Reykjavik Nights Read online

  In the drive behind him was a patrol car containing two uniformed officers. A new-looking, unmarked vehicle was parked beside it. Marion Briem stepped out, accompanied by two plainclothes detectives, their eyes on the house. Another team of officers had been deployed to the pipeline, where a section of the wall, and the concrete slab on top, would be removed to provide easier access to the body.

  ‘They’re detectives from the Reykjavík Criminal Investigation Department.’

  ‘Criminal Investigation…?’

  ‘They want to talk to you, but they’ve agreed to give me a few minutes with you first.’

  Gústaf peered down the road as if principally afraid that his neighbours would witness this visit. Police cars were a rare sight in this area.

  ‘What do you want with me? I’m about to leave for work. I haven’t got time for this.’

  ‘It won’t take long,’ Erlendur assured him. ‘There’s just one small matter I want to ask you about.’

  ‘Do they have to park in the drive?’ asked Gústaf.

  ‘It won’t take a moment.’

  ‘Well, let’s get it over with, then,’ sighed Gústaf, realising that, whatever he said, Erlendur was not going to back down. ‘I’m already late for work.’

  They went no further than the hall. Gústaf closed the front door behind them. Erlendur could smell toast and coffee.

  ‘How dare you show up unannounced like this?’ Gústaf snarled. ‘Turning up with all these cars at the crack of dawn, as if it were some major incident. As if I were a dangerous criminal!’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think you’ll be making any complaints,’ said Erlendur. ‘Any more than you did the last time I visited you and came pretty close to blaming you for your wife’s disappearance.’

  ‘I saw no reason to,’ protested Gústaf. ‘I can’t go around reporting every nutter who makes crazy accusations against me.’

  ‘Fair enough. But of course you were keen not to attract any attention either.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re referring to. What do you want? Why won’t you stop harassing me?’

  ‘Last time we spoke – it’s in the case notes too – you stated that you attended a Lions Club meeting the evening Oddný went to Thórskaffi. Is that correct?’

  ‘What are you getting at now?’

  ‘Is that correct? That you were at a Lions Club meeting?’

  ‘Quite correct. It’s common knowledge.’

  ‘And you came straight home from the meeting. Shortly after midnight, I imagine?’

  ‘You know, I don’t have to talk to you,’ said Gústaf. ‘You’re not even involved in this case. It’s none of your business. Why don’t you get out of my house and take your colleagues with you?’

  ‘An acquaintance of mine died in the peat diggings that night,’ said Erlendur. ‘His sister’s terrified that he’ll be blamed for your wife’s disappearance. She’s desperate for that not to happen. Did you change your clothes after coming home from the meeting?’

  ‘Change my clothes? No … I can’t remember. What kind of question is that? Did I change my clothes?!’

  ‘You were wearing a nice suit, weren’t you?’

  Gústaf said nothing.

  ‘And a white shirt? Perhaps a new white shirt?’

  Gústaf returned his gaze in obstinate silence, refusing to answer.

  ‘Did the sleeves have buttons?’

  No reply.

  ‘Or were you wearing cufflinks?’

  ‘You’d better get out of here, all of you.’ Gústaf made to open the door.

  ‘Were they Lions Club cufflinks, by any chance?’

  Gústaf gaped at him.

  ‘I don’t own any cufflinks myself and don’t know how they’re worn,’ continued Erlendur. ‘But I do know that you lost one. Just like your wife lost an earring. Ring any bells?’

  The other man remained silent.

  ‘When did you notice it was missing?’ asked Erlendur. ‘Or didn’t you notice?’

  He could see that Gústaf was rattled. Erlendur had entered the pipeline fully convinced that Bergmundur had killed Oddný. He had been equally confident that the tramp had finished off Hannibal. That he had hunted Hannibal down in revenge for the fact that he had stolen his Thurí. Their encounter had ended with Bergmundur forcibly drowning Hannibal in the diggings. Oddný, witnessing the crime, had fled and hidden in the pipeline, where Bergmundur had found and murdered her.

