‘Miserable weather,’ she said.
‘It’s supposed to clear up this evening. The forecast’s good for tomorrow.’
He glanced around. Hressingarskálinn – or Hressó as it was familiarly known – was one of the few cafes in the centre of town. It attracted a crowd of artists, actors, poets and journalists who chatted and gossiped, perused the papers, had opinions on everything and spared no one. The poet Steinn Steinarr, who in Erlendur’s opinion had no equal, used to hold court there. And he had spotted another luminary, Tómas Guðmundsson, in the midst of heated discussion once. Hressó did a decent lunch and Erlendur sometimes dropped in to eat, read the papers and watch the world go by.
‘Shall we have waffles?’ asked Halldóra. ‘And hot chocolate with cream?’
‘Yup, waffles and cream,’ said Erlendur. ‘That’ll hit the spot.’
‘Just the thing on a dreary day like this, isn’t it?’ She smiled.
‘Yes.’
Once they had ordered, Halldóra took out a packet of cigarettes and offered him one. They smoked in silence until she began to tell him about a re-released film she had seen with her girlfriends. She gave a rundown of the plot and the actors. He had heard of Shirley MacLaine but not of the film, Irma la Douce. He very seldom went to the cinema.
They tucked into the waffles and sipped their hot chocolate. The place was quiet; only a few tables were occupied and the customers spoke in murmurs. Halldóra told him she had got the job at the telephone company. She was looking forward to learning the ropes, booking and connecting international calls. Then she asked him what it was like on night duty. He sketched a few of the incidents they dealt with, shorn of any excitement or romance. Instead, he emphasised the depressing side: the burglaries, the drunk drivers and car crashes. He had not told her about Hannibal or his unofficial investigation. Sooner or later he would have to report his unnerving discoveries to CID.
‘Don’t you get tired of being on night duty all the time?’ she asked. ‘Doesn’t it mess up your body clock?’
‘No, I like it fine,’ he replied. ‘I work with a couple of good guys, so the shifts pass surprisingly quickly.’
It was not the first time she had asked. He knew she cared about his welfare, but mostly she was just grasping at conversational straws.
‘Gardar and Marteinn, you mean?’
‘Yes. They’re all right.’
‘You don’t have any of the new female officers on your shift?’
‘No.’ He smiled.
‘Is it really a job for women? What if some crazy person attacked them? Isn’t it too dangerous?’
‘Not really. At least, not in my opinion,’ said Erlendur. ‘Not everyone’s happy with women going out on the beat, but it was probably about time. There are plenty of situations where it’s actually better to have a female officer.’
‘Do you think I could be a cop?’
‘Definitely.’ Erlendur grinned.
She laughed and they sipped their hot chocolate again. He sensed that she was unsure of herself, as if she had something on her mind that she didn’t know how to put into words. Or was too shy to tell him.
‘I … I was wondering if…’
‘What?’
‘Oh, I … I wondered if you’d like to … if you wouldn’t mind … I don’t know … if I rented a place with you? If we moved in together? I just wanted to float the idea. It would save us having to pay for two places. And … well, it would save us a lot of money … so I was wondering if it might make sense, that’s all.’
Erlendur took a mouthful of waffle. He had been to the small flat she rented in Breidholt a few times. It was in the basement of a detached house and Halldóra was always complaining about how it was so cramped and how inconvenient the location was. He imagined it would be even more inconvenient for her new job at the phone company headquarters in the centre of town.
‘The thing is, they’ve given me my notice,’ Halldóra continued. ‘Their daughter’s coming home. She’s been studying abroad for two years but apparently doesn’t want to stay, so they told me I have to move out by the end of the summer.’
Erlendur did not say anything to this.
‘I just thought I’d run it by you,’ she said. ‘What do you think?’
‘I –’
‘We’ve known each other – been seeing each other or whatever you like to call it – for … I don’t know how long, so perhaps it’s time we did something about it. Took the next step. Made it serious. You know…’
He had given little thought to moving their relationship on to the next stage or even wondering where it was going. They met up fairly regularly, either at her flat or at his place in Hlídar, which was handier for a night out on the town. But they hadn’t discussed any future plans. Admittedly, he had once given in and agreed to meet her parents. But as far as he knew Halldóra had been happy with the arrangement. At least she had never pushed him for more. Until now.
She noticed his hesitation.
‘It was just an idea,’ she said, immediately backing down. ‘If you don’t want to, that’s fine. I can find myself a flat somewhere else. Of course it’s cheapest to live way out in Breidholt, but it’s quite a long journey to work. So … I need to weigh up the options.’
‘No, what you’re saying might make sense, I just need to think about it,’ said Erlendur. ‘I wasn’t expecting it. Sorry if … I just haven’t given it any thought. You’ve never brought this up before. We’ve never discussed it.’
‘No, fair enough.’
‘So … it’s a bit out of the blue.’
‘Yes, I know. It was just an idea,’ Halldóra repeated, cheering up a little. ‘Go away and think about it. It’s all right. It’s fine. You need time to mull it over. Of course. I should’ve warned you. Sorry to spring it on you like that.’
