Reykjavik Nights (8 page)

But what would have been the point? Did the perpetrator know Hannibal was in there? Was the intention to kill him? Or did the arson have nothing whatsoever to do with Hannibal? The cellar was an easy target with its timber partitions and thick wooden beams. If the neighbours had not spotted the blaze straight away, the house would have been reduced to ashes in the blink of an eye.

The brothers had assumed that the candle stub must have rolled into the doorway from Hannibal's lair. But Erlendur hadn't noticed any candles there on his previous visits.

The second time he had escorted Hannibal back to his cellar, Erlendur had been on the beat in town and had run into the tramp on Hafnarstræti, not far from his home. Hannibal had looked rougher than ever, limping and battered, so Erlendur went over and asked if he was all right.

‘I'm fine.' Clearly Hannibal wanted nothing to do with the cops.

‘You're limping,' Erlendur pointed out. ‘Let me help you.'

The other man stared at him bemused, as if unused to such kindness.

‘We've met before, haven't we?'

‘I accompanied you home from Arnarhóll the other day. You were lying under the Tin.'

‘Oh, that was you, was it, mate?' said Hannibal. ‘Did I ever thank you properly?'

‘Yes, you did. Are you on your way home now?' asked Erlendur.

‘Give us a hand then, would you?' said Hannibal. ‘There's something wrong with my leg. You haven't by any chance got any booze on you?'

‘No. Come on, I'll take you. It's not far.'

‘A few krónur, then?'

Erlendur took his arm, walked him home and saw him safely inside to his mattress. Hannibal kept pestering him for a drink or some spare change, and eventually Erlendur slipped him a few coins. Feeling the tramp's frozen fingers, he asked if he had any means of warming himself down there – a candle even.

‘No,' Hannibal had answered flatly.

‘Why not?'

‘I'm scared to death I'll burn the bloody house down.'

13

The name of the tramp found in Nauthólsvík turned out to be Ólafur. The post-mortem had confirmed the cause of death as a heart attack and the police saw no reason to treat the circumstances as suspicious. His closest relative was an elder sister who lived in the countryside and had not been in touch with him for years. She had requested that his body be sent to her for burial in the family plot.

During his conversation with Erlendur outside the Fever Hospital, Ólafur had mentioned one of Hannibal's acquaintances, Bergmundur, who had recently fallen off the wagon and could usually be found hanging out in Austurvöllur Square. Not having come across this Bergmundur before, Erlendur wasn't having much luck as he wandered round town in search of him. The weather was perfect, sunny and still, and the streets were teeming with shoppers. On fine days like this boozers and vagrants gathered to lounge on the benches in the square, knocking back meths, illegally distilled spirits with a variety of mixers, or cardamom extract, basking in the warmth and bickering among themselves or shouting insults at passers-by. If there was a woman among their ranks, she would generally be forced to defend her virtue with foul-mouthed vitriol.

Erlendur raised his eyes to the statue of the independence hero Jón Sigurðsson, who stood in the middle of the square, back turned to the outcasts. He wondered if that's how Jón really would have felt about them and smiled at the thought, though in fact he did not believe the man had been a snob. In the grassy hollow behind the statue sat a disreputable-looking young man with a downy beard, wearing a peasant smock, Jesus sandals and a huge pair of what Erlendur took to be women's sunglasses.

‘Seen Bergmundur around?' Erlendur asked casually, as if he were well acquainted with this crowd.

‘Bergmundur?' repeated the young man, turning the outsize shades towards him.

‘Yes, he's back on the booze.' It was all Erlendur knew about the man.

‘Bergmundur, you mean? He was in town yesterday.'

‘Seen him today at all?'

‘Nope.'

‘Was he dry for long?'

‘No, not long; didn't last,' said the young man, as if it had been a foregone conclusion.

‘Know where I can find him?'

‘He lives with a couple of other guys in a condemned house on Hverfisgata.'

Out of the corner of his eye Erlendur spotted an old friend of the law, a thug and small-time crook called Ellidi. He was mixed up in alcohol smuggling and other minor-league stuff, including burglary, and had also served time at Litla-Hraun for grievous bodily harm. With him was a man Erlendur didn't recognise. He watched them walking from bench to bench as if searching for someone. Ellidi took a swig from a bottle that he kept inside his jacket, then passed it round. He made a comment and brayed with raucous laughter at his own joke.

