Reykjavik Nights (25 page)

‘You shouldn't believe everything you're told.'

‘Shit, I never should have blabbed.'

‘You don't happen to know if the brothers were acquainted with a man called Hannibal?' asked Erlendur.

‘Hannibal. No. Who's he?'

‘They never mentioned the name?'

‘They never mentioned anything except how much I owed them,' said Fannar. ‘I only met them the once. Didn't usually score direct from them. All they told me was how big my debt was and how I could pay it off.'

‘By breaking into the shop?'

‘Yes.'

‘Where do you suppose they got the idea from?'

‘Saw it on TV, some series they're always watching. Thought it was cool.'

‘What series was that?'

‘Can't remember … bloke in a wheelchair … Don't watch TV myself.'

‘
Ironside
?'

‘That's the one.'

44

The brothers were briefly detained at Hverfisgata while the request to remand them in custody was being processed. They were silent, their faces grim, as they were led down the corridor and locked in. A homeless man who had begged to be admitted early that morning was the only other occupant of the cells. He had whimpered that he was worn out, hadn't had a proper night's kip in a bed with a roof over his head for God knows how long. The duty sergeant told him to try the Fever Hospital but he said they had turned him away. After some argument the sergeant gave in and let him sleep in one of the cells.

Erlendur knew that once Ellert and Vignir had been transferred to the prison at Sídumúli he wouldn't be able to get anywhere near them. If they decided not to cooperate and denied everything, they could end up languishing in solitary confinement for weeks. Erlendur didn't have the patience to wait that long. He happened to be at the station when he heard that Vignir was already on his way to Sídumúli, so, realising he needed to act quickly, he slipped down to Ellert's cell.

Ellert couldn't believe his eyes when he saw Erlendur in his police uniform. He recognised him immediately. Erlendur had told them nothing about himself, only that he had known Hannibal.

‘You!' exclaimed Ellert. ‘You're never a cop!'

‘I'm in Traffic.'

‘Traffic?'

‘I'm not involved with your case,' said Erlendur. ‘I hear you and your brother were picked up for drug trafficking but that's nothing to do with me. My only interest is in Hannibal – seeing as your case is under investigation anyway.'

‘Our case? There is no case.'

‘No, right. As I said, my only concern is Hannibal.'

‘I don't follow. What's he got to do with it?'

‘This changes things,' said Erlendur. ‘Don't you think?'

‘Things?' said Ellert. ‘What things? Why the hell do you keep going on about Hannibal? And who made up this shit about us selling dope? That's what I'd like to know. Who the fuck is trying to frame us for that? Is it you? Did you make up that bollocks about Hannibal just to snoop round our house?'

‘No.'

‘So who's been spreading this shit about us?'

‘I know nothing about the investigation beyond the fact that you're being charged with drug trafficking. And I don't have a clue what people have been saying about you. I wasn't snooping, either. I wasn't there on official business; my only concern was Hannibal. Did he know what you were up to?'

‘We weren't
up to
anything,' said Ellert. ‘Now you've really lost me.'

‘Did he threaten you? Was that why you set fire to his cellar – to scare him off? Is that what it was all about?'

‘I've nothing more to say to you.'

‘I repeat: did you set his cellar on fire?'

‘For Christ's sake, the bloody tramp started it himself!' snapped Ellert. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? We saved him. What don't you understand? We shouldn't have bothered. Should've left the stupid bastard to burn. Then at least we wouldn't have you to deal with.'

‘I reckon you got rid of him,' said Erlendur. ‘He suspected you. He was thrown out of his home and held you responsible for that. I reckon he knew what you were up to and threatened to expose you. You had a lot to lose. One tramp more or less didn't matter. So one evening you and your brother went up to the pipeline where he was sleeping and attacked him. He fled to the flooded diggings where you two caught up with him.'

‘What the fuck?' exclaimed Ellert. ‘We had no idea where he went after he was chucked out of Frímann's place. And that wasn't our fault – he managed that all by himself. The stupid bastard set the house on fire! It had nothing to do with us. And he never threatened us.' As an afterthought he added: ‘Not that I know why he would have wanted to in the first place.'

