Reykjavik Nights by Arnaldur Indridason Read Free Book Online Page A

The shift had been no better or worse than usual so far. Car crashes, drunk drivers, bar brawls – it was all part of the job, like the insults of the onlookers.
    Much to Erlendur’s irritation, Gardar and Marteinn had spent most of the night arguing about the British rock group Slade. They had heard on the news that there was a chance the band might perform live at the Laugardalshöll concert hall that autumn. Gardar was desperate for tickets. Earlier that summer Procol Harum, one of Marteinn’s favourite groups, had played at the University Cinema. He had attended the first of their three gigs and was so blown away that he had been lost for words. He had been humming ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’ almost non-stop ever since. But his enthusiasm had fallen on deaf ears, so now when Gardar started going on about Slade, Marteinn was inclined to be scathing.
    â€˜Of course, Slade’s by far and away the coolest band around,’ said Gardar, biting into a kleina, or doughnut twist.
    â€˜Glam-rock rubbish,’ sneered Marteinn. ‘They won’t last – you won’t even remember their name in a few years. Why don’t you listen to Procol Harum or something halfway decent like the Stones? They’re a serious band. I bet they’ll still be rocking when they’re fifty!’
    â€˜Nah, Slade’s the business, man.’
    â€˜Isn’t Pelican doing the same kind of thing?’ asked Erlendur, who took little interest in the music scene but recalled seeing an article in the paper.
    â€˜Well, of course, they’re way cooler,’ said Marteinn. ‘“Jenny Darling” is pure genius.’
    *   *   *
    They ended their shift down by the harbour, not far from the slipway, where a man had fallen in the sea. He had been saved in the nick of time by a passer-by who had jumped in after him, and he had now been taken to hospital. His rescuer made light of his own condition as he sat in the police van, soaked to the skin, wrapped in a couple of blankets. He was able to give a clear account of the incident and was far more concerned for the man he had fished out of the harbour than for himself.
    â€˜What’ll happen to him?’ he asked.
    â€˜I expect they’ll send him home after a check-up,’ said Erlendur.
    â€˜He’s in a bad way.’
    â€˜Don’t worry, they’ll take a look at him.’
    â€˜No, I mean mentally. They’d better keep an eye on him.’
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    â€˜He didn’t fall.’
    â€˜Oh?’
    â€˜No, it wasn’t like that. He did it on purpose. He jumped.’
    â€˜Are you sure?’
    â€˜Sure! He was fighting me the whole time, begging me to let him go. Pleading with me to leave him to die.’

10
    During their rare encounters Hannibal hadn’t mentioned any relatives, and when Erlendur started asking around about the tramp, he learned that Hannibal never used to talk about his family or his former life. If anyone tried to draw him out he would get angry and accuse them of interfering.
    Erlendur discovered in a roundabout way that Hannibal’s sister was a married mother of three. She had gone back to work once her children had left home and was now a doctor’s receptionist in Reykjavík. There was a brother too who was a building contractor up north in Akureyri, married, with no children. Both were sober, respectable citizens, from what Erlendur could ascertain; in fact the brother was an active member of his local temperance movement, perhaps in an attempt to compensate for Hannibal’s lifestyle.
    After giving it some thought, Erlendur decided to try to find out more about Hannibal’s background from his sister. He rang the surgery, was put through, and, having introduced himself as an acquaintance of her brother’s, asked if he could have a word.
    â€˜What about?’ she asked. He could hear a phone ringing in the