Reykjavik Nights

by Arnaldur Indridason

  ‘He wandered in off the street every now and then. Last time I saw him I had to turn him away for being drunk and making a nuisance of himself. I gather he was sleeping up by the hot-water pipes towards the end.’

  ‘That’s right. Not far from where they found him in Kringlumýri.’

  ‘Poor man.’

  ‘So he was sober the times he stayed here?’

  ‘Had to be – we don’t allow any drinking.’

  ‘Did you talk to him at all?’

  ‘No, not that I recall. Just went over the rules with him, as I always do.’

  ‘Did he come here often when he was sober?’

  ‘From time to time, as I said, but usually he was in such a state that we couldn’t admit him. There were maybe two or three occasions when he was allowed to stay. No more. Then he had to leave in the morning like everybody else.’

  ‘Did he associate with any of your regulars? Can you remember?’ asked Erlendur.

  ‘Not off the top of my head. But it’s not a big community.’

  ‘Community?’

  ‘Reykjavík’s drinkers.’

  ‘No, I suppose not, though they certainly make their mark on the town.’

  ‘That’s nothing new. Most of them know each other. I vaguely remember him complaining that someone had tried to set fire to him. Can that be right?’

  ‘The cellar where he was sleeping caught fire, yes. The owner reckoned he’d started the blaze himself by accident. Did he tell you different?’

  ‘Well, as far as I remember, he was extremely resentful about how he’d been treated. The incident’s stayed with me because that was the last time I saw him. He was fuming about being evicted. Does that fit?’

  ‘Sounds right. The cellar was a total dump but at least it was a roof over his head. Did he mention being blamed for the fire?’

  ‘No, just ranted on about it – he was the worse for wear and didn’t hang about long. In my line of work you hear so many sob stories and excuses, so many complaints and accusations about everything under the sun that in the end you stop listening.’

  * * *

  When Erlendur left the Fever Hospital shortly afterwards, the drunk man was still standing in the street outside. To combat the unsteadiness of his legs he had propped himself against a fence from where he hailed Erlendur.

  ‘You pissed too?’

  Erlendur stopped and considered the man in his thick winter coat and hat; the grimy hands, the wrinkles etched deep in his face. He could be either side of fifty.

  ‘No, I’m not pissed.’ Erlendur went over. ‘Won’t they take you?’

  ‘Arseholes,’ said the man.

  ‘If you sober up, they’ll give you food and shelter. They can’t have everyone wandering around drunk though, can they?’

  The man gave him a look of contempt; clearly this was unworthy of a response.

  ‘You wouldn’t by any chance remember a guy called Hannibal? Used to come down here.’

  ‘Hannibal?’ the man said sharply.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I knew Hannibal. Why are you asking?’

  ‘I –’

  ‘He was drowned like a dog.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What do I mean? I mean someone went out there and drowned the poor sod.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘I just know.’

  ‘Did you see it?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. But I saw plenty of other things.’

  ‘Why are you so sure, then?’

  ‘How else did he drown in that puddle? Eh? You tell me!’

  ‘So you –’

  ‘Me? No, wasn’t me. I had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘So what did you see?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You said you’d seen plenty of other things. What did you mean?’

  ‘I see things,’ repeated the tramp. ‘And I know things too. Don’t you go thinking I’m some kind of fool, mate. I’m no fool, let me tell you.’

  ‘Do you know things about Hannibal?’

  ‘Oh, leave me alone. Why don’t you talk to that stupid prick Bergmundur? He knew Hannibal better than me. Saw him in the square only yesterday. Back on the bottle, the bloody fool. Not for the first time,’ he added, with an oddly censorious expression, as if he himself never touched a drop except on special occasions.

  * * *

  Little was to be gained from the couple who used to live above Hannibal’s cellar. Erlendur had finally tracked them down to a grotty rented place near the swimming pool in Laugardalur. They had been out the night of the fire yet were convinced that Hannibal was responsible. Not that they spoke badly of him. In fact, they showed sympathy for his plight.

