Reykjavik Nights

19

Shortly before midday Erlendur was woken, as so often lately, by the phone. He heaved himself out of bed.

‘Hello, it’s Halldóra.’

‘Oh, hello.’

‘Did I wake you?’

‘No, that’s all right.’

‘You sound so far away.’

‘Is that better?’ He raised his voice. ‘I was working over the weekend.’

‘You’re always working.’

‘Yes. Been on night duty for weeks.’

‘Were you working last night?’

‘Yes.’

‘Anything interesting happen?’

‘Oh, the usual,’ said Erlendur, beginning to wake up properly. ‘Nothing special.’

‘I don’t think I could stand working nights. Doesn’t it mess up your sleep patterns — staying awake all night like that?’

‘It can be a bit wearing,’ Erlendur admitted. ‘But it’s not too bad.’

She was silent for a moment, then said: ‘I hardly ever hear from you.’

‘I’ve been busy.’

‘I’m always the one who gets in touch. It makes me feel... like I’m bothering you.’

‘That’s rubbish.’

‘Perhaps you want to end it.’

‘I... Oh, please,’ said Erlendur. ‘You’re not bothering me at all. It’s just... I’ve been working so much.’

They lapsed into awkward silence, neither knowing what to say. It lasted so long he thought she’d hung up.

‘Hello?’ he said.

‘I thought maybe we could meet up, do something fun,’ said Halldóra. ‘I’m free this afternoon.’

‘Sure, great, all right.’ Erlendur scratched his head.

‘Want to go to a film or...?’

‘Or into town maybe?’ he suggested. ‘To a cafe?’

‘The weather’s nice. Perhaps we could buy an ice cream and go for a wander. Then see.’

‘Sure, I’m up for that.’

They agreed to meet in town at four, then rang off. Erlendur hastily showered, put on some coffee and ate a light breakfast. Halldóra was right. He was bad at getting in touch with her; she was usually the one who rang to suggest they see each other, go on dates; she kept their relationship going. There was much about her that he found appealing: her smile when she was speaking from the heart; her wariness when they made love; the interest that she alone took in him. His life was stagnating; perhaps it was time for a change. To try something new. Break the monotony of routine. Perhaps Halldóra was the answer.

Just then Erlendur remembered that he had been meaning to call Rebekka ever since Thurí told him about the earring. Rebekka had given him her number, saying he could phone her any time. They had also talked about meeting up again but nothing had come of it.

She answered after three rings, and once they’d exchanged pleasantries he got straight to the point.

‘Did you ever visit the pipeline where Hannibal was sleeping?’

‘You mean while he was alive?’

‘Or after he died. Either.’

‘No, never.’

‘Did he leave any personal effects? Were any of his belongings passed on to you?’

‘No, nothing really, apart from a few rags, a handful of books and a tatty suitcase. The police handed them over to me. They’d been looking after them. Didn’t want anyone to steal them. As if they would. Why do you ask?’

‘It’s just that I was talking to a woman, an old drinking pal of Hannibal’s, and she did go up there. Right after he died. She found a big gold earring where he used to sleep.’

‘Oh?’

‘It occurred to me that you might know about it. Haven’t seen it yet myself. This woman still has it. But it sounds like it’s a nice piece of jewellery — could be expensive — so...’

‘You thought it might be mine?’

‘Seemed only right to ask.’

‘But I never went there.’

‘Any idea whose it might have been, then?’

‘No, I can’t think of any woman who’d have visited Hannibal in that awful place. In fact, I don’t know anyone who was in touch with him in the past few years. I’m afraid I can’t help you there. Though I assure you it’s not mine.’

‘We probably shouldn’t read too much into it,’ said Erlendur. ‘There are various ways it could have ended up there. It may have no connection to Hannibal. I just wanted to check.’

‘I wonder...’

‘What?’

‘No, nothing... I’m not into jewellery, but some women wear so much you can hear them jangling a mile off. Though what a woman like that could have wanted with Hannibal is beyond me.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ said Erlendur. ‘Anyway, I’ll let you know if I get hold of it.’

‘Yes, please do. I’d like to see it.’

Before ringing off, they arranged to meet again later in the week. Next, Erlendur headed into town for his date with Halldóra. He kept racking his brains as to how the earring could have wound up in Hannibal’s camp but couldn’t come up with anything useful.

His conversation with Rebekka continued to preoccupy him too: something she’d said was niggling at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t work out what it was. He hurried down Laugavegur, so engrossed in his thoughts that he paid no attention to the shop displays. He glanced at a large jeweller’s as he strode by, then stopped, turned and took a second look in the window. Behind the glass lay an array of gleaming watches, gold and silver rings — some embellished with diamonds — necklaces, bracelets and earrings, all in handsome presentation boxes stamped with the name of the jeweller.

As Erlendur examined the jewellery, he finally worked out what it was that had been nagging at him ever since he spoke to Rebekka. It came to him as his gaze fell on a box containing a pair of beautiful earrings.

You can hear them jangling a mile off...

‘Mad about jewellery,’ he murmured to the glass. ‘It can’t be.’

He stared at the earrings.

‘It can’t be, can it?’

Not until he was standing in front of that glittering display did he remember the detail from the police file about the woman who had vanished on her way home from Thórskaffi. She was mad about jewellery, loved to wear all kinds: rings, bracelets, necklaces, earrings...

He stared at the box, unable to imagine what possible connection Hannibal could have had to her disappearance.