Reykjavik Nights

47

Thurí was not in her room in the west of town; Svana at Póllinn said she hadn’t been in recently; none of the usual suspects in Austurvöllur Square had seen her either, and she hadn’t shown her face at the hostel on Amtmannsstígur. Erlendur was running out of places to look. He climbed up the green mound of Arnarhóll, another popular gathering place for drinkers. There were three of them sunning themselves at the top, smoking and sharing round a bottle of brennivín. Erlendur noticed two more sea-green bottles of this favourite tipple lined up on the ground between them. They must have got their hands on some cash. One had taken his top off, revealing a torso so emaciated that you could count his ribs. Another man, small and skinny, with a flat cap on his head, was singing a snatch of Steinn Steinarr’s verse about Cadet Jón Kristófer of the Sally Army. They couldn’t have been enjoying themselves more in the balmy weather.

‘Any of you spotted Thurí from up here?’ asked Erlendur, squatting down beside them. His feet were sore from trekking all the way to the west of town and back again. He had banged on Thurí’s door and then her window, but no one was home.

‘Thurí?’ said the bony man, scratching his armpit. ‘Haven’t seen her.’

‘Bergmundur, then? Run into him lately?’

‘No, not seen him either,’ said the small man, lifting his cap and clawing at his head.

The others agreed that they hadn’t seen them.

‘Are they back together?’ asked Erlendur, stretching out his legs.

‘Wouldn’t know,’ said the third man, morosely. He was fat and bearded, and evidently worried that Erlendur was trying to cadge a drink. ‘Why the hell do you care, anyway?’

‘I hear he’s as crazy about her as ever,’ said Erlendur.

‘He’s an arsehole,’ said the bony man, still scratching his armpit.

‘He once beat the crap out of Tommi here,’ commented the surly man, looking slightly mollified at the memory of another’s misfortunes. ‘So he doesn’t have a good word to say about him.’

‘Nobody has a good word for that jerk,’ retorted the man they had referred to as Tommi.

‘What have you got against him?’ asked Erlendur. ‘What happened?’

Tommi ignored him.

‘Thurí always used to oblige in return for gifts,’ explained the surly man. ‘Always had done. Didn’t have to be much.’

‘Like a bottle of meths?’ prompted Erlendur.

‘Not even that. So long as Bergmundur didn’t get wind of it. Once Tommi here went to see her with... what was it you gave her, Tommi? Something ridiculous, wasn’t it?’

‘Bus tickets,’ said Tommi.

‘Bus tickets?’ Erlendur echoed.

‘A ten-trip card I nicked.’

‘Tommi’s never had much luck with the ladies,’ said the fat man, beginning to enjoy himself.

‘What would you know?’ countered Tommi. ‘Who’d want to screw an ugly git like you?’

‘When Bergmundur heard about it he tracked Tommi down and made him eat the tickets before kicking the shit out of him. Said if he ever went near Thurí again he’d murder him.’

‘When was this?’

‘About five years ago.’ Tommi stopped scratching and squinted up at the sun. ‘Knocked my tooth out,’ he added, tugging at the side of his mouth to show the gap.

Since he was missing at least four teeth, Erlendur had no idea which one had fallen victim to Bergmundur’s fist.