  ‘We didn’t mind him sleeping there,’ explained the woman whose name was Málfrídur. She had a puffy red face, a large splayed nose and a big mouth, which was prevented from closing properly by protruding teeth. Her husband, who was waiting by the stove for the coffee to percolate, also looked like a drinker: grubby vest, braces hanging down over his trousers, bare feet. The flat was dirty and there was an unpleasant smell whose source Erlendur could not identify. Burnt offal, he suspected.

  ‘We liked the bum,’ said the man, pouring coffee into some glasses.

  ‘Sad what happened to him,’ added Málfrídur.

  ‘He didn’t have any enemies that you were aware of?’

  ‘No,’ said the man, ‘but it’s tough on the streets. Wasn’t the poor sod drunk when he fell in?’

  ‘Do you believe he started the fire himself?’ asked Erlendur.

  ‘Yes, it was just him being clumsy, wasn’t it?’ said Málfrídur, her mouth hanging open.

  ‘Mind you, he blamed the brothers next door,’ her husband pointed out.

  ‘Yes, but that was a load of nonsense,’ said Málfrídur. ‘They had no motive.’

  ‘Any idea why he accused them?’ asked Erlendur. ‘Had he got on the wrong side of them?’

  ‘No, the brothers had nothing to do with it,’ insisted Málfrídur.

  ‘I didn’t like them,’ remarked her husband. ‘Never did.’

  ‘That’s different.’

  ‘Why didn’t you like them?’ asked Erlendur, looking at the man.

  ‘They wouldn’t so much as give you the time of day, even though we were neighbours. And they were mixed up in some kind of shady business, if you ask me. Selling home-made spirits – that sort of thing. Turned their noses up at us. I went round once; asked if they’d sell me some booze – I’d noticed a constant stream of people coming and going from their place. Late at night, mostly. All sorts. They denied they had any, but I know they were lying.’

  ‘Was Hannibal aware of this?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue. We never discussed it. Then all the comings and goings stopped. I don’t know if it had anything to do with me going over there. They were nasty pieces of work, those brothers.’

  ‘They used to be glued to their telly all evening,’ said Málfrídur.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, it was on every night. We could see from our window. They were telly addicts, if you ask me. Total addicts.’

  ‘Then they moved out,’ said the man.

  ‘Yes, soon after that business with Hannibal,’ added the woman. ‘And we haven’t laid eyes on them since.’

  9

  Erlendur stood at the Grensásvegur–Miklabraut junction, directing traffic round a three-car pile-up. Two police vehicles and two ambulances had been called to the scene, along with a fire engine to cut an injured driver from the wreckage. An estate car had cannoned into the back of another, smaller vehicle, forcing it through a red light and into the box junction where a van had smacked into its side. The van had been travelling fairly fast, so the car had rebounded into Grensásvegur, where it rolled over. The impact had hurled the driver of the van through the windscreen and he was now lying in his own blood on the tarmac. The driver of the car that had rolled over was still trapped under the steering wheel. Meanwhile,
the man who had originally caused the accident was sitting in one of the police vehicles, suspected of driving under the influence. He was bleeding from a gash on his head. His wife too was clearly the worse for wear. Gardar said she was something of a madam: his efforts to prevent her walking away from the scene had resulted in an angry altercation. Blood was trickling from her forehead onto the mink coat draped around her, and she was swaying slightly in her high heels. Finally Gardar persuaded her to accompany him back to where her husband was sitting, shoulders bowed, in police custody.

  It was just after midnight on Friday and there was still a fair amount of traffic on the city’s main artery. Erlendur’s position in the middle of the busy junction was not immediately life threatening, but there was always an element of unpredictability at this hour. Their very first job that evening had been to pull over a drunk driver on Skúlagata after they noticed him changing lanes at breakneck speed. Despite being almost incoherent when they helped him out of the car, he had insisted that he was stone-cold sober, then had passed out en route for a blood test.

