Reykjavik Nights

20

They reached the scene of a major accident on Skúlagata before the ambulance did. It was four o’clock on Sunday morning, and it was raining. There was little traffic, yet it was the third crash they had dealt with that night. The most serious too. A man driving a jeep had dropped a glowing cigarette ember on his seat and in trying to sweep it onto the floor had lost control of his vehicle, swerved into the left-hand lane and collided with an oncoming car. Both occupants of the car were badly injured: a woman was trapped, unconscious, behind the steering wheel; her daughter was moaning beside her in the passenger seat. The driver of the jeep, his face bleeding, wandered, shocked and bewildered, around the crash site. Erlendur led him to the police van.

‘I didn’t see what happened,’ the man said. ‘Didn’t see a thing. They’ll be all right, won’t they? You do think they’ll be all right?’

‘The ambulances are on their way.’

‘I tried to avoid them but it was too late and I smashed straight into them,’ the man said. ‘I tried to open her door but it’s jammed. They’re trapped inside. You’ve got to get them out.’

Though he did not appear drunk, Erlendur assumed they would test him at the hospital anyway.

Marteinn and Gardar managed to force open the rear door of the car and Marteinn crawled inside in a vain attempt to free the girl in the front seat. There was blood on her face and hands, and her legs were crushed under the dashboard. She had already lost a lot of blood. Her mother was showing signs of coming round. She had smacked into the steering wheel so hard that she had broken it, then cracked her head on the windscreen, knocking herself out. Her face was bleeding too and Marteinn didn’t want to move her. He reassured them that a team was on the way to get them out as quickly as possible so they could be taken to hospital.

The woman reached over to the girl and took her hand.

‘It’ll be all right,’ she said soothingly. ‘It’ll be all right. They’ll be here any minute to get us out and then everything’ll be all right.’

The girl squeezed her hand.

They heard the ambulances approaching, and in no time at all a fire crew arrived to release the mother and daughter from the wreckage. Marteinn and Gardar began to sketch out the scene of the accident, measuring distances and tyre marks. Gardar pushed a small measuring wheel in front of him and scribbled in his notebook. Erlendur took charge of directing what little traffic there was around the crash site. He watched as the women were freed and carried on stretchers to the ambulance, which sped off with flashing lights and loud sirens. The driver of the jeep left in the second ambulance. Tow trucks were brought in to drag away the wrecked cars and soon it looked as though nothing had happened there. Having swept up the broken glass, Erlendur and the others climbed back into the police van and resumed their patrol.

Next they arrested two men suspected of drink driving, which involved taking samples and preparing reports. Paperwork bored Erlendur, though he understood why it was necessary. It took up too much of their time; everything had to be accounted for and carefully recorded. Names had to be taken, incident reports written up, one form after another meticulously filled in and filed. Nothing must be neglected. Accuracy was paramount.

Gardar and Marteinn were now discussing their chances of taking any leave that summer. Erlendur was only half listening.

‘Maybe after the anniversary celebrations at Thingvellir,’ said Gardar.

‘I suppose we’ll all have to be there for that?’ asked Marteinn.

Preparations were in full swing for the national holiday at the end of July when Icelanders were to celebrate the eleven hundredth anniversary of the settlement of their island. There had been meetings about extra policing and overtime. A huge crowd was expected to attend the festival at the ancient assembly site of Thingvellir, and the police would have a vital role to play in ensuring that everything went smoothly.

‘It’s incredible really,’ said Gardar.

‘What is?’

‘That we’ve bothered to scrape a living on this rock for eleven hundred years.’

A little while later they were summoned to a basement flat in the centre of town. Someone had complained about noise, but by the time they arrived all was quiet. They climbed out of the van and Erlendur checked they had the right address. The neighbour who had phoned the police emerged from one of the houses, clothes hastily pulled on over his pyjamas.

‘They’ve been making a hell of a racket,’ he said as he approached. ‘Then suddenly just before you arrived everything went silent.’

‘Who lives there?’ asked Erlendur.

‘A pack of dope fiends. They’ve taken over the basement and cause nothing but trouble. Music on full blast, yelling and shouting. And their friends come round here revving their motorbikes and roaring up and down the street. It goes on all the time, but especially at night. Wakes you up with a jerk. Disturbs the children. We’ve complained repeatedly to the tenants, a couple of idiot boys. Tried talking to the landlord too but he doesn’t do a thing.’