‘No need to be sorry, Halldóra.’
‘I could have handled it better.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘Actually, I’ve been kind of dreading seeing you today.’
‘Dreading? Because of that? Don’t worry.’
He reached out and laid a hand on hers for emphasis.
‘I just needed to know how you’d take it,’ she said. ‘It’s important to me – in the circumstances.’
‘Of course.’
‘There’s something else.’
Noticing that she still looked worried, Erlendur assumed he had failed to reassure her. The people at the neighbouring table stood up and went out into the drizzle. Their departure was accompanied by a cold gust of wind.
‘I had to get that off my chest first – about us,’ said Halldóra.
‘Well, now you have.’
‘Yes.’
‘What is it? What’s the other thing?’
‘I think I’m pregnant.’
34
By evening the skies had cleared and the wind had dropped. The pools lay smooth and unruffled as Erlendur threaded his way among them, crossing Kringlumýri in the direction of Hvassaleiti. He had walked this way before after talking to the boy on the bicycle. Erlendur was keen to meet the man who practised his golf swing on Hvassaleiti. So far he had had no success in tracking him down.
He made his way through the neighbourhood, passing terraced houses and blocks of flats. The streets were full of children playing ball games or hide-and-seek – they had erupted from the houses as soon as the rain let up – but he couldn’t see his friend on the bike. Neighbours stood around chatting about inflation or whether they planned to go to the Thingvellir celebrations. ‘Depends on the weather,’ Erlendur heard as he went by.
When he reached the edge of the development he caught sight of a man standing in a dip not far from the corner of Hvassaleiti and Háaleitisbraut, where the National Broadcasting Company was planning to build its new headquarters. Next to the man was a small golf bag. He was extracting balls from a bucket lying on its side and hitting them a few metres at a time across the grass.
Erlendur walked
over and said good evening. The man returned his greeting, hit a ball six metres or so, then hooked out another with his club. This time he messed up his stroke, sending a chunk of turf into the air; Erlendur had ruined his concentration. He turned.
‘Can I do something for you?’ he asked, a hint of impatience in his voice.
‘Do you often practise here?’
‘Sometimes.’ The man was in his forties, tall and lean, dressed in golfing attire – cardigan, light checked trousers, a glove on his left hand. From his tan Erlendur guessed he had spent his summer on the handful of golf courses to be found near Reykjavík. It only confirmed his belief that the game had been invented for English and Scottish lords who had nothing better to do with their time.
‘What’s it to you?’ asked the man.
‘Oh, just curious,’ said Erlendur. ‘The local boys told me a golfer sometimes practised here in the evenings.’
He brought out the ball he had found and showed it to the man.
‘This one of yours, by any chance? I found it up by the pipeline.’
The golfer looked from the ball to Erlendur, then took it and examined it more closely. He was surprised, not by the ball but by the fact that this young man should have come all this way to return it.
‘Could be,’ he said. ‘I don’t mark my balls specially so … and this one looks quite old. No, I’m fairly sure it’s not mine.’
He handed it back.
‘Don’t you hit them towards the pipeline?’ asked Erlendur, pointing to where the conduit crossed the waste-ground between Fossvogur and Kringlumýri.
‘If I’m using the driver, they can travel up to two hundred and fifty metres. But mostly I work on my putting here. And I don’t lose these balls so easily.’
‘The driver?’
‘The biggest club.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘You’re not a golfer, are you?’
‘No.’
‘Putting’s the most important skill – those are the short shots. You can whack the balls as far as you like but the real knack lies in hitting them accurately over short distances.’
‘I don’t know the first thing about golf,’ admitted Erlendur.
‘No, not many Icelanders play.’
‘Does anyone else practise here – that you’re aware of?’
‘Not that I’ve noticed.’
‘Been coming here long?’
‘I moved to this area four years ago.’
‘Ever see any activity around the pipeline? People walking along it, for example?’
‘Now and then.’
‘Ever come out here late in the evenings?’
‘Past midnight, sometimes, when it’s light enough. Try to make the most of these short summers. But I don’t see why you’re asking me all this. Can I help you with something specific?’
‘I don’t know if you remember, but a tramp drowned in Kringlumýri a year ago. He’d been sleeping inside the heating conduit. I found this ball nearby and wondered if you’d hit it over there and might perhaps have seen him.’
‘I do remember them finding him,’ said the golfer.
‘Do you recall seeing him in the area? Or over by the pipeline?’
‘Was he someone you knew?’
‘We were acquainted.’
‘No, I never saw him. Didn’t even know he was sleeping there until I read about it in the papers. He must’ve been in a pretty bad way.’
‘He was down on his luck, yes.’
‘Actually, now you come to mention it … I was out here late one night last summer, working on my stroke, when I noticed someone bending over by the pipeline.’
‘The tramp?’