  The three wrecked vehicles were towed away. Once the ambulances and fire engine had departed as well, they were able to reopen the junction to traffic. Then, as they were driving away, a call came in about a fight at Rödull on Nóatún. A drunk man had attacked a bartender, then started terrorising the other customers before being overpowered by two bouncers, who were now waiting for the police.

  When they reached the club, they found a long queue.

  ‘Fancy-dress, is it?’ someone called out as they elbowed their way through the throng. They were met by a doorman who showed them through to the kitchen where the troublemaker was lying face down on the floor, restrained by two burly men, while the other staff bustled around them.

  ‘I’ll kill you!’ the man blustered. ‘I’ll kill you, you fucking pigs.’

  The head bouncer launched into an explanation of what had happened. Refused a tab at the bar, the man had completely lost it and slashed the bartender in the face with a broken glass. The victim had been driven straight to Casualty, spouting blood. The bouncers had recognised the perpetrator as an occasional customer, known for his obnoxious behaviour. They’d thrown him out a couple of times when women had complained about him, but they didn’t know his name.

  ‘He’s one of those dickheads who walks in here and thinks he owns the place,’ said the head doorman. ‘It’ll be good to get rid of the prick. He’s barred from now on.’

  Marteinn clicked a pair of handcuffs onto the man’s wrists and, with Erlendur’s help, hauled him to his feet.

  ‘I’m going to sue those bastards for assault!’ the man stormed. His stretch on the kitchen floor had only made him feel more aggrieved. ‘They attacked me. Dragged me in here. Threw me on the floor. I’m going to sue them.’

  ‘It’s touch and go whether they’ll be able to save Kiddi’s eye – he’s our bartender,’ the bouncer told them. ‘He’ll definitely want to press charges against this tosser.’

  Accompanied by a tirade of abuse, they escorted the man outside, through the crowd to the police car. A few of the people in the queue tried to interfere, mouthing off about stupid pigs and police oppression. Inured to such insults, they paid no attention.

  Afterwards they took a coffee break at the station. The shift had been no better or worse than usual so far. Car crashes, drunk drivers, bar brawls – it was all part of the job, like the insults of the onlookers.

  Much to Erlendur’s irritation, Gardar and Marteinn had spent most of the night arguing about the British rock group Slade. They had heard on the news that there was a chance the band might perform live at the Laugardalshöll concert hall that autumn. Gardar was desperate for tickets. Earlier that summer Procol Harum, one of Marteinn’s favourite groups, had played at the University Cinema. He had attended the first of their three gigs and was so blown away that he had been lost for words. He had been humming ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’ almost non-stop ever since. But his enthusiasm had fallen on deaf ears, so now when Gardar started going on about Slade, Marteinn was inclined to be scathing.

  ‘Of course, Slade’s by far and away the coolest band around,’ said Gardar, biting into a kleina, or doughnut twist.

  ‘Glam-rock rubbish,’ sneered Marteinn. ‘They won’t last – you won’t even remember their name in a few years. Why don’t you listen to Procol Harum or something halfway decent like the Stones? They’re a serious band. I bet they’ll still be rocking when they’re fifty!’

  ‘Nah, Slade’s the business, man.’

  ‘Isn’t Pelican doing the same kind of thing?’ asked Erlendur, who took little interest in the music scene but recalled seeing an article in the paper.

  ‘Well, of course, they’re way cooler,’ said Marteinn. ‘“Jenny Darling” is pure genius.’

  * * *

  They ended their shift down by the harbour, not far from the slipway, where a man had fallen in the sea. He had been saved in the nick of time by a passer-by who had jumped in after him, and he had now been taken to hospital. His rescuer made light of his own condition as he sat in the police van, soaked to the skin, wrapped in a couple of blankets. He was able to give a clear account of the incident and was far more concerned for the man he had fished out of the harbour than for himself.

  ‘What’ll happen to him?’ he asked.

  ‘I expect they’ll send him home after a check-up,’ said Erlendur.

