Reykjavik Nights

8

The Fever Hospital on Thingholtsstræti, a handsome, two-storey wooden building dating from the nineteenth century, was the first purpose-built hospital in Reykjavík. For the past four years, however, it had played a new role, providing shelter for the city’s homeless; a hot meal, washing facilities and a bed for the night if they wanted it. Discipline was strict. The doors were locked at a respectable hour and the occupants had to be out by a set time in the morning. The rule that they had to be sober throughout their stay was non-negotiable.

The men seeking admittance ranged from humbly grateful for anything they might receive after a tough spell on the streets, to those who were argumentative or even drunkenly aggressive. The last group were turned away. Some of the men were in good shape, others so frail that the staff took them straight to hospital.

One evening, Erlendur dropped by before work, just as they were refusing entry to a man who was bundled up in a thick winter coat and woolly hat despite the summer heat. He was arguing with a member of staff, who then took the man’s arm and led him out. In the faint hope of arousing pity, the drunk protested, though not very vehemently, that he could not face another night in the Nissen hut.

‘Come back when you’ve sobered up,’ the staff member said. ‘You know the rule, my friend. It’s perfectly simple.’

He closed the door and turned to Erlendur.

‘Looking for someone?’

‘No.’

‘You’re not seeking admission?’ The man’s tone made it clear that Erlendur looked far too fit to require the services of the Fever Hospital.

‘Got many residents at the moment?’

‘No, five, though we can expect more tonight.’

‘That’s not many, is it?’

‘Not compared to last Christmas,’ said the man. ‘We were bursting at the seams. Put up something like thirty men. Christmas is always busiest.’

‘I’m after information about a homeless man who died suddenly about a year ago. Name of Hannibal. Jog your memory at all?’

‘Hannibal? You mean the fellow who drowned in Kringlumýri?’

Erlendur nodded.

‘I remember him well.’ The man was middle-aged, a little plump, his beard neatly trimmed around his mouth. ‘He used to drop in from time to time. Yes, I remember Hannibal all right. Strange fellow. Did you know him?’

‘We were acquainted,’ Erlendur replied, without elaborating. ‘Did he stay here often?’

‘He wandered in off the street every now and then. Last time I saw him I had to turn him away for being drunk and making a nuisance of himself. I gather he was sleeping up by the hot-water pipes towards the end.’

‘That’s right. Not far from where they found him in Kringlumýri.’

‘Poor man.’

‘So he was sober the times he stayed here?’

‘Had to be — we don’t allow any drinking.’

‘Did you talk to him at all?’

‘No, not that I recall. Just went over the rules with him, as I always do.’

‘Did he come here often when he was sober?’

‘From time to time, as I said, but usually he was in such a state that we couldn’t admit him. There were maybe two or three occasions when he was allowed to stay. No more. Then he had to leave in the morning like everybody else.’

‘Did he associate with any of your regulars? Can you remember?’ asked Erlendur.

‘Not off the top of my head. But it’s not a big community.’

‘Community?’

‘Reykjavík’s drinkers.’

‘No, I suppose not, though they certainly make their mark on the town.’

‘That’s nothing new. Most of them know each other. I vaguely remember him complaining that someone had tried to set fire to him. Can that be right?’

‘The cellar where he was sleeping caught fire, yes. The owner reckoned he’d started the blaze himself by accident. Did he tell you different?’

‘Well, as far as I remember, he was extremely resentful about how he’d been treated. The incident’s stayed with me because that was the last time I saw him. He was fuming about being evicted. Does that fit?’

‘Sounds right. The cellar was a total dump but at least it was a roof over his head. Did he mention being blamed for the fire?’

‘No, just ranted on about it — he was the worse for wear and didn’t hang about long. In my line of work you hear so many sob stories and excuses, so many complaints and accusations about everything under the sun that in the end you stop listening.’

When Erlendur left the Fever Hospital shortly afterwards, the drunk man was still standing in the street outside. To combat the unsteadiness of his legs he had propped himself against a fence from where he hailed Erlendur.

‘You pissed too?’

Erlendur stopped and considered the man in his thick winter coat and hat; the grimy hands, the wrinkles etched deep in his face. He could be either side of fifty.

