Reykjavik Nights

12

When Erlendur arrived, the owner of the house was standing by the cellar steps, smoking a battered pipe. A large trailer, hooked to an ancient, beaten-up Soviet jeep, had been reversed up to the door. It was half full of rubbish. The man was sixtyish, red-faced, with small eyes and a sizeable paunch, clad in a grey jumper and threadbare jeans, a grubby flat cap on his head. His pipe was clamped between strong teeth, giving his lips a pale, bluish hue. He looked like a manual labourer. His name, Erlendur knew since Hannibal had mentioned it, was Frímann. Landlord was perhaps too grand a title, since Hannibal had paid no rent in return for dossing in the cellar. On the other hand, benefactor would be putting it too strongly, as the basement was barely habitable, though Hannibal had made himself as comfortable as he could down there. Erlendur greeted the man.

‘Come to look round the house?’ asked Frímann, knocking the pipe out in his hand.

‘No. Is it for sale?’

‘For the right price,’ said Frímann, as if he held the keys to a palace. In fact, his house was little more than a wooden shack, clad with corrugated iron that had once been painted blue. Above the basement were the main living area and a tiny attic, and the whole place was in need of drastic renovation.

‘Is the cellar included?’

‘Of course. It’s a good size. I just need to clear out this damn rubbish. Lord knows where it all comes from.’

‘I’m not looking for a house,’ said Erlendur, surveying the trailer. ‘I’m here to ask about a tramp who used to live in your cellar. Name of Hannibal.’

‘Hannibal?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘What’s Hannibal to you?’

‘I used to know him,’ explained Erlendur.

‘Then you’ll be aware that he’s dead,’ said Frímann, shoving the pipe in the pocket of his shirt under his jumper.

‘Yes. He came to a sad end, I know. You let him sleep in your cellar?’

‘He wasn’t in anyone’s way.’

‘How did you know each other?’

‘Used to work on a boat together donkey’s years ago.’ Frímann prepared to descend the steps for another load of junk.

‘Can I help with that?’ asked Erlendur.

Frímann regarded him in surprise.

‘Are you really offering?’

‘If you like.’

Frímann hesitated a moment, trying to get the measure of this young stranger.

‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

‘I came by with Hannibal while he was living here,’ said Erlendur, ‘so I know you’ve got quite a job on your hands.’

‘I’ve made three trips to the tip already,’ said Frímann, ‘but you can hardly see any difference. It’s not all my stuff, mind. I’ve been storing a load of useless junk for people who never came back for it. And some was left by the previous owners — worthless rubbish. Other bits have ended up here; I’ve no idea where from, though I suspect Hannibal hoarded some of it.’

The cellar was marginally tidier than the last time Erlendur had visited. Hannibal’s mattress was gone, along with the ragged blanket he had used to cover himself; the brennivín and methylated spirits bottles had been cleared away; even the stench had dissipated somewhat, although it still lingered. Beside the entrance, the ceiling beams and part of the door jamb were black with soot.

Erlendur rolled up his sleeves and started helping to cart things outside. In no time they had filled the trailer.

‘He lived in such damn squalor,’ said Frímann when Erlendur brought the conversation back round to Hannibal. ‘That was one of the reasons why I wanted rid of him. Apart from that you’d hardly have known he was there. Not that I came by often.’

‘So you don’t live in the house yourself?’

‘No.’

‘Did the tenants complain about him?’

‘Never heard a peep from them. But then they used to hit the bottle fairly hard themselves. A couple, from down south. They didn’t look after the place either, so in the end I chucked them out and decided to sell while I could still get something for it. Haven’t been able to do it up. Can’t afford to.’

Frímann lit his pipe again, looked over at the trailer and said he’d shifted enough bloody rubbish for one day. He would continue tomorrow and hopefully finish it off then.

‘Thanks for your help, young man.’

‘You’re welcome,’ said Erlendur. ‘The fishing boat you both worked on — was it harboured here in Reykjavík?’

‘No, Grindavík.’

‘But Hannibal was from Reykjavík, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes, he was.’

‘Do you know anything about his family?’

‘No. He used to talk about his mother from time to time, but I don’t know if he had any brothers or sisters.’

‘One brother, one sister. His parents died years ago.’

‘Well, he never mentioned any brother or sister.’

‘Any idea why he ended up like that?’ asked Erlendur.

‘You mean, why he drowned?’

‘No, I meant—’

‘Wasn’t he just plastered as usual?’

‘Probably,’ conceded Erlendur. ‘I suppose what I’m really asking is if you know why he ended up on the streets?’

‘Is there any simple reason why people go off the rails?’ asked Frímann. ‘Obviously, he was an alcoholic. And he could be... Hannibal was a strange mixture. He could be as nice as pie, but his temper often landed him in trouble. I remember when we were on the boat, he drank so heavily he lost his job in the end. He couldn’t be trusted. Got into fights. Missed departures. Gave too much lip. Why are men the way they are? Search me.’

‘I see there was a fire.’ Erlendur indicated the scorched beams.

‘That’s why I sent him packing in the end,’ said Frímann. ‘I was always scared to death something like that would happen. Told him to take his stuff and get lost. Next thing I heard, he was dead.’

‘Know if he had any enemies?’

‘The police asked me that at the time and I told them I hadn’t a clue. Surely he was drunk, fell in and couldn’t get out again?’

‘Suppose so.’

‘Well, better be off to the tip,’ said Frímann, knocking out his pipe again.

‘How did the fire start?’ asked Erlendur, refusing to give up. ‘Hannibal alleged it was arson, aimed at him.’