‘He hangs out on Arnarhóll too sometimes, under the Tin,' added the young man with the sunglasses.

Ellidi, catching sight of Erlendur, stopped dead and stared at him. They had already crossed paths twice since Erlendur had joined the police. On the first occasion a fight had been reported at a house in the Breidholt district. Ellidi had put a man in hospital, but the victim had refused to press charges on the grounds that it was his own fault. Ellidi had merely been detained overnight at Hverfisgata. Later Erlendur learned that the victim had owed Ellidi money for a consignment of alcohol. On the second occasion, he and his fellow officers had picked Ellidi up for speeding in the vicinity of the container harbour at Sundahöfn. He had tried to make a break for it but they had pulled him over and found a hundred and fifty cartons of American cigarettes and several gallons of American vodka in his car. Ellidi, who was drunk and high at the time, had first threatened to kill them all, then decked Marteinn. At that point reinforcements had arrived, and they overpowered Ellidi, but only after a considerable struggle.

‘Well, if it isn't the country bumpkin,' Ellidi said now with a smirk as he approached. He was big and brawny; his lower lip was swollen and he had a plaster over one eye. ‘What are you doing here?'

Erlendur could smell the spirits on his breath. Ellidi brandished the bottle in his face.

‘Looking for a drink, are you?' he sneered. ‘There's more where this comes from, if you're interested.'

‘He was asking questions about Bergmundur,' said the man with the sunglasses, rising to his feet, his gaze fixed on the bottle.

‘Bergmundur? What do you want with him? Has he been a bad boy?'

‘No,' said Erlendur.

‘Wasn't he on the wagon?' asked Ellidi.

‘Just fallen off,' said the young man with the shades.

Ellidi handed him the bottle. ‘Seen Holberg around?'

‘No,' said the young man, taking a long pull.

‘Grétar?'

‘No, haven't seen him either.' He took another large gulp.

Ellidi snatched the bottle back.

‘Hey, don't hold back, shithead.' He gave the young man a violent shove.

‘I was supposed to meet them here,' Ellidi announced to Erlendur. ‘If you think I'm a fucking head-case, you should meet Holberg. Grétar and him … they make a lovely couple.'

This last comment was accompanied by a low, rasping laugh. Erlendur moved on and, watching his progress, Ellidi cackled again.

‘Country bumpkin!' he shouted. ‘Sheep shagger!'

Erlendur finally found Bergmundur up by the Swedish fish factory. A group of men were sitting with their backs to the perimeter fence, soaking up the sunshine, sharing a bottle they had managed to get hold of and puffing away. One had stripped off his shirt, his corpse-like pallor blindingly white in the sun.

Erlendur asked if they knew where Bergmundur was. At this, one of them spoke up, saying he was Bergmundur and wanting to know who was asking. He was middle-aged, fairly robust, and looked marginally less disreputable than his companions. Erlendur shook his hand and asked if they could have a word in private. The man had no objection, so he walked with Erlendur to the benches by the statue of Ingólfur Arnarson, Iceland's first settler. They took a seat overlooking the centre of town. Bergmundur pulled out a bottle of meths and took a slug.

‘That was the last of them,' he remarked. ‘They're reluctant to sell it to us at the chemist's nowadays. They'd only let me buy one bottle at the shop on Laugavegur. One per chemist, that's the new rule. You have to traipse all over town to get enough.'

‘Did you know Ólafur – the bloke who died the other day?' asked Erlendur. ‘He used to bunk down in an old Nissen hut in Nauthólsvík.'

‘Óli a friend of yours, was he?' Bergmundur screwed the cap back on the meths and returned it to his pocket. ‘Didn't think he had any.'

‘I ran into him recently and he told me you used to know Hannibal.'

‘Sure, I knew Hannibal. He drowned last year. But maybe you already knew that?'

‘Yes, I did. Do you remember when his cellar caught fire? It was shortly before he died.'

‘Got him kicked out.'

‘Yes, the owner thought it was his fault.'

‘Maybe he was right,' said Bergmundur. ‘I wouldn't know.'

‘What did Hannibal think happened?'

‘That someone else started it – he was clear about that. Whether it was true, I don't know.'

‘Who's supposed to have done it?'

‘They'd sell more to you,' Bergmundur said, digressing.

