couldn’t help thinking the two boys must be exceptionally stupid to draw attention to themselves by making that much noise in the middle of the night. They appeared to be celebrating the arrival of a new shipment – another successful smuggling job. They had obviously wanted to check it was pure first. But they could have been a lot less conspicuous about it.

  While Marteinn went out to the car to radio for back-up, Gardar watched over the two boys, leaving Erlendur to explore the rest of the flat. Just off the sitting room he found a bedroom, its floor piled high with rubbish and clothes. In the gloom he could see a dirty duvet on the large bed and under it a shape he thought he should investigate. Presumably the third occupant of the flat.

  Walking up to the bed, he whisked off the duvet, revealing a young girl, peacefully asleep. She was fully dressed and it only took Erlendur a moment to register that her clothes fitted the description of the girl who had recently been reported missing: jeans, pink peasant blouse, even the trainers. The camouflage jacket could not be far away. The word at the police station was that she came from a good home. Her parents, who were divorced, had explained how, without their realising, she had spiralled out of control. Nowadays she would hardly communicate with them, so they rarely knew where she was hanging out; yet she was quick to blame them for the state she was in.