Reykjavik Nights

38

The man was busy in his garage when Erlendur arrived. The large door was drawn up and a new-looking car — a classy American model — was parked in the drive outside; its gleaming black paintwork was freshly polished. Inside the garage everything was neatly stowed away on shelves, in cupboards and in small boxes. The floor was so shiny you might have felt compelled to take off your shoes before entering. Gardening implements and other tools hung from nails on the walls, including two shovels, suspended by spotless blades.

As the owner of the house did not immediately notice his presence, Erlendur remained outside, studying him. He was not unlike Ísidór in appearance: dark hair and complexion, slim, neat, some years older than Erlendur himself, wearing a checked shirt and jeans. He was putting away a rag and a can of polish in their appointed places, ensuring that everything was just so. From the damp ground outside, Erlendur guessed the man had washed his car before polishing the paintwork. The hose had been painstakingly rolled up. He evidently took as much care of his vehicle as he did his garage.

The man was a manager at a large pension company. Erlendur had known he would have to speak to him eventually — there was no getting round it — but he had delayed the interview for as long as possible. He was nervous, unsure how to broach such a sensitive subject or predict how the man would react. One evening his wife had vanished into thin air, here in their home town, turning his whole life upside down; he had been a suspect ever since, and now Erlendur, a complete stranger, was about to stir it all up again.

Erlendur vacillated until the man, glancing up from his task, caught sight of him. He came out of the garage and said good evening. Erlendur returned his greeting.

‘What... who... can I do something for you?’ asked the man after an awkward pause.

‘You’re Gústaf, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘My name’s Erlendur. I’m a policeman.’

‘A policeman?’

‘A traffic officer, actually. I was hoping for a word with you — about your wife Oddný.’

‘Oddný?’

‘I’m aware that—’

‘Why do you want to talk about Oddný?’ asked the man. ‘What concern is she of yours? Who did you say you were?’

‘The name’s Erlendur. I’ve been looking into your wife’s case in my own time, in connection with a man who died the same weekend she went missing.’

‘In your own time?’

‘Yes. In connection with this man I knew. On his sister’s behalf.’

‘Who was the man?’

‘His name was Hannibal. He was a tramp.’

‘A tramp? What... Sorry, but what are you talking about?’

‘He was living in the heating conduit to the south of Kringlumýri — not far from here. He drowned in one of the flooded workings, around the time your wife vanished. Maybe even exactly the same time.’

The man stood in the doorway, gaping at Erlendur. All around him was order, the only rogue element this stranger who had crept up on him in the quiet of evening and embarked on some bizarre story about a tramp.

‘What’s that got to do with Oddný?’ Gústaf asked.

‘That’s what I wanted to ask you.’

‘Ask me? I don’t know any tramps. Nor do I know you, for that matter. You’re not here on official business?’

Erlendur shook his head.

‘Then I have nothing to say to you.’ The man backed away into the garage.

‘There’s a chance that Hannibal and your wife ran into each other the night she disappeared,’ said Erlendur, ‘though I’ve no idea how or in what circumstances. I’m working on the assumption that your wife’s dead. I know Hannibal is. I want to find out what happened. Hannibal’s sister, Rebekka, wants some answers too.’

‘Look, you’d better leave,’ said Gústaf. ‘You’re talking to the wrong man. I can’t give you any answers. I’m not even sure what you’re talking about. I don’t know these people. Never heard of them.’

‘Fair enough. There’s no reason why you should have—’

‘And I don’t understand who you are, so this all seems highly irregular. Highly irregular. I’d be grateful if you’d leave me alone. I have nothing further to say to you.’

‘We don’t believe Hannibal did your wife any harm,’ said Erlendur. ‘He had...’

He cast around for the right words.

‘Let’s just say there were things in his past that make it inconceivable that he could have hurt her. He had his problems, but he’d never have attacked your wife.’

‘Yes, well, I’m not interested,’ said Gústaf. ‘I’m asking you to leave me alone. I have nothing to say to you. Are you listening to me?’

‘The reason I’m telling you about Hannibal is because we believe that, at some point during the night she vanished, your wife may have been in the pipeline where he was camped.’

By now the man had a remote control in his hand and raised it to close the garage door. He hesitated.

‘That’s why I think their paths may have crossed,’ Erlendur continued doggedly. ‘At the pipeline. But I’ve no idea what happened to your wife after that. Or to Hannibal, for that matter. I thought you might be able to help.’

‘Who is this Hannibal? I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. I’ve never heard of him.’

‘That’s hardly surprising. No one’s ever connected the two incidents before.’

‘This all sounds extremely far-fetched... Look, what did you say your name was?’

‘Erlendur.’

‘Right, Erlendur. Thank you for taking an interest in the case but I’d be grateful if you’d back off and stop interfering in matters that are absolutely none of your business.’

The man pressed the remote control. Jerkily, with a motorised drone, the door began its descent, closing like a red wall in front of Erlendur’s face. He dug into his pocket and pulled out the earring.

‘Recognise this?’

The man regarded it blankly.

‘Seen it before?’

The door continued its descent and Erlendur tossed the earring underneath just before it closed with a slight clang. He regretted it immediately. He had thrown the earring out of desperation, but now he had lost his only piece of evidence. He no longer had any proof to connect Oddný with the pipeline apart from his own observations and the word of Thurí — a hopeless alcoholic.

He stared at the garage door, his breath caught in his throat. He had no idea what to do. The seconds ticked by and he was on the verge of beating on the door when he heard the mechanism start up again and it began to open.

The man had picked up the earring and was examining it with a grave expression.

‘Where on earth did you find this?’ He raised his eyes to Erlendur, unable to disguise his astonishment.