‘More what?'

‘Bottles.' He dug out the methylated spirits again.

‘You mean you want me to buy you meths?'

‘You can buy five at a time if you want. You're no alky.'

‘Do you have the money?'

‘Thought you might shell out for a few bottles. Five would do the trick.'

‘Did Hannibal tell you who started the fire?'

‘He had his suspicions.'

‘But did he know the culprit? Was it someone he hung around with? Another tramp, for example?'

‘Culprits, you mean. And they weren't tramps.'

‘So there was more than one person?'

‘He reckoned it was the brothers next door.'

‘The brothers next door…?'

‘Don't know their names or anything,' said Bergmundur. ‘All I know is that there were two brothers who lived next door. He insisted they'd started the fire and then blamed it on him.'

Erlendur thought of the couple who had lived upstairs from Hannibal. They had heard the same story: that the brothers were behind the arson.

‘Reckon you could go to the chemist for me?' Bergmundur persevered.

‘Why would they have wanted to burn down the cellar? Did Hannibal have any idea?'

‘A few bottles and we'll be quits. Five'll do.'

‘Quits? I don't owe you anything.'

‘Yeah, well, have it your way.' Bergmundur made as if to leave. ‘I can't be doing with this. You'll just have to find some other sucker to answer your questions.'

‘All right, all right,' said Erlendur impatiently. ‘I'll go to the chemist for you. Keep your hair on.'

‘They wanted to get rid of him. Used to complain about him to the owner, who was a friend of Hannibal's and let him sleep there. The brothers wanted him gone. According to Hannibal, anyway. He said he never even dared keep matches down there. Too scared. The brothers set fire to some junk by the door while he was asleep, then pretended they'd saved the day. They wanted Hannibal thrown out there and then, so the owner gave him his marching orders.'

‘Did he have any proof of this?'

‘Proof! What are you talking about? Proof?'

‘I mean –'

‘Hannibal was sure,' said Bergmundur firmly. ‘There was no one else in the picture. You think he went out and bought a magnifying glass? Hunted for clues like a bloody detective?'

‘When did he tell you this?'

‘Shortly before he died. We were sat up here by the Tin. Hannibal was positive. I reckon they were out to get him and succeeded in the end. Wouldn't surprise me.'

‘Drowned him, you mean?'

‘Wouldn't surprise me. He said they were ugly customers.'

‘Ólafur believed Hannibal had been deliberately drowned.'

‘There you are, then.'

‘But that's all he knew. Why would they have wanted Hannibal dead?'

‘Because he knew they were behind the fire?' Bergmundur suggested. ‘Search me. Maybe he had something else on them.'

‘You mean they wanted to silence him?'

‘Of course, why not? It's not unheard of. Hannibal had something on them, so they bumped him off.'

The rumble of traffic carried to them from below. Erlendur gazed out over the harbour and beyond to Faxaflói Bay, where the Akranes ferry was coming in to shore.

‘Wouldn't you rather I just bought you some
brennivín?
' he asked, reluctant to go to the chemist for the man.

‘No,' said Bergmundur after a moment's consideration. ‘Make it meths.'

A few minutes later Erlendur found himself on Laugavegur in Bergmundur's company, headed for the nearest chemist's. On the way he tried to come up with an excuse for purchasing a bulk order of methylated spirits that would not arouse suspicion. While Bergmundur waited outside, he hurried in and asked for five bottles of the stuff. The sales assistant hesitated before fetching them, and watched with a censorious expression as he counted out the coins. Erlendur was sure she had him down as recently lapsed.

14

The brothers who used to live next door to Hannibal had found themselves more salubrious accommodation on Fálkagata. Erlendur had obtained their names from Frímann. He decided to pay them a visit the day after his meeting with Bergmundur, combining it with a stroll along Ægisída, on the city's western shore, to enjoy the salty evening air. Since his plan was to drop by unannounced, he thought he stood the best chance of catching them directly after supper. He was right. When he arrived they had just settled down to watch the news. Ellert and Vignir were both around forty, born no more than two years apart, though they looked nothing like each other. One was stocky and ungainly with coarse features; the other tall and lean with finer features, yet it seemed they were inseparable. Frímann thought they both worked as carpenters or builders. As far as he knew, in the seven years they had been his neighbours no woman had ever darkened their door.