Reykjavik Nights

51

Erlendur tugged at his tight shirt collar under his uniform jacket. It was the end of July and the weather was sweltering at Thingvellir. The lake was like a mirror. People were out in rowing boats and children were playing barefoot on the shore. Traffic snaked around the festival site where the sun shone blindingly on the city of tents that had been pitched on every flat piece of ground at the foot of the Almannagjá ravine.

He had been on duty since early that morning, with only a fifteen-minute break to bolt a sandwich and wash it down with bad coffee. The police facilities were close to the festival organisers’ tent. They’d had to deal with several unexpected incidents, including a protest against the NATO airbase at Keflavík. The protestors had been swiftly and forcibly removed from the brink of the ravine. Their banner, which bore the familiar war cry of Iceland Out of NATO — Army Go Home, had been bundled up and chucked into the police van. The episode had caught the police completely unawares. For the most part they had been busy directing traffic — a mixture of cars and pedestrians — and trying to keep the peace among the thousands who had massed at Thingvellir to celebrate eleven hundred years of settlement in Iceland. Erlendur, who hadn’t been involved in the arrest of the anti-NATO protestors, heard about the events second hand as he was snatching his lunch.

The most he had to deal with were some evangelical Christians who were circulating their propaganda, in the form of pamphlets printed in English, all over the festival site. A middle-aged atheist, who had downed a few too many, had begun by rebuking the children of Jesus, then took a swing at one. His victim, a blond, bearded youth of about twenty, wearing a peace sign around his neck, was determined to offer the other cheek. Witnessing the scuffle, Erlendur drew the drunk aside and threatened to eject him from the festival if he didn’t leave the Christian brigade in peace. Realising that this was no idle warning, the man had swallowed his objections.

Erlendur had been deliberately inching his way closer to the stage by the Law Rock so he would not miss the moment when the poet Tómas Guðmundsson, a slim figure with a large head, stepped up to the podium to recite the commemorative ode. He allowed himself a break from his duties to listen to the poet whose work he had enjoyed from a young age. As the sun drew a halo around the speaker, Erlendur looked out over Thingvellir to Mount Skjaldbreiður. They could not have asked for better weather and there was genuine elation all over the old assembly site. People wandered between performances and refreshment tents festooned with Icelandic flags and balloons, as they listened to male-voice choirs singing folk songs and their heads reverberated with the joyous fanfare of trumpets.

The nation had come together to celebrate. Icelanders from all walks of life: long-haired, free-thinking hippies in peasant smocks, respectable ladies in light summer dresses with backcombed hair and handbags on their arms, men in hats and new Sunday best, their lapels as wide as cod fillets; farmers and big businessmen, labourers and fishermen, wholesalers and shopkeepers, people from the city, villages and countryside, all united on this glorious day, determined to pay homage to whatever Iceland represented for them.

After listening to Tómas Guðmundsson, Erlendur continued on his way, heading in the general direction of Hótel Valhöll where earlier in the day he had formed part of the guard of honour. Many of the foreign dignitaries — ambassadors, government ministers and royals — had arrived in gleaming limousines and processed like film stars to the humble hotel. He had donned his regulation white gloves and raised his hand to the peak of his cap, eyes fixed dead ahead, as if detached from the whole business. All the while he had kept a lookout for potential troublemakers, but none of the crowd who had collected to watch the spectacle had any such intention in mind.

Now he stopped by the hotel to catch up with Gardar and Marteinn, who were also on duty. They were full of the protest up by Almannagjá. It had caused a certain amount of consternation among the police since they were responsible for ensuring that everything went smoothly.

‘Bloody Commies!’ said Gardar.

Erlendur sauntered over to the campsite where thousands of people had pitched their tents in the preceding days, taking advantage of the fine summer weather. The campers had packed stoves and tinned food, burgers, saucepans, coffee pots and bread bins. Lots of them had brought along a little something to fuel the festivities and toast the occasion in style. It had all gone peacefully, as befitted such a place, apart from the odd fight over the stupidest provocations.

He wended his way between the tents, where women were making coffee and sandwiches with pâté or smoked lamb while their menfolk lounged in their vests on deckchairs, smoking, or reading the papers they had brought from home. There was a buzzing of transistor radios as people followed the festival programme. A choir was singing ‘I Will Love My Land’. One man had a bottle of illegal spirits, which he hid as Erlendur approached. He turned a blind eye.

‘Hello,’ a reedy voice said behind him.

Turning, he saw Marion Briem dressed in full regalia for the occasion, looking as uncomfortable in the heat as Erlendur was himself.

They shook hands.

‘You should have a word with us in CID if you ever feel like a change,’ said Marion. ‘I’ve been going through your reports regarding Hannibal and Oddný and noticed that you broke every rule in the book.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—’ Erlendur began.

He had received a stiff reprimand from his superiors for failing to turn the investigation over to CID when he found the earring. He had nearly lost his job.

‘No, I’m impressed,’ said Marion. ‘No need to apologise to me. I spoke to the sister of your friend Hannibal.’

‘Rebekka?’

‘She gave a good account of you. Get in touch with me if you’re interested in doing more of this kind of sleuthing.’

With that, Marion disappeared into the throng. Erlendur gave his collar another tug, thinking how good it would be to shed his uniform once he came off duty. Not that he would be free of it for long, since all next week he would be back on the Reykjavík night shift.