Reykjavik Nights

Reykjavik Nights by Arnaldur Indridason Read Free Book Online Page B

Book: Reykjavik Nights by Arnaldur Indridason Read Free Book Online
Authors: Arnaldur Indridason
background. Reception was obviously busy.
    â€˜Your brother Hannibal.’
    â€˜What about him?’
    â€˜I –’
    â€˜Why do you want to discuss him?’ She sounded a little flustered. ‘Why are you asking me about Hannibal?’
    â€˜I knew him slightly. Perhaps I could explain better if you’d spare a minute to meet me.’
    â€˜No, you know what, I really don’t have time.’
    â€˜I’d be grateful if –’
    â€˜Look, I’m afraid I don’t have time, I’ve got to take this call.’
    â€˜But –’
    â€˜Sorry, but I’ll have to hang up now. Thank you, goodbye.’
    She cut him off.
    Erlendur was surprised at this reaction but on reflection he guessed that she had taken him for one of her brother’s homeless friends and wanted nothing to do with him. Perhaps he should have been more specific, explained who he was and the nature of his business, put more pressure on her to meet him. It dawned on him that he didn’t actually know what his business was, or why he had this urge to learn Hannibal’s backstory.
    Why was he fixated on the fate of some poor tramp, whom he had, let’s face it, only met a handful of times? Was it because he had been first on the scene and personally fished him out of the water that the image was etched on his brain? He had been shocked when he saw who it was, but he shouldn’t have been all that surprised to come across Hannibal’s body. It was bound to happen sooner or later. The man was in poor shape; after all, he had been living rough, in desperate straits, for years. And his mental state had not been much better. The last time they met, in a cell at the station, Hannibal had spoken of his misery and how he lacked the guts to end to it all.
    Was it guilt pushing Erlendur to unearth everything he could about the man? Could he have done more for him, despite Hannibal’s rejection of any help or sympathy? No one cared if a vagrant, who was on his last legs anyway, wound up dead. It just meant one less bum on the streets. No one else was asking questions about this man who had drowned like a stray dog. Even the tramp at the Fever Hospital, who had seemed sure that Hannibal’s death was no accident, had been fairly flippant about his death.
    Or could it be that Hannibal had touched a nerve when he exploded, accusing Erlendur of interfering, and demanded to know why he wouldn’t leave him alone?
    Whatever it was, something about Hannibal’s sad story had captured Erlendur’s imagination. His fate, yes, but also his dogged determination to withdraw from human society. Where had this need come from? What had caused it? Erlendur sympathised with his loneliness and mental anguish, and yet there was some element of his character – the uncompromising fact of his existence – that was also strangely alluring. The way he had set himself against life and stood, alone and untouchable, beyond all help.
    Still lost in this reverie, Erlendur found himself at the doctor’s surgery. It was nearly closing time and there were no more patients in the waiting room. A woman of about forty, with backcombed blonde hair, dressed in a green blouse, a tight skirt and a pretty pearl necklace, was tidying up in reception.
    â€˜Rebekka?’ he said
    â€˜Yes?’ The woman glanced up.
    â€˜Sorry to bother you, but I rang earlier –’
    â€˜Do you have an appointment?’
    â€˜No, my name’s Erlendur and –’
    â€˜We’re closed,’ she said, ‘but I can make an appointment for you if you like. Who’s your doctor?’
    â€˜I’m not here to see a doctor,’ said Erlendur. ‘I rang earlier about your brother, Hannibal.’
    The woman hesitated. ‘Oh,’ she said, then carried on putting things away.
    â€˜Sorry to be so persistent. But, as I mentioned on the phone, I was acquainted with your brother and wanted to know

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