  Now, however, he knew that Bergmundur was innocent of her death.

  ‘Did you think you’d lost the cufflink somewhere else?’ he asked.

  ‘You can’t come here and…’

  Gústaf was casting around in vain for something to say.

  ‘You must have been frantic when you couldn’t find it.’

  ‘But I haven’t –’

  ‘Is this your cufflink, by any chance?’ Erlendur fished in his pocket and pulled out the object he had found in Oddný’s hand. It was sealed in a small plastic bag, which Erlendur held out for Gústaf to examine. He had cleaned off enough of the dirt to reveal that the cufflink was silver-plated, with diagonal stripes and the Lions Club crest in the middle.

  Gústaf took a step backwards.

  ‘Why don’t you take a closer look?’ suggested Erlendur. ‘Check it’s definitely yours?’

  Gústaf shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘Did Hannibal stumble on you and your wife?’ said Erlendur. ‘Did he see what you’d done? Catch sight of your face?’

  The other man avoided his eye.

  ‘Did you think she’d never be found? That they’d seal up the hole in the casing and she’d stay hidden in her grave for all eternity?’

  Erlendur advanced towards Gústaf, who was standing there as if turned to stone.

  ‘Answer me!’ he shouted.

  Gústaf flinched.

  ‘I didn’t mean…’ he mumbled almost inaudibly. After all this time his defences were finally crumbling. ‘I didn’t trust her. I thought she’d started seeing that creep again … that bastard. And she told me – told me when I caught her – that she’d slept with him and was planning to do it again. Planning to leave me. And that she hated me. I was a monster and I disgusted her.’

  ‘When you caught her?’

  Gústaf searched Erlendur’s face for any sign of understanding.

  ‘I chased her. She came home and we had a row and she ran out and … I went after her. I didn’t mean … I hit her in the face … I didn’t mean to kill her – it was an accident. And when the man saw, when he saw me I … I completely lost my head. Lost control. I had no idea what to do.’

  ‘Where did Hannibal appear from? Inside the pipeline?’

  ‘I don’t know. Probably. I had no clue he was there. Didn’t think anyone was around. Then suddenly he popped up. By then it was too late. He saw what I’d done.’

  ‘So you went after him?’

  ‘He saw me,’ repeated Gústaf. ‘He saw what I’d done to Oddný. I couldn’t let him report me to the police. I couldn’t. He ran towards the diggings. What was I supposed to do? What could I have done?’

  Gústaf’s gaze was riveted to the cufflink.

  ‘I’ve been looking for it ever since,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know where I’d lost it. Didn’t know where it was. I was going crazy. Turned the house upside down, searched up by the pipeline, inside it … I had a horrible feeling it was there. Was terrified I’d dropped it there.’

  ‘I found it with Oddný.’

  ‘Where … where exactly?’

  ‘In her hand.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ whispered Gústaf.

  ‘I found her last night, where you buried her.’

  ‘I … I never dared look at her. I regret it so much … what I did. I –’

  ‘You must have been keeping an eye on the pipeline,’ said Erlendur. ‘Especially as it was still open.’

  Gústaf nodded.

  ‘I went there often, mostly at night of course – I didn’t want anyone to see me
. It’s like an open grave. They’ll never get round to mending it. Never mend that horrible hole in the casing.’

  50

  Later, once Erlendur had learned the whole story from the detectives who had taken over the case, he went to see Rebekka and told her that he finally had an answer for her. It was pure chance that Hannibal had witnessed Gústaf’s crime.

  Oddný had gone home after all that night, to be met at the door by her furious husband. He had been waiting up for her, suspecting her of cheating on him. Because she was drunk she gave him an earful. They had a violent row, in the course of which he had threatened and slapped her. She had fled out of the house and run up the Fossvogur valley towards Kringlumýri.

  ‘The poor woman.’