‘Ever heard of a woman called Oddný?' asked Erlendur, changing tack.

‘You what?'

‘She went out partying the night Hannibal died. To Thórskaffi. Decided to walk home because the weather was good and she wanted to clear her head. She never made it.'

‘What … what are you on about now?'

‘Chances are that Oddný walked past Hannibal's camp that night,' Erlendur continued. ‘Perhaps you recognise the name?'

‘Oddný? Never heard of her.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Sure? I'm positive!'

‘Is it possible that she saw you two?' asked Erlendur. ‘Or perhaps it was just one of you? Was it Vignir? Or maybe you sent a sidekick to do your dirty work for you. Was that it? Did you send someone else to drown Hannibal?'

‘Oh, drop the bullshit. I don't have a clue what you're on about. Get out of here and leave me alone, you stupid prick.'

He stood up and advanced towards Erlendur. He was more of a mess than the last time Erlendur had seen him; after a night in the cell his eyes were bleary, his hair dishevelled. Erlendur was careful not to betray his unease. All along he had spoken in even, almost soothing tones, never raising his voice, never changing his expression.

‘She tried to run away,' he continued, unperturbed, ‘but she didn't get far. She was only about ten, fifteen minutes' walk from her home in Fossvogur. Maybe she started running in that direction when she saw you. You went after her. Perhaps she didn't get any further than Kringlumýri before you caught up with her. At least, there were no witnesses.'

Ellert regarded him in silence.

‘What happened then?' asked Erlendur.

The other man did not reply.

‘I know she was in the pipeline at some point,' said Erlendur. ‘Did you take her there? Did you drag her? Or did she hide there until you found her?'

‘Is this some new kind of trick psychology?' asked Ellert. ‘Trumping up charges for a serious crime I've never even heard of to get me to confess to some minor shit? Is that what this is all about? Is that how it works? Think I'm going to piss my pants just because you talk a load of bollocks?'

‘Did she hide in the pipeline?' asked Erlendur, ignoring him.

‘You just carry on bullshitting,' said Ellert.

‘Did you find her there?'

Ellert moved closer until their faces were nearly touching.

‘What do you want with me if you're not even involved in the case? Why don't you just fuck off?'

‘Wouldn't it have been enough to threaten Oddný? Did you have to kill her?'

For a second he thought Ellert was going to go for him but then the other man backed away. His face twisted in a smile and he returned to the bed, where he sat down and stared at the floor in silence.

*   *   *

As Erlendur walked down the corridor he heard an ugly cough from the other occupied cell. Seeing that the door was open a crack, Erlendur decided to check if the man was all right. He pushed it wider and saw the tramp lying on the bed, fully clothed, reminiscent of Hannibal the year before. There was a throat-catching stench of urine. The tramp was wearing a filthy overcoat, his woolly hat lay on the floor at the head of the bed and one of his waders had fallen off, revealing three pairs of holey socks, one on top of the other, in as many colours: black, red and green. On the table lay a pair of battered horn-rimmed glasses, held together with Sellotape.

The man coughed again and Erlendur asked if he was all right. The bundle of rags on the bed stirred and raised his head to see who was there. Erlendur recognised him at once: it was Vilhelm. The man fumbled for his glasses and Erlendur pushed them into his hands. He put them on and stared at Erlendur. His eyes, magnified by the lenses, held no recognition.

‘You're Vilhelm, aren't you?'

‘Who are you?' asked the tramp, racked again by the ugly, rattling cough that Erlendur recalled from their first meeting.

‘We met the other day up by the hot-water pipeline in Kringlumýri. Have you moved on?'

‘The pipeline? I couldn't stay there. It's not fit for humans. It's a bloody dump. Sorry but I don't remember you.'

‘Doesn't matter.'

‘Did we meet there?'

‘Yes, we did.'

‘It's completely slipped my mind.' As Vilhelm sat up, the smell intensified and Erlendur retreated to the doorway.

‘I was asking you about a man I knew called Hannibal who used to sleep in the pipeline. He drowned.'

