background. Reception was obviously busy.
âYour brother Hannibal.â
âWhat about him?â
âI ââ
âWhy do you want to discuss him?â She sounded a little flustered. âWhy are you asking me about Hannibal?â
âI knew him slightly. Perhaps I could explain better if youâd spare a minute to meet me.â
âNo, you know what, I really donât have time.â
âIâd be grateful if ââ
âLook, Iâm afraid I donât have time, Iâve got to take this call.â
âBut ââ
âSorry, but Iâll have to hang up now. Thank you, goodbye.â
She cut him off.
Erlendur was surprised at this reaction but on reflection he guessed that she had taken him for one of her brotherâs 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 didnât actually know what his business was, or why he had this urge to learn Hannibalâs backstory.
Why was he fixated on the fate of some poor tramp, whom he had, letâs 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 shouldnât have been all that surprised to come across Hannibalâs 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 Hannibalâs 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 Hannibalâs 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 wouldnât leave him alone?
Whatever it was, something about Hannibalâs sad story had captured Erlendurâs 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 â the uncompromising fact of his existence â 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 doctorâs 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.
âRebekka?â he said
âYes?â The woman glanced up.
âSorry to bother you, but I rang earlier ââ
âDo you have an appointment?â
âNo, my nameâs Erlendur and ââ
âWeâre closed,â she said, âbut I can make an appointment for you if you like. Whoâs your doctor?â
âIâm not here to see a doctor,â said Erlendur. âI rang earlier about your brother, Hannibal.â
The woman hesitated. âOh,â she said, then carried on putting things away.
âSorry to be so persistent. But, as I mentioned on the phone, I was acquainted with your brother and wanted to know
Marc Nager, Clint Nelsen, Franck Nouyrigat