Арнальдур Индридасон - Reykjavik Nights

‘This is my refuge from a cruel world,’ he said and tripped headlong over the threshold.

Erlendur restored him to his feet. The refuge was less a flat than a small storeroom for a variety of junk so unremarkable that no one was expected to steal it, judging by the ineffectual latch on the door. Lengths of piping and bald tyres mingled with rusty tubs, plastic containers and tangles of useless netting, while on the floor was the filthiest mattress Erlendur had ever seen. A threadbare blanket lay rumpled on top of it, and strewn all around was an assortment of empty bottles which had once contained alcohol, medicine or cardamom baking extract, along with the kind of small plastic methylated spirits containers you could buy from the chemist’s. There was a throat-catching stench of decaying rubber and urine.

Once Erlendur had helped the man to bed, he was eager to get out as quickly as possible, but Hannibal rose up on one elbow.

‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Take care now,’ Erlendur replied, backing out through the storeroom.

‘Who are you?’ Hannibal demanded again. ‘Do we know each other?’

Erlendur hesitated in the doorway. He had no desire to get involved in a conversation but neither did he wish to appear disrespectful.

‘The name’s Erlendur. We’ve met before. I’m a policeman.’

‘Erlendur,’ repeated Hannibal. ‘Mind’s a blank, mate. Got anything for me?’

‘Like what?’

‘Could you spare a bit of loose change? Doesn’t have to be much, you know. A few coins would do. I’m sure you could spare some, a flush bloke like you, who gives a helping hand to the likes of me.’

‘Won’t it just go on booze?’ Erlendur asked.

Hannibal twisted his mouth into a smile of sorts.

‘I won’t lie to you, Erlendur, my friend,’ he said, very humble now. ‘You may find it hard to believe but it’s not in my nature to lie to people. I just need a tot of gin. That’s all I ask for in this godforsaken world. I know it won’t sound like much to you, and I wouldn’t pester you, my friend, if it wasn’t such a little thing.’

‘I’m not giving you money for gin.’

‘How about a drop of meths, then?’

‘No.’

‘Oh, well then,’ said Hannibal, lying back on the mattress. ‘In that case you can bugger off.’

The roar of the motorbikes receded as they vanished in the direction of Hvassaleiti. The kids poled their rafts to shore and dragged them onto dry land. Erlendur looked south towards the pipeline. It had emerged during the inquiry that Hannibal’s presence in Kringlumýri was due to his having found a new home, if you could call it that. The summer he died, he had been evicted from his cellar after being accused of starting a fire, though he had stubbornly protested his innocence. Forced onto the streets, he had sought refuge in the casing around the heating pipeline. A slab of concrete had broken off in one place, leaving an opening large enough for him to crawl inside and warm himself against the hot-water pipes.

It was to be Hannibal’s last home before his body was discovered in the flooded pit. He had slept there in the company of a few feral cats that were drawn to him much as the birds had once flocked to St Francis of Assisi.

Erlendur was standing on the brink of the pool where Hannibal had met his end when a boy tore past him on a bicycle, spun round and rode back. Although a year had passed since they had last met, Erlendur recognised him immediately: he was one of the kids who had found the body.

‘You’re a cop, aren’t you?’ said the boy, braking in front of him.

‘Yes, hello again.’

‘What are you doing here?’ asked the boy. He was as plucky and self-assured as Erlendur remembered; ginger hair, freckles, a look of mischief. But he had grown. In only a year he had gone from being a child to a teenager.

‘Just taking a look around.’

The boy had been the leader of the trio. They had all raced off to his house to inform his mother of their discovery. Realising they were in earnest, however far-fetched their tale, she had completely forgotten to scold them for coming home soaked again, and instead called the police straight away. The other boys had run home for a change of clothes, then they had all cycled back down to the diggings. By then two police cars and an ambulance had arrived. Hannibal’s body had been recovered from the pool and was lying on the ground, covered by a blanket.

When the report came in, Erlendur had been on traffic duty on Miklabraut. As soon as he reached the scene, he had waded into the water and pulled the body ashore. Only then did he see it was Hannibal. It had given him a turn, yet Hannibal’s death had seemed strangely inevitable. The police had been shooing away the boys, along with the other onlookers who had gathered, when they piped up that they had found the body. After that they were taken to sit in one of the patrol cars and later questioned closely about their discovery.

‘My dad says he drowned,’ the boy observed now, leaning on his handlebars and looking over at the place where Hannibal had lain suspended in the water.

‘Yes,’ agreed Erlendur. ‘I expect he fell in and couldn’t save himself.’

‘He was just an old alky.’

‘It must have been a bit of a shock for you and your friends to find him like that.’

‘Addi had nightmares,’ said the boy. ‘A doctor came round to his house and all. Me and Palli didn’t care.’

‘Do you still play here on rafts?’

‘Nah, not any more. That’s kids’ stuff.’

‘Ah, right. Did you by any chance notice the man down by the pipeline last summer? That you can remember?’

‘No.’

‘Anyone else notice him?’

‘No. We used to play there sometimes but I never saw him. Maybe he was only there at night.’

‘Maybe. What were you doing up by the pipeline?’

‘You know. Looking for golf balls.’

‘Golf balls?’

‘Yeah. There’s a bloke from those houses who’s always practising shots.’ The boy gestured to some rows of terraced houses on Hvassaleiti. Dad says there used to be a golf course by the pipeline, near Öskjuhlíd, and we sometimes find old balls.’

‘I see. And what do you do with them when you find them?’

‘Nothing.’ The boy prepared to pedal off. ‘Just chuck ’em in the water. I ain’t got any use for them.’

‘“I haven’t got any use for them”.’

‘Yeah, OK.’

‘And “OK” isn’t good Icel—’

‘I’ve got to go home now,’ interrupted the boy and, climbing onto his saddle, was off before Erlendur could finish his sentence.

Erlendur followed the track between the old workings and up the hill towards the heating conduit. The pipeline was fifteen kilometres long and ran from the geothermal zone in the Mosfell valley north of the city, skirted the suburbs, then finally discharged into the huge hot-water tanks that crowned Öskjuhlíd. Inside the concrete casing ran two fourteen-inch steel pipes booming with naturally heated water. Although insulated, these had still emitted enough warmth to provide comfort for Hannibal during the last days of his life.

They had not yet repaired the hole in the casing. Erlendur contemplated the broken-off slab of concrete lying in the grass and wondered what had caused the damage. An earthquake, perhaps, or frost.

The opening was large enough for a grown man to crawl through with ease. He noticed that the grass around the entrance was flattened, and when he poked his head inside he saw that someone else must have had the same idea as Hannibal. A blanket had been dragged in there. Two empty brennivín bottles and a handful of methylated spirits containers were scattered under the pipes. Not far beyond them he could make out a shabby hat and a mitten.