‘I don’t know. He was just sort of bending over, like I said, and peering around, then he disappeared and popped up again. I’ve no idea if it was the person you’re talking about. I couldn’t see him that clearly. All I saw was a man busy with something over there.’
‘Did you notice where he went afterwards?’
‘No, I only spotted him briefly, then I went home. Though I do remember that the incident came back to me when those boys found the man’s body a couple of days later and I heard he’d been living in the pipeline.’
‘Did you tell the police?’
‘The police?’
‘Yes.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘You didn’t think it might have been important when they found the tramp?’
‘No, it didn’t even cross my mind.’ The man hooked another ball from the bucket and positioned it on the grass. ‘Not for a minute. After all, I didn’t know if it was him. Why would I inform the police about some tramp hanging around in the old diggings?’
‘Could you describe him in more detail – the man you saw?’
‘No, not really.’
‘And he was doing something by the pipeline?’
‘I haven’t a clue what he was up to but I do recall thinking he must have been searching for something. He was a long way off, though, and I wasn’t paying attention. Just caught a momentary glimpse.’
‘Could it have been a woman?’
‘Not sure,’ said the golfer. ‘Maybe. Couldn’t say.’
‘And this was around the time the tramp was found in the pool? Do you remember when exactly?’
‘Only about two days before. I’m fairly sure it was past midnight.’
‘A figure bending over by the pipeline?’
‘Yes, presumably that tramp. It was an accident, wasn’t it?’
‘What was?’
‘His death. There was nothing suspicious about it?’
‘No, I doubt it,’ said Erlendur. ‘I expect it was just an accident.’
* * *
When Halldóra told him she was pregnant, Erlendur didn’t know what to think. The news was so unexpected that he was utterly thrown.
‘Is it mine?’ he blurted out as they sat in the cafe.
‘Yours? Of course,’ Halldóra answered.
‘Are you…?’
‘I haven’t … there’s no one else, if that’s what you think. Is that what you think?’
‘And you’re sure?’
‘Sure? What do you mean? Of course I’m sure. You’re the only person it could be.’
‘No, I mean that you’re pregnant. You only said you thought you were.’
‘No, I … I didn’t know how best to put it, but … there’s no doubt,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen a doctor.’
‘But … when…?’
‘In the spring. You’d been to the police party, remember? You don’t seem terribly pleased.’
‘It’s just such a surprise. What –?’
‘You should have realised how I’d feel,’ said Halldóra.
Erlendur sat in silence while her words sank in. There was a loud crash from the kitchen as some plates fell on the floor, and everyone except Erlendur and Halldóra looked up.
‘All that stuff about moving in together…?’
‘I didn’t know how to broach the subject,’ said Halldóra. ‘I don’t know where I am with you. You were so reluctant to meet my parents. And I know almost nothing about you. About your family, for example. We’ve been seeing each other for two and a half years but I still don’t know you at all and you know nothing about me. We meet at pubs, sleep together and go into town but…’
He thought she was going to burst into tears.
‘Either we make it serious or we might as well end it,’ she whispered across the table.
Erlendur had no idea what to say.
‘What do you want to do?’ she asked and he saw she was welling up. ‘What do you want to do, Erlendur?’
35
The man had already gone over his story twice with the police but had no objection to repeating it yet again. He spoke calmly and deliberately, with a good memory for detail. Erlendur could see why she had fallen for him. Not only was he pleasant and polite, but he was handsome as well, with a dark complexion, a fine head of black hair, neat ha
nds and a friendly smile. He was dressed in a suit and tie, his hair fell sleek to his shoulders and he had a good set of sideburns. Erlendur had found his name, Ísidór, in the police files. When Erlendur phoned, the man had immediately invited him to his office. He ran a small business importing goods from America and had a selection of samples by his desk: candy, potato chips and other unfamiliar treats.
He asked if there had been any progress in the inquiry and Erlendur said no, that he was looking into it unofficially at the request of a relative. The man asked no further questions but seemed keen to discuss the case.
When they first met, Ísidór didn’t know Oddný was married. He had never seen her before that night at Rödull. They got talking and he bought her a drink. She explained that she had been out with work mates at another bar but had moved on to Rödull by herself. Before long she asked if he was married. He told her he was divorced and didn’t have any children. She said she didn’t have any children either, but he never thought to ask if she was married.
‘She didn’t look like she was,’ Ísidór said, smoothing his tie. ‘At least I didn’t get that impression.’
They had shared a taxi to his place in Breidholt. At the time he was having a small house built on the northern side of the hill and it was still unfinished, with painted concrete floors and a makeshift kitchen. They had slept together and arranged to see each other again.
‘As I explained to the police last year, it came as a nasty surprise when she told me she was married. It was our third date. She said we couldn’t go on seeing each other; she’d have to break it off. Of course I demanded to know why and then it came out. You can imagine how shocked I was. It was totally unexpected.’
‘Did she explain why she hadn’t told you to begin with?’
‘I think she was just using me to get back at him,’ said Ísidór. ‘Did he send you, by any chance?’
Reykjavik Nights Page 15
