Арнальдур Индридасон - Reykjavik Nights

They had gone out for dinner at Naustid to celebrate the firm’s fifth anniversary. Spouses were not invited and in their absence everyone had let their hair down and consumed copious amounts of alcohol. They had stayed at the restaurant until late, then someone had suggested moving on to Thórskaffi, a busy nightclub where a popular band was playing. Once there, the group had gradually dispersed, either calling it a night or running into other friends. No one had noticed when or with whom the woman had left. The last person she was known to have talked to was the oldest employee of the firm, a receptionist in her fifties. The receptionist had offered to share a taxi but she had said no thanks; she was going to stay on a bit longer and would probably walk home as it would do her good to clear her head. She lived in the new neighbourhood at the western end of the Fossvogur valley but said she didn’t mind the distance.

Later, when interviewed by the police, none of the other customers at Thórskaffi could recall much about the missing woman. Her colleagues had seen her chatting to a handful of other people, and two of these had come forward when the search was at its height. One was an old college friend who had been there with his wife. To them she had not appeared drunk, merely in high spirits, as they reminisced about their school days. The other witness was a woman she had known since her teens. A little later this friend had observed her talking to a man she did not recognise and could only describe in the vaguest terms since it had been dark in the club.

The search had yielded no results. The woman had simply vanished into thin air and the subsequent investigation had uncovered little that might explain her fate, apart from the detail that three years previously she had cheated on her husband. The circumstances had been so similar that when she failed to return home her husband had initially assumed that she had been up to her old tricks again. After the first occasion she had insisted it was the only time she had been unfaithful; it had been a moment of madness during a rough patch in their marriage. He had no reason to doubt her words.

One theory was that she had either bumped into her old lover or gone home with a new man, and that something had happened and she vanished without trace. When questioned, the former lover swore blind he had not met her that evening. The man her friend had seen her talking to had never come forward.

Yet in spite of this they saw no reason to treat the woman’s disappearance as a crime. Suicide was deemed more likely.

A single detail had struck Erlendur as he read the file one evening when he did not feel like going straight home after his shift. Two of the people interviewed had mentioned that the woman had been mad about jewellery.

Erlendur started awake, worried that he had overslept. He had been having a nap as he sometimes did before going on duty. Relieved to discover that it was still early, he got up and prepared for yet another night shift. He had lain there for a long time that evening, brooding over the fates of the girl from the women’s college and the woman from Thórskaffi, and wondering if his decision to join the police had been precipitated by his fascination with stories like theirs.

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.’