  ‘There’s no way of knowing where she was going; Gústaf didn’t know,’ said Erlendur. ‘Perhaps she was thinking of returning to her friends. I couldn’t say. Gústaf followed some way behind and, according to his statement, saw her climb up on the hot-water conduit. By then she had slowed down, so he was able to creep up behind her and grab her, not far from the hole in the casing where Hannibal was living. They started quarrelling again and he hit her. She fell off the pipeline, he leapt after her, seized her by the throat and banged her head against the concrete until he realised she was dead, and –’

  ‘Please, spare me the details,’ Rebekka interrupted. ‘I don’t want to hear.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Erlendur. ‘I didn’t mean –’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘Just then Hannibal appeared from inside the tunnel, clearly felt he was no match for a man who had completely lost his mind, and fled in the direction of the peat diggings. Gústaf ran after him, caught up in no time and pushed him into the pool, then waded in after him and held him down until he … until he reckoned it was enough.’

  ‘Oh, sweet Jesus,’ murmured Rebekka.

  ‘He left Hannibal in the water and ran back to where Oddný was lying by the pipeline. By then he was beginning to calm down but it never occurred to him to give himself up and confess his crimes. Instead, his first thought was to hide the body. He pulled it in through the opening and hid it in the darkness deep inside the tunnel, then raced home. He didn’t notice that one of her earrings had fallen off and landed under the hot-water pipes, though later he discovered he’d lost one of his cufflinks but didn’t know when or where. He waited in a state of frantic anxiety for the police to find Oddný’s body when they went to clear out Hannibal’s belongings, but nothing happened. It didn’t cross anyone’s mind to explore further inside the tunnel.’

  Rebekka sat quietly during Erlendur’s account. This time she had invited him round to her pleasant flat in an apartment block on Álfheimar. Later that day he had a date with Halldóra: they were going look at places to rent together.

  ‘Long afterwards, when the fuss had died down – the police had taken no action over Hannibal’s death and were treating Oddný’s as a probable suicide – Gústaf crept back to the pipeline at night, carrying a torch and a small spade, to bury the body. He couldn’t bring himself to move it from the tunnel, so he had no real alternative. Apparently, he avoided looking at her as far as possible and never noticed the cufflink in her hand.’

  It had also emerged during an interview, as Erlendur now informed Rebekka, that Gústaf had expected the district heating company to repair the hole in the conduit casing before long, thus perfecting the final resting place he had chosen for Oddný. But months had passed without any sign of activity. He had even made an anonymous phone call to the company to complain. It had achieved nothing.

  ‘Was that all he cared about?’ asked Rebekka.

  ‘Well, naturally, he wasn’t in his right mind,’ said Erlendur. ‘I think that’s gradually coming home to him now.’

  ‘So this Bergmundur had no part in the affair?’

  ‘None at all. Mind you, he held such a grudge against your brother for his relationship with Thurí that he was almost certainly behind the arson attack on the cellar.’

  ‘What about Thurí?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Erlendur. ‘I haven’t seen her.’

  ‘Think she’d be willing to meet me?’

  ‘Is that what you want?’

  ‘Yes, I’d like to talk to her. About Hannibal.’

  ‘I’m sure it would help you,’ said Erlendur. ‘She’s all right. Once you get to know her.’

  51

  Erlendur tugged at his tight shirt collar under his uniform jacket. It was the end of July and the weather was sweltering at Thingvellir. The lake was like a mirror. People were out in rowing boats and children were playing barefoot on the shore. Traffic snaked around the festival site where the sun shone blindingly on the city of tents that had been pitched on every flat piece of ground at the foot of the Almannagjá ravine.

  He had been on duty since early that morning, with only a fifteen-minute break to bolt a sandwich and wash it down with bad coffee. The police facilities were close to the festival organisers’ tent. They’d had to deal with several unexpected incidents, including a protest against the NATO airbase at Keflavík. The protestors had been swiftly and forcibly removed from the brink of the ravine. Their banner, which bore the familiar war cry of Iceland Out of NATO – Army Go Home, had been bundled up and chucked into the police van. The episode had caught the police completely unawares. For the most part they had been busy directing traffic – a mixture of cars and pedestrians – and trying to keep the peace among the thousands who had massed at Thingvellir to celebrate eleven hundred years of settlement in Iceland. Erlendur, who hadn’t been involved in the arrest of the anti-NATO protestors, heard about the events second hand as he was snatching his lunch.

