Reykjavik Nights (10 page)

‘State … what state?'

Marteinn and Gardar drew up beside them, their circuit complete, and Erlendur gestured for them to give him a minute. The police van rolled forward a few metres and stopped again.

‘Maybe you should postpone your visit till tomorrow morning,' said Erlendur. ‘Where are you living?'

‘Where…?'

‘I'll take you home.'

‘I'm … see Thurí…'

‘Maybe you should go another time.'

‘If she … carry on with … Hannibal … good enough for me.'

‘Hannibal?'

‘Yeah.'

‘What about him? Did he and Thurí know each other?'

‘Of … course.'

‘How?'

‘I … I…'

But by now Bergmundur was beyond speech.

‘Were they lovers?'

Bergmundur slid slowly down the wall until he was sitting on the road with one leg folded beneath him. Erlendur made a sign to his colleagues and the police van reversed towards them. They decided to take Bergmundur to the station to sleep it off and he made no protest as they lifted him into the back of the vehicle. Erlendur tried to talk to him but it was futile. The man had slipped into oblivion.

16

Although on the outside it was indistinguishable from the other houses in the old Thingholt neighbourhood, the hostel on Amtmannsstígur provided sanctuary for women with drink problems who had nowhere else to turn. There was a female warden who ensured that the house rules were observed and who kept an eye on the cleaning, but otherwise the women had the place to themselves. When Erlendur paid a visit, the hostel had no fewer than eight residents receiving food, lodging and a refuge from life on the street. All were alcoholics who had been reduced to vagrancy, like the men at the Fever Hospital. Some had been battling for many years with the ‘bloody booze'.

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 them. 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.