Reykjavik Nights

18

Erlendur had to psych himself up to pay a second visit to the brothers. He wanted to question them further about the fire in the cellar. Out-and-out criminals, Hannibal had called them. The more details Erlendur uncovered about Hannibal’s case, the more his curiosity grew.

On the way there his thoughts returned to the gold earring Thurí had found in Hannibal’s camp. She had told Erlendur he was welcome to come round and see it. How on earth had it ended up in the heating conduit? Rebekka could hardly have lost it there. As far as Erlendur could recall, she wasn’t wearing earrings, nor had she mentioned visiting the pipeline, either before or after her brother’s death. It couldn’t have belonged to a policewoman, either, because although women had long been employed on the force in other capacities, the first female officers had gone out on the beat only this summer. That ruled out their presence at the scene last year.

On the other hand, Hannibal might well have chanced upon it, wandering around town, as Thurí suggested. He had a magpie’s eye for valuables lying in the gutter. Thurí had the same training, which is how she had spotted the earring under the pipes.

Before saying goodbye on the steps of the hostel, Erlendur had put another question to her: how do women lose earrings? It was the only time during their conversation that she had cracked a smile. It didn’t take much, she said. This one was a clip-on. Clip-ons slipped off so easily that women were always losing them.

‘So it wouldn’t require a struggle?’

‘Not necessarily. Though obviously they’d be more likely to come loose in a struggle. But they just fall off anyway. For no reason. All the time.’

‘Could the woman who owned it have got into a fight with Hannibal?’

‘Listen,’ said Thurí, ‘Hannibal would never have come to blows with a woman. I knew him from way back. He’d never in a million years have laid hands on a woman.’

Erlendur walked along Sudurgata past the old graveyard. He sometimes came this way on his evening rambles, drawn by the fact that an author he admired lived on the street. He had twice spied him walking round the lake, though he hadn’t wanted to bother him. Years ago the author had written a book — one of the funniest Erlendur had ever read — about a young man who moved from the countryside to Reykjavík during the war and became a journalist. Whenever he walked this way Erlendur would look up at the writer’s window and send him a silent greeting. Another writer he liked to pause briefly beside, a poet this time, was no longer of this world but lay in his grave in the old cemetery. Erlendur used to peer over the black wall that separated the living from the dead, and hail Benedikt Gröndal.

By now he could hear the sound of a match in progress at Melavellir football ground. He crossed Hringbraut and followed the long, yellow perimeter fence, listening to the shouts of the spectators. He took no interest in sport so didn’t know who was playing. Back in his early twenties he had boxed for a while after a friend from the building site he was working on took him along. He had trained with him for two years, mainly out of curiosity. Erlendur was powerfully built, with a strong pair of fists, and the man who owned the gym and lent him his gloves had said he had promise. Pity, he had added, that like the rest of the men who trained there he couldn’t put it to use. Boxing was banned in Iceland and the sessions were not widely advertised. Since then, Erlendur had not been tempted by any other sports.

Little by little he had become better acquainted with the city to which he had moved when he was twelve, learning about the buildings, the streets and their inhabitants, both living and dead. They had moved into a small house on the outskirts, which had once been a bathhouse for British soldiers. Later, after his father died, he and his mother had rented a basement flat in the west of town, not far from the harbour, and his route had often led him past the graveyard. Soon he had taken to lingering there, exploring its narrow paths and deciphering the inscriptions on the headstones. The dead held no fear for him. Nor did the cemetery, though it could be eerie in winter when the trees reached up their twisted branches into the blackness. Rather he found peace and solace among the sleeping souls of the departed.

Beyond Melavellir, there was a view across Sudurgata to the recently completed Arnamagnæan Institute where Iceland’s medieval manuscripts were housed. He had visited once to see the most precious treasure in the collection, the Codex Regius of Eddic poetry, and was principally struck by the fact that the manuscript containing these cultural gems was so small, grubby, dog-eared and generally unimpressive.

The brothers gave him a cool reception. They invited him in, but only as far as the hall this time. Having no wish to stay, Erlendur did not beat about the bush. He asked them again about the fire, reminding them of what he had said before about a rumour doing the rounds that they had started it themselves to get rid of Hannibal.

‘What’s this rumour you keep going on about?’ demanded Vignir. ‘Are you spreading this bullshit yourself?’

‘Hannibal was adamant,’ Erlendur replied, undeterred. ‘He said so to his friends.’

‘Well, it wasn’t us,’ said Ellert, with a glance at his brother. ‘Is that what he claimed, the old sod?’

‘Did you want him out of the cellar?’

The brothers’ eyes met. The day’s programming had not yet begun and the television stood dark and silent in the sitting room.

‘That was none of our business,’ said Vignir. ‘And we had nothing to do with the fire either. The tramp started it himself. It was us who put it out. Not that he thanked us.’

‘But he was afraid of fire,’ said Erlendur. ‘Didn’t even dare light a candle down there. You said you found one by the door where the blaze started, but I don’t believe it was his.’

‘Well, it wasn’t ours,’ said Vignir. ‘Have you asked Frímann if he did it himself?’

‘Frímann?’

‘Maybe he had his own reasons for torching the place.’

‘Like what?’

‘An insurance scam.’

‘Insurance scam?’

‘He’s always trying to make money from that dump, isn’t he?’

‘You think Frímann...?’

‘I really wouldn’t know,’ answered Vignir. ‘Ask him. But we sure as hell didn’t light a fire. We put it out, for Christ’s sake!’

‘If we weren’t responsible,’ added his brother, ‘and the tramp wasn’t either, maybe Frímann’s the man you’re after.’

‘Did you have any contact with Hannibal after he was kicked out?’

‘No,’ said Ellert.

‘None at all,’ confirmed Vignir.

‘Remember hearing about his death?’

‘Saw his name in the papers,’ said Ellert. ‘Wasn’t the poor bastard drunk as usual?’

‘Were you in Reykjavík at the time?’

‘What the hell’s that got to do with you?’

‘Did you know where he was sleeping?’

‘No.’

‘You don’t seriously believe we hurt him?’ said Vignir. ‘Why are you asking us all these stupid questions?’

‘Did you hurt him?’ asked Erlendur bluntly. ‘Did he have something on you?’

‘What do you mean? Are you implying we killed him?’ exclaimed Vignir.

‘On us?’ spluttered Ellert. ‘How the hell do you work that out?’

The brothers’ eyes met again.

‘Were you selling alcohol? From your own still? Or smuggled stuff?’

Erlendur scrutinised them each in turn, waiting for their reactions. They were not long in coming.

‘What is all this bollocks?’ said Vignir.

‘You get out right now, you hear me?’ said Ellert. ‘I don’t want to see your face round here again.’ He hustled Erlendur out and slammed the door behind him.