  The most he had to deal with were some evangelical Christians who were circulating their propaganda, in the form of pamphlets printed in English, all over the festival site. A middle-aged atheist, who had downed a few too many, had begun by rebuking the children of Jesus, then took a swing at one. His victim, a blond, bearded youth of about twenty, wearing a peace sign around his neck, was determined to offer the other cheek. Witnessing the scuffle, Erlendur drew the drunk aside and threatened to eject him from the festival if he didn’t leave the Christian brigade in peace. Realising that this was no idle warning, the man had swallowed his objections.

  Erlendur had been deliberately inching his way closer to the stage by the Law Rock so he would not miss the moment when the poet Tómas Guðmundsson, a slim figure with a large head, stepped up to the podium to recite the commemorative ode. He allowed himself a break from his duties to listen to the poet whose work he had enjoyed from a young age. As the sun drew a halo around the speaker, Erlendur looked out over Thingvellir to Mount Skjaldbreiður. They could not have asked for better weather and there was genuine elation all over the old assembly site. People wandered between performances and refreshment tents festooned with Icelandic flags and balloons, as they listened to male-voice choirs singing folk songs and their heads reverberated with the joyous fanfare of trumpets.

  The nation had come together to celebrate. Icelanders from all walks of life: long-haired, free-thinking hippies in peasant smocks, respectable ladies in light summer dresses with backcombed hair and handbags on their arms, men in hats and new Sunday best, their lapels as wide as cod fillets; farmers and big businessmen, labourers and fishermen, wholesalers and shopkeepers, people from the city, villages and countryside, all united on this glorious day, determined to pay homage to whatever Iceland represented for them.

  After listening to Tómas Guðmundsson, Erlendur continued on his way, heading in the general direction of Hótel Valhöll where earlier in the day he had formed part of the guard of honour. Many of the foreign dignitaries – ambassadors, government ministers and royals – had arrived in gleaming limousines and processed like film stars to the humble hotel. He had donned his regulation white gloves and raised his hand to the peak of his cap, eyes fixed dead ahead, as if detached from the whole business. All the while he
had kept a lookout for potential troublemakers, but none of the crowd who had collected to watch the spectacle had any such intention in mind.

  Now he stopped by the hotel to catch up with Gardar and Marteinn, who were also on duty. They were full of the protest up by Almannagjá. It had caused a certain amount of consternation among the police since they were responsible for ensuring that everything went smoothly.

  ‘Bloody Commies!’ said Gardar.

  Erlendur sauntered over to the campsite where thousands of people had pitched their tents in the preceding days, taking advantage of the fine summer weather. The campers had packed stoves and tinned food, burgers, saucepans, coffee pots and bread bins. Lots of them had brought along a little something to fuel the festivities and toast the occasion in style. It had all gone peacefully, as befitted such a place, apart from the odd fight over the stupidest provocations.

  He wended his way between the tents, where women were making coffee and sandwiches with pâté or smoked lamb while their menfolk lounged in their vests on deckchairs, smoking, or reading the papers they had brought from home. There was a buzzing of transistor radios as people followed the festival programme. A choir was singing ‘I Will Love My Land’. One man had a bottle of illegal spirits, which he hid as Erlendur approached. He turned a blind eye.

  ‘Hello,’ a reedy voice said behind him.

  Turning, he saw Marion Briem dressed in full regalia for the occasion, looking as uncomfortable in the heat as Erlendur was himself.

  They shook hands.

  ‘You should have a word with us in CID if you ever feel like a change,’ said Marion. ‘I’ve been going through your reports regarding Hannibal and Oddný and noticed that you broke every rule in the book.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean –’ Erlendur began.

  He had received a stiff reprimand from his superiors for failing to turn the investigation over to CID when he found the earring. He had nearly lost his job.

  ‘No, I’m impressed,’ said Marion. ‘No need to apologise to me. I spoke to the sister of your friend Hannibal.’