‘Why do you say they’re dope fiends?’ asked Marteinn.

‘Because it’s a drug den. There are all kinds of undesirables hanging about, so it’s obvious they’re selling dope. Earlier today one of them threatened to beat me up. He was standing here smoking and I had the audacity to ask him not to chuck his cigarette stubs on the pavement. He almost went for me. Told me to eat shit. You can see the stubs everywhere.’

‘I’m afraid there’s not much we can—’

They jumped when heavy rock music started blasting out of the flat. It was cranked right up.

‘There you go! They carry on like that till the early hours,’ the neighbour exclaimed. ‘Can you imagine what it’s like putting up with that?’

‘Does anyone else live there apart from the two boys?’

‘I have no idea,’ said the neighbour. ‘People are coming and going all the time. It’s impossible to tell.’

They knocked on the door. Nobody answered, so they hammered long and hard. When there was still no answer, they saw no alternative but to enter. Erlendur opened the door and found himself in a hall with a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. He could see into the sitting room where the source of the disturbance, a brand-new stereo, was set up on a table. Gardar and Marteinn followed him inside. They discovered two young men lounging on a squashy sofa, sharing a pipe. Billows of blue smoke curled around the flat. The men were so spaced out that they didn’t even bat an eyelid when they saw three police officers enter the room.

Gardar walked over to the turntable and lifted the needle. In the sudden peace that followed, one of the men on the sofa finally noticed that something was wrong.

‘Hey, quit that, man,’ he cried. ‘Don’t turn off the record.’

‘We’ve received a complaint about noise from this address,’ Gardar informed him. ‘We have to ask you to turn off your music so your neighbours can get some sleep.’

‘Why are you hassling us? Leave us alone, man,’ his friend said. Neither made any effort to stand up; they were far too stoned, their eyes swimming with incomprehension.

On the table in front of them, amid all the other mess, Erlendur could see three flat brown cakes the size of wallets, one of which had several chunks cut out of it. There were also three small plastic bags containing white powder; three pipes; a stash of matchboxes and lighters; several bottles of alcohol and packets of cigarettes; and various jars of pills.

The neighbour had not been exaggerating when he called it a drug den. Erlendur couldn’t help thinking the two boys must be exceptionally stupid to draw attention to themselves by making that much noise in the middle of the night. They appeared to be celebrating the arrival of a new shipment — another successful smuggling job. They had obviously wanted to check it was pure first. But they could have been a lot less conspicuous about it.

While Marteinn went out to the car to radio for back-up, Gardar watched over the two boys, leaving Erlendur to explore the rest of the flat. Just off the sitting room he found a bedroom, its floor piled high with rubbish and clothes. In the gloom he could see a dirty duvet on the large bed and under it a shape he thought he should investigate. Presumably the third occupant of the flat.

Walking up to the bed, he whisked off the duvet, revealing a young girl, peacefully asleep. She was fully dressed and it only took Erlendur a moment to register that her clothes fitted the description of the girl who had recently been reported missing: jeans, pink peasant blouse, even the trainers. The camouflage jacket could not be far away. The word at the police station was that she came from a good home. Her parents, who were divorced, had explained how, without their realising, she had spiralled out of control. Nowadays she would hardly communicate with them, so they rarely knew where she was hanging out; yet she was quick to blame them for the state she was in.

Erlendur prodded the girl and she woke up, rolled onto her back and opened her eyes. She couldn’t make out his face in the semi-darkness.

‘What... who are you?’

‘My name’s Erlendur.’

‘Erlendur... what...?’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Are you... are you a cop?’

‘Your mother’s worried about you.’

Just then he heard a commotion in the sitting room; the two men had finally grasped the situation and had launched themselves at Gardar.

Later that grey morning the car crash on Skúlagata was the lead story on the radio news. The announcer, in a sombre yet dispassionate tone, as if he had delivered too many such reports, read that a jeep had veered into oncoming traffic and collided with an approaching car. An eighteen-year-old girl, who had been in the passenger seat, had died on the way to hospital. Her name could not be released at present.

A couple of items later the newsreader announced that the girl who had recently been reported missing had now been found alive and well.