‘Typical,’ said Frímann, opening the door of the jeep. ‘He claimed he was asleep and woke up all of a sudden to see flames over by the door, so he went and put them out. Swore he’d single-handedly saved the house from burning down. But it wasn’t quite like that. The couple upstairs were out but the brothers next door saw smoke pouring from the cellar window and ran over. They found Hannibal out for the count. It’s mainly thanks to them things didn’t turn out worse. They woke him up and got him out. Said he was smashed out of his skull. They found the remains of a candle stub by the door. He must have kicked it over into some rubbish.’

‘Didn’t they call the fire brigade?’

‘No.’

‘So there was no inquiry into what happened?’

‘No. Inquiry? What for? The brothers called me. There was no point in making a big deal out of it. But I didn’t want Hannibal living here any more in case he sent the whole place up in smoke, so I threw him out.’

‘How did he take it?’

‘Badly,’ said Frímann. ‘Swore blind he wasn’t to blame. That someone had done it deliberately — tried to bump him off.’

‘And who’s it supposed to have been?’

‘Who what?’

‘Started it.’

‘No one,’ said Frímann. ‘It was bullshit. The ravings of a drunk. He was trying to lie his way out of trouble, as usual. That’s all.’

Their shift was uneventful; a quiet Wednesday night in the city. As they drove west along Miklabraut, Gardar started on about food — or the lack of it — as he usually did when he was hungry.

‘For example, why are there no decent pizza places in Reykjavík?’ he asked in an aggrieved tone, as if it were the most ridiculous situation he’d ever heard of. An already thickening waistline testified to the amount of time he devoted to thinking about his stomach. Recently he had spent two weeks in the States with his parents, which had only intensified his obsession with fast food.

‘Isn’t there anywhere in town that sells them?’ asked Marteinn.

‘A “pisser” place?’ said Erlendur. ‘Do you mean those Italian pies?’

‘Pies...? No, seriously,’ said Gardar. ‘It’s hard enough even to find somewhere that does burgers and fries. There are only maybe a couple of places. I’m telling you, it’s so backward.’

‘There used to be an all-night truckstop at Geitháls,’ pointed out Marteinn.

‘They did pretty good sheep’s heads,’ said Erlendur.

‘With mashed swede,’ added Marteinn.

‘This is exactly what I’m talking about. What kind of takeaway is that? Mashed swede! Anyway, Geitháls is miles away. Why don’t they get their act together here in town?’

‘I quite liked Geitháls,’ said Erlendur with a smile.

‘Who buys sheep’s heads at a drive-in?’ asked Gardar indignantly. ‘We need burger joints and proper pizza places. A bit of culture! If I had the money I’d open one myself. God, I’d make a killing.’

‘On “pissers”?’ said Erlendur. ‘I don’t know...’

‘Pizzas, Erlendur! At least try to say it right. Fast food tastes great and it’s incredibly convenient. Cheap too. Saves you the bother of having to cook haddock and boiled potatoes all the time. And you don’t have to go to a smart restaurant like Naustid. The Yanks have got it sorted. They get their pizzas delivered to them at home. You don’t even need to go to the restaurant. You just ring and order everything you want and they send it round.’

An alert came over the radio: a man had been found lying beside the road near Nauthólsvík cove. They responded that they were in the area, and Gardar switched on the flashing lights. They arrived to find a patrol car already there and an ambulance just pulling up. A middle-aged couple walking to Nauthólsvík had spotted the man lying face down in the grass about three metres from the roadside. He had not reacted when they called out to him and, on taking a closer look, they had realised he must be dead, so they had hurried over to Hótel Loftleidir and reported their discovery.

The ambulance turned out to be unnecessary as the man was indeed dead and had been for some time. A hearse was sent for instead. All the evidence suggested that he had collapsed where he was found. There were no signs of a fight, no visible injuries; the grass nearby had not been flattened. The man had simply clutched at his chest with both hands and crumpled where he stood. The doctor who was called to the scene gave a provisional verdict of heart attack.

The body was that of a homeless man who had found temporary refuge in a dilapidated Second World War Nissen hut in Nauthólsvík. Erlendur recognised him straight away, though he couldn’t remember his name. A few days earlier they had spoken briefly outside the Fever Hospital. This was the man who had claimed that Hannibal was deliberately drowned in Kringlumýri.

Erlendur identified him by the thick winter coat and hat, the filthy hands, and, when they turned him over to carry him to the hearse, the lines chiselled in his face, deep as the crevasses in an ice cap.

The cellar door had been fitted with a new padlock. No lights showed on the floor above. A small notice stuck in the window read: For sale. Erlendur took hold of the padlock: it had been snapped shut. Abandoning it, he went in search of a gap to squeeze through and eventually managed to force open a small window round the back of the house. It was dark inside but Erlendur had brought along a little torch and its feeble glow lit up the walls.

Frímann had done a thorough job of clearing out the rubbish. The cellar was nearly empty and the floor had been swept: it looked almost presentable.

Erlendur directed the torch beam at the area by the door and hunted for clues as to how the fire could have started. There was no mains supply or fuse box down there, only the wire to the overhead light by the entrance, so it was unlikely that an electrical fault had been the cause. Judging by the soot on the walls and ceiling beams, there must have been quite a blaze by the time the brothers from next door had arrived to put it out.

Erlendur ran his hand over the soot marks and tapped the tinder-dry wood. Presumably it was too late now to establish how the fire had started and spread to the beams. Although Hannibal had denied all responsibility, he may not have been sober enough to remember.

But if Hannibal were to be believed, some other person had been at work, had lifted the latch, pushed open the cellar door, tiptoed a foot or two inside and held a candle flame to the litter on the floor. It would have taken no time at all to ignite the rubbish then slip away.

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.’