Reykjavik Nights

28

The last time Erlendur saw Hannibal had been shortly before the boys found his body. He was coming to the end of his shift after a quiet night midweek. There had been few call-outs and Erlendur’s only companion in the patrol car had been a veteran officer called Sigurgeir. They had stopped three motorists for speeding and, as usual, much of their time had been taken up with blood tests and forms. They had also followed up a report of an attempted break-in on Laugavegur, but the thieves had got away. A witness had spotted them trying to force open the back door of a watch shop, but they hadn’t had much luck and had vanished before the police arrived.

As Sigurgeir swung into Hafnarstræti they heard over the radio that the thieves had been apprehended committing another burglary. Erlendur had found an old copy of the Althýdubladid newspaper left behind in the car and was immersed in a translated Swedish serial called The Laughing Policeman, about a shooting on a bus in Stockholm. He searched in vain for the author’s name. Sigurgeir, who was familiar with the story, said it was written by two people — a couple, he thought.

‘Who the hell’s that?’ he said a moment later, slowing down.

Erlendur looked up from the paper and saw a man lying in the gutter — a man wearing a green anorak.

‘Is it Hannibal?’

‘So you’ve already come across the poor sod,’ said Sigurgeir.

‘I’ve run into him a couple of times.’

They parked, stepped out of the car and went over to him. It was indeed Hannibal and he was in a bad state, with blood on his face from a cut to the head. Presumably he had either had a bad fall or been beaten up.

‘Hannibal!’ Sigurgeir poked him with his boot.

Erlendur knelt down beside the man and took his hand. It felt like ice. He tried to rouse him and heard him emit a low groan.

‘Shouldn’t we call an ambulance?’ he asked.

‘No need for that, is there?’ said Sigurgeir. ‘You’re all right, aren’t you, Hannibal?’

Hannibal opened his eyes and looked at Erlendur.

‘Is it you?’ he asked.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Have they gone?’ Hannibal groaned again.

‘Who?’

‘Those bloody hooligans.’

‘What happened?’

‘They went for me.’ Hannibal managed to ease himself into a sitting position against a lamppost with Erlendur’s help. ‘Three of them. Bloody hooligans!’

‘Who were they?’

‘How should I know? Never seen them before.’

‘You’re absolutely fine, aren’t you, old boy?’ interrupted Sigurgeir. ‘You can walk, can’t you?’

‘I’m OK,’ said Hannibal, gritting his teeth at the pain in his side. The cut, which was superficial, had stopped bleeding.

‘Think you might have broken some ribs?’ asked Erlendur.

‘They kept kicking me in the side,’ Hannibal said. ‘Hit me over the head as well. But I’ll be all right. It’s not the first time I’ve been set on by thugs.’

‘Can you stand?’ asked Erlendur.

‘Just leave me be, I’ll sort myself out. I don’t need any help. Least of all from the likes of you.’

This last comment was accompanied by a dirty look at Sigurgeir, who stood there smiling as if untouched by Hannibal’s misfortunes.

‘You should come with us,’ said Erlendur. ‘We’d better take you to Casualty — get you seen to.’

‘I’m not going to any hospital. There’s no need. I’m all right.’

‘There’s no way we’re going to stink out the car with this sorry wretch,’ said Sigurgeir. ‘You heard what he said — he’s absolutely fine.’

‘The least we can do is give him a cell down at the station to recover in.’ Erlendur helped Hannibal to his feet. ‘So we can keep an eye on him, call a doctor if necessary.’

‘I’m not going to the station,’ said Hannibal, leaning against the lamppost.

‘You heard him,’ said Sigurgeir. ‘If he’s capable of arguing, there can’t be much wrong with him.’

‘Don’t you call me a sorry wretch,’ Hannibal snapped. He moved so quickly, despite his weakened condition, that Sigurgeir had no chance to dodge the punch aimed at his jaw.

‘Think you can hit me, you son of a bitch?’ Sigurgeir exclaimed, clutching his face. He was about to retaliate when Erlendur seized his arm.

‘You don’t want to do that.’

Sigurgeir gaped at him.

‘Let me go,’ he ordered.

‘Only if you leave him alone.’

Sigurgeir’s gaze swivelled between Erlendur and Hannibal; then abruptly his anger seemed to subside. Erlendur released him.

‘I could bring charges against him for striking a police officer,’ said Sigurgeir.

