Reykjavik Nights

15

Erlendur was sound asleep when the phone started ringing. Shrill and insistent, it echoed through the flat until finally he dragged himself to his feet and answered it. The man on the other end sounded distinctly agitated.

‘Is that Erlendur Sveinsson?’ he demanded brusquely.

‘Yes, that’s me.’

‘I’ve just been talking to my sister Rebekka. She told me about your conversations and what you said about me and I wanted to tell you that it’s outrageous! To imply... to imply I harmed my brother Hannibal is insane and if you keep spreading lies like that I’ll be forced to take action. How dare you suggest that? How dare you!’

The brother, Erlendur thought.

‘I won’t have you poking your nose into something that’s none of your business,’ the man went on. ‘And as for spreading lies about me, it’s downright disgusting.’

‘But I don’t believe I have,’ Erlendur objected.

‘No? That’s not what it sounds like to me.’

‘Everything I discussed with your sister was in strict confidence. The thing is, I knew your brother a little and I want to find out how he ended up drowning like that.’

‘You’re interfering in a painful family matter that has nothing whatsoever to do with you and I want you to stop,’ said the man. ‘Right now! Rebekka told me you’re a junior officer and have no involvement with the inquiry. I’ll complain to your superiors if you don’t stop.’

‘Actually, Rebekka was keen to help,’ said Erlendur.

‘What do you mean?’

‘We had a long talk which, let me stress, was in complete confidence. I don’t know what she told you but if you’re under the impression I was disrespectful then I must apologise. I’d very much like to meet you and discuss the matter in person. If you’d be interested.’

‘Meet me? Out of the question! You can leave me alone. And leave my sister alone too. This is none of your business. I repeat, none!’

‘Hannibal was—’

Before Erlendur could finish the man had slammed down the phone.

That night Erlendur was more taciturn than usual. It was one of their quieter shifts. They were on traffic duty and so far all they had done was pick up a man on suspicion of driving over the limit, a charge he stubbornly denied. He had hit a cyclist, a baker on his way to work, who claimed that the man had reeked of alcohol and had shoved a handful of liquorice sweets in his mouth while they were waiting for the police. The cyclist was understandably furious. Not only was he injured but his new bike was practically written off. They dropped him at Casualty on their way to take the driver for a blood test. The whole way there the driver ranted and blustered about the pointlessness of the exercise; it was all a big misunderstanding that he had been drinking; he would report them and make sure that they lost their jobs.

Threats like these were run of the mill and Erlendur turned a deaf ear to the man’s remonstrations. All evening he had been distracted by thoughts of Hannibal and the phone call from his brother.

‘You all right, Erlendur?’ asked Marteinn after they had submitted their report and a specimen and were back in the police van, cruising down Laugavegur.

‘Sure,’ he said, his mind far away.

‘You’re very quiet,’ said Gardar, who was driving.

When Erlendur did not respond, Marteinn shot a quizzical glance at Gardar. They let it drop. As they drove along Pósthússtræti they spotted a vagrant and Erlendur saw that it was Bergmundur. He must have long since finished the meths Erlendur had bought him in exchange for information. He was leaning against a building, not moving at all.

‘Should we check on him?’ asked Marteinn.

‘I’ll do it,’ said Erlendur. ‘I know him. You can drive around the block in the meantime.’

Gardar paused to let him out, then drove off along Austurstræti. Erlendur walked up to Bergmundur and said hello. Bergmundur stared back glassily; it took him a minute before he could place Erlendur. No doubt he was confused by the white cap, the baton hanging at his side. The tramp kept looking his uniform up and down. Finally he twigged.

‘You’re never... a bloody cop?’ he slurred in a voice so thick it was almost incomprehensible.

‘’Fraid so.’

‘But you bought me... that meths?’

‘Yup.’

‘What the... hell. Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Why should I?’ said Erlendur. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m... fine. Needn’t... worry... ’bout me.’

He was utterly plastered, remaining upright only by propping himself against the wall. Since they last met his face had acquired a new graze, probably from a fall, and he stank to high heaven.

‘Why don’t you come with me and sleep it off at the station?’ asked Erlendur. ‘You can’t stand here all night.’

‘No, I’m going... going... see my girl, my Thurí. You needn’t... bother ’bout me.’

‘Thurí?’

‘Wonderful... woman. My girl... she’s...’ The rest was unintelligible.

‘Where does she live?’

‘You know... up on... Atmanssígur... At... Amtsstíg...’

It took Bergmundur several attempts to articulate the street name. He waved a hand, nearly overbalanced, and Erlendur reached out and steadied him. There was a hostel for female alcoholics on Amtmannsstígur, run by Reykjavík Social Services. He had never been there himself but knew of its existence from the female drunks who occasionally spent a night in the cells.

‘Is she staying at the hostel?’ he asked.

‘Thurí’s honest... honest, a good woman,’ said Bergmundur, assuming a pious expression.

‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Erlendur. ‘But are you sure she’ll want to see you in this state?’

‘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.