‘Oh, yes, Hannibal, that's right. He drowned. Drowned, poor fellow. No, no, I've moved on, but … I'm telling you, it's hard to find a place indoors. Though with the weather we've been having it's not been too bad. It's not so bad sleeping under the trees in the park. Better than the pipeline, at any rate. Like sleeping in a coffin that was. Just like a coffin.'

‘Yes, well, anyway.' Erlendur turned to leave.

‘You couldn't spare a few fags?'

‘Sorry.'

‘Are you going?' Vilhelm sounded as if he would have liked Erlendur to stick around.

‘Yes. Things to do,' said Erlendur.

‘What did you say your name was?'

‘Erlendur.'

‘It might be coming back to me now.' Vilhelm was obviously eager to spin out their conversation. ‘Bergmundur came over after you'd left. Wanted to help me get a place at the Fever Hospital. Wouldn't hear of my camping in the pipeline. Kept going on about his Thurí. Funny how he's always been so crazy about that miserable cow.'

Perhaps Vilhelm was lonely and this was the first time he had talked to anyone for ages. Erlendur knew no more about him than any of the other vagrants in the city. The only one he had become acquainted with was Hannibal and he was still dealing with the repercussions.

‘Right, well, you take care,' Erlendur said in parting.

‘You gave me some change, didn't you?' said Vilhelm, gazing at him through the thick lenses.

‘That's right.'

‘Yes, I remember you. Took me a while to work it out. You weren't wearing that get-up then.' He indicated the police uniform.

‘No.' Erlendur smiled.

‘I couldn't understand what you were doing there. What you wanted from an old sod like me. You were asking about Hannibal, weren't you? You knew him. I remember you clearly now. I'm no fool. Have you found out what happened to him?'

‘No,' said Erlendur. ‘I'm no closer.'

45

They drove slowly through the centre of town. It was almost morning. The night had been quiet: they had answered a few call-outs but for the most part simply patrolled the streets, Marteinn and Gardar chatting away, Erlendur withdrawn and preoccupied. As they passed the entrance to Austurstræti, which had recently been pedestrianised, Gardar observed that it was ridiculous to close a street to traffic. Marteinn, playing devil's advocate as usual, pointed out that lots of streets were pedestrianised abroad. You had to consider people on foot too sometimes, not just drivers. Gardar said he'd never heard such a load of rubbish in his life.

On their way to the centre they had driven along Borgartún, where Gardar had shown them a vacant premises, formerly a cycle repair shop, which he reckoned would be perfect for a pizza place. It had two large picture windows facing the street. Gardar's cousin, who owned a fishing vessel and had plenty of money, was interested: he had eaten pizza in London so the concept wasn't completely foreign to him. But although Gardar was hopeful about getting him on board, other potential investors seemed to have less faith in fast food.

‘You two can come in on it, if you like,' he offered.

Marteinn shook his head, full of doubt.

‘What about you, Erlendur?'

‘No, I've no interest in pissers.'

‘Pizzas,' corrected Gardar. ‘Pizzas! How many times do I have to tell you? Are you sure, Marteinn?'

‘What are you going to call it?' asked Marteinn.

‘Don't know yet. Something foreign. Cool and catchy. Something like … something American.'

‘So not “Gardar's Pissers”?' suggested Erlendur.

Marteinn snorted with laughter. Gardar said there was no point talking to them. They'd be laughing on the other side of their faces when he rang them from sunny Mallorca once his business had taken off.

They drove along Pósthússtræti, past the Reykjavík Pharmacy, and turned into the section of Austurstræti that was still open to traffic. Their reflection appeared in the shop windows, undulating from one to the next under the illuminated signs like a flickering film. Twice that night they had been summoned to deal with punch-ups; at one of the parties they'd arrested a drunk, who was spending the rest of the night in the cells.

Just as they were leaving the centre of town, an alert came through about a domestic incident in the Bústadir district. Erlendur recognised the address immediately. He put his foot down and turned on the flashing lights, though there was no other traffic, and before they knew it they were storming along Miklabraut.