  ‘He’s in a bad way.’

  ‘Don’t worry, they’ll take a look at him.’

  ‘No, I mean mentally. They’d better keep an eye on him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He didn’t fall.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t like that. He did it on purpose. He jumped.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Sure! He was fighting me the whole time, begging me to let him go. Pleading with me to leave him to die.’

  10

  During their rare encounters Hannibal hadn’t mentioned any relatives, and when Erlendur started asking around about the tramp, he learned that Hannibal never used to talk about his family or his former life. If anyone tried to draw him out he would get angry and accuse them of interfering.

  Erlendur discovered in a roundabout way that Hannibal’s sister was a married mother of three. She had gone back to work once her children had left home and was now a doctor’s receptionist in Reykjavík. There was a brother too who was a building contractor up north in Akureyri, married, with no children. Both were sober, respectable citizens, from what Erlendur could ascertain; in fact the brother was an active member of his local temperance movement, perhaps in an attempt to compensate for Hannibal’s lifestyle.

  After giving it some thought, Erlendur decided to try to find out more about Hannibal’s background from his sister. He rang the surgery, was put through, and, having introduced himself as an acquaintance of her brother’s, asked if he could have a word.

  ‘What about?’ she asked. He could hear a phone ringing in the background. Reception was obviously busy.

  ‘Your brother Hannibal.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I –’

  ‘Why do you want to discuss him?’ She sounded a little flustered. ‘Why are you asking me about Hannibal?’

  ‘I knew him slightly. Perhaps I could explain better if you’d spare a minute to meet me.’

  ‘No, you know what, I really don’t have time.’

  ‘I’d be grateful if –’

  ‘Look, I’m afraid I don’t have time, I’ve got to take this call.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Sorry, but I’ll have to hang up now. Thank you, goodbye.’

  She cut him off.

  Erlendur was surprised at this reaction but on reflection he guessed that she had taken him for one of her brother’s homeless friends and wanted nothing to do with him. Perhaps he should have been more specific, explained who he was and the nature of his business, put more pressure on her to
meet him. It dawned on him that he didn’t actually know what his business was, or why he had this urge to learn Hannibal’s backstory.

  Why was he fixated on the fate of some poor tramp, whom he had, let’s face it, only met a handful of times? Was it because he had been first on the scene and personally fished him out of the water that the image was etched on his brain? He had been shocked when he saw who it was, but he shouldn’t have been all that surprised to come across Hannibal’s body. It was bound to happen sooner or later. The man was in poor shape; after all, he had been living rough, in desperate straits, for years. And his mental state had not been much better. The last time they met, in a cell at the station, Hannibal had spoken of his misery and how he lacked the guts to end to it all.

  Was it guilt pushing Erlendur to unearth everything he could about the man? Could he have done more for him, despite Hannibal’s rejection of any help or sympathy? No one cared if a vagrant, who was on his last legs anyway, wound up dead. It just meant one less bum on the streets. No one else was asking questions about this man who had drowned like a stray dog. Even the tramp at the Fever Hospital, who had seemed sure that Hannibal’s death was no accident, had been fairly flippant about his death.

  Or could it be that Hannibal had touched a nerve when he exploded, accusing Erlendur of interfering, and demanded to know why he wouldn’t leave him alone?

  Whatever it was, something about Hannibal’s sad story had captured Erlendur’s imagination. His fate, yes, but also his dogged determination to withdraw from human society. Where had this need come from? What had caused it? Erlendur sympathised with his loneliness and mental anguish, and yet there was some element of his character – the uncompromising fact of his existence – that was also strangely alluring. The way he had set himself against life and stood, alone and untouchable, beyond all help.

  Still lost in this reverie, Erlendur found himself at the doctor’s surgery. It was nearly closing time and there were no more patients in the waiting room. A woman of about forty, with backcombed blonde hair, dressed in a green blouse, a tight skirt and a pretty pearl necklace, was tidying up in reception.