Reykjavik Nights by Arnaldur Indridason Read Free Book Online

junction where a van had smacked into its side. The van had been travelling fairly fast, so the car had rebounded into Grensásvegur, where it rolled over. The impact had hurled the driver of the van through the windscreen and he was now lying in his own blood on the tarmac. The driver of the car that had rolled over was still trapped under the steering wheel. Meanwhile, the man who had originally caused the accident was sitting in one of the police vehicles, suspected of driving under the influence. He was bleeding from a gash on his head. His wife too was clearly the worse for wear. Gardar said she was something of a madam: his efforts to prevent her walking away from the scene had resulted in an angry altercation. Blood was trickling from her forehead onto the mink coat draped around her, and she was swaying slightly in her high heels. Finally Gardar persuaded her to accompany him back to where her husband was sitting, shoulders bowed, in police custody.
    It was just after midnight on Friday and there was still a fair amount of traffic on the city’s main artery. Erlendur’s position in the middle of the busy junction was not immediately life threatening, but there was always an element of unpredictability at this hour. Their very first job that evening had been to pull over a drunk driver on Skúlagata after they noticed him changing lanes at breakneck speed. Despite being almost incoherent when they helped him out of the car, he had insisted that he was stone-cold sober, then had passed out en route for a blood test.
    The three wrecked vehicles were towed away. Once the ambulances and fire engine had departed as well, they were able to reopen the junction to traffic. Then, as they were driving away, a call came in about a fight at Rödull on Nóatún. A drunk man had attacked a bartender, then started terrorising the other customers before being overpowered by two bouncers, who were now waiting for the police.
    When they reached the club, they found a long queue.
    â€˜Fancy-dress, is it?’ someone called out as they elbowed their way through the throng. They were met by a doorman who showed them through to the kitchen where the troublemaker was lying face down on the floor, restrained by two burly men, while the other staff bustled around them.
    â€˜I’ll kill you!’ the man blustered. ‘I’ll kill you, you fucking pigs.’
    The head bouncer launched into an explanation of what had happened. Refused a tab at the bar, the man had completely lost it and slashed the bartender in the face with a broken glass. The victim had been driven straight to Casualty, spouting blood. The bouncers had recognised the perpetrator as an occasional customer, known for his obnoxious behaviour. They’d thrown him out a couple of times when women had complained about him, but they didn’t know his name.
    â€˜He’s one of those dickheads who walks in here and thinks he owns the place,’ said the head doorman. ‘It’ll be good to get rid of the prick. He’s barred from now on.’
    Marteinn clicked a pair of handcuffs onto the man’s wrists and, with Erlendur’s help, hauled him to his feet.
    â€˜I’m going to sue those bastards for assault!’ the man stormed. His stretch on the kitchen floor had only made him feel more aggrieved. ‘They attacked me. Dragged me in here. Threw me on the floor. I’m going to sue them.’
    â€˜It’s touch and go whether they’ll be able to save Kiddi’s eye – he’s our bartender,’ the bouncer told them. ‘He’ll definitely want to press charges against this tosser.’
    Accompanied by a tirade of abuse, they escorted the man outside, through the crowd to the police car. A few of the people in the queue tried to interfere, mouthing off about stupid pigs and police oppression. Inured to such insults, they paid no attention.
    Afterwards they took a coffee break at the station.