‘What would that achieve?’ asked Erlendur. ‘You’re coming with us,’ he said to Hannibal, and helped him to the patrol car. Sigurgeir watched them, in two minds about what to do, then got behind the wheel. Having gently guided Hannibal into the back seat, Erlendur joined his colleague in the front.

‘He can recover in one of the cells,’ Erlendur said again.

‘You leave me alone, boy!’ said Hannibal angrily. ‘Stop interfering.’

He tried to get out of the car again but Erlendur prevented him and eventually succeeded in calming him down.

‘You’re coming with us,’ he insisted. ‘Those wounds need attention.’

‘Why the do-gooder all of a sudden?’ asked Sigurgeir, annoyed. ‘Why don’t you just invite him home with you?’

Hannibal made no further objections, but emitted a low moan as Sigurgeir started the car with a jerk and drove at breakneck speed back to the station on Hverfisgata. All the cells were empty. Erlendur installed Hannibal in one of them, and the tramp lay down on the bed. Since Hannibal flatly refused all offers to take him to the City Hospital, Erlendur phoned a doctor who came over, examined him and tended to his injuries. In his opinion there were no broken ribs but he left Hannibal some strong painkillers.

Not long after the doctor’s departure, Erlendur’s shift ended and he experienced the customary relief at laying aside the cap, baton and belt, and dressing in his ordinary clothes again. He had never really been comfortable in his uniform and always felt a bit of an idiot strutting around town in his full regalia.

He went to Hannibal’s cell, drew back the hatch and saw that the tramp was lying on his back, staring blankly at the ceiling. He opened the door and went inside.

‘How are you?’

Hannibal did not answer. He gave off his usual stench: a pungent mixture of urine and other filth.

‘I probably don’t need to remind you to take the painkillers the doctor left,’ Erlendur said, noticing the pills lying untouched on the table beside the bed.

Hannibal did not react.

‘Of course, they’ll chuck you out after midday,’ Erlendur went on. ‘But I asked them to give you some lunch first.’

Hannibal continued to contemplate the ceiling.

‘Do you really have no idea who attacked you?’

Still no response.

‘We can try to track them down. You can press charges. You’re not completely without rights, whatever you may think. You can always turn to us if you need to.’

At this the other man shook his head.

‘Well, I must be off,’ said Erlendur. ‘Take care. Hope you feel better soon.’

He was about to step out into the corridor again when Hannibal cleared his throat.

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘Doing what?’ Erlendur paused in the doorway.

‘Why are you helping me? What do you want from me?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Then why won’t you leave me alone?’

‘I could do.’

‘You should.’

‘All right,’ said Erlendur. ‘I’ll remember that in future.’

‘Yes, you remember that. You needn’t bother about me.’

‘All right then.’

Hannibal did not look at him, but Erlendur could sense the rage seething inside him. Perhaps it was a fresh, hot anger, flaring up now because he had been attacked and left lying in the gutter. Or because he had been brought to this cell against his will, even if it was for his own good. Or because Sigurgeir had called him a sorry wretch. But Erlendur guessed that it was a cold fury that had long lain dormant in Hannibal, fuelled by a life of hardship.

‘What happened to you?’ the tramp asked suddenly.

‘Nothing’s happened to me,’ said Erlendur.

‘Then what are you trying to make up for?’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Yes. What are you on about?’

‘I’m talking about you,’ said Hannibal.

‘You don’t know the first thing about me,’ said Erlendur. ‘So how can you be talking about me?’

‘When did you screw up?’ asked Hannibal, sitting up with an effort.

‘What do you mean?’

‘What are you trying to compensate for with all your do-gooding?’

‘Nothing,’ said Erlendur.

‘Come on, what are you trying to make amends for? That’s why you’re helping me, isn’t it? To atone for your sins? Is that it? Am I your penance?’

Glaring at Erlendur, who was standing in the doorway, Hannibal suddenly began to shout.

‘Why are you doing this? Am I supposed to give you some kind of absolution?’

‘You—’

‘Tell me about it!’

Erlendur was completely wrong-footed.

‘Is that why you can’t leave me alone?’ yelled Hannibal hoarsely, beside himself now with rage. ‘Well, you needn’t feel sorry for me. I don’t need your pity. It’s no use to me. You can go to hell, you and all your bloody family! I don’t need anyone’s pity. No one’s! Just you remember that!’