‘No, I’m not pissed.’ Erlendur went over. ‘Won’t they take you?’

‘Arseholes,’ said the man.

‘If you sober up, they’ll give you food and shelter. They can’t have everyone wandering around drunk though, can they?’

The man gave him a look of contempt; clearly this was unworthy of a response.

‘You wouldn’t by any chance remember a guy called Hannibal? Used to come down here.’

‘Hannibal?’ the man said sharply.

‘Yes.’

‘I knew Hannibal. Why are you asking?’

‘I—’

‘He was drowned like a dog.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What do I mean? I mean someone went out there and drowned the poor sod.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘I just know.’

‘Did you see it?’

‘No, I didn’t. But I saw plenty of other things.’

‘Why are you so sure, then?’

‘How else did he drown in that puddle? Eh? You tell me!’

‘So you—’

‘Me? No, wasn’t me. I had nothing to do with it.’

‘So what did you see?’

‘Eh?’

‘You said you’d seen plenty of other things. What did you mean?’

‘I see things,’ repeated the tramp. ‘And I know things too. Don’t you go thinking I’m some kind of fool, mate. I’m no fool, let me tell you.’

‘Do you know things about Hannibal?’

‘Oh, leave me alone. Why don’t you talk to that stupid prick Bergmundur? He knew Hannibal better than me. Saw him in the square only yesterday. Back on the bottle, the bloody fool. Not for the first time,’ he added, with an oddly censorious expression, as if he himself never touched a drop except on special occasions.

Little was to be gained from the couple who used to live above Hannibal’s cellar. Erlendur had finally tracked them down to a grotty rented place near the swimming pool in Laugardalur. They had been out the night of the fire yet were convinced that Hannibal was responsible. Not that they spoke badly of him. In fact, they showed sympathy for his plight.

‘We didn’t mind him sleeping there,’ explained the woman whose name was Málfrídur. She had a puffy red face, a large splayed nose and a big mouth, which was prevented from closing properly by protruding teeth. Her husband, who was waiting by the stove for the coffee to percolate, also looked like a drinker: grubby vest, braces hanging down over his trousers, bare feet. The flat was dirty and there was an unpleasant smell whose source Erlendur could not identify. Burnt offal, he suspected.

‘We liked the bum,’ said the man, pouring coffee into some glasses.

‘Sad what happened to him,’ added Málfrídur.

‘He didn’t have any enemies that you were aware of?’

‘No,’ said the man, ‘but it’s tough on the streets. Wasn’t the poor sod drunk when he fell in?’

‘Do you believe he started the fire himself?’ asked Erlendur.

‘Yes, it was just him being clumsy, wasn’t it?’ said Málfrídur, her mouth hanging open.

‘Mind you, he blamed the brothers next door,’ her husband pointed out.

‘Yes, but that was a load of nonsense,’ said Málfrídur. ‘They had no motive.’

‘Any idea why he accused them?’ asked Erlendur. ‘Had he got on the wrong side of them?’

‘No, the brothers had nothing to do with it,’ insisted Málfrídur.

‘I didn’t like them,’ remarked her husband. ‘Never did.’

‘That’s different.’

‘Why didn’t you like them?’ asked Erlendur, looking at the man.

‘They wouldn’t so much as give you the time of day, even though we were neighbours. And they were mixed up in some kind of shady business, if you ask me. Selling home-made spirits — that sort of thing. Turned their noses up at us. I went round once; asked if they’d sell me some booze — I’d noticed a constant stream of people coming and going from their place. Late at night, mostly. All sorts. They denied they had any, but I know they were lying.’

‘Was Hannibal aware of this?’

‘Haven’t a clue. We never discussed it. Then all the comings and goings stopped. I don’t know if it had anything to do with me going over there. They were nasty pieces of work, those brothers.’

‘They used to be glued to their telly all evening,’ said Málfrídur.

‘Oh?’

‘Yes, it was on every night. We could see from our window. They were telly addicts, if you ask me. Total addicts.’

‘Then they moved out,’ said the man.

‘Yes, soon after that business with Hannibal,’ added the woman. ‘And we haven’t laid eyes on them since.’