Reykjavik Nights by Arnaldur Indridason Page A

equal.’
    She blew out a cloud of smoke.
    â€˜He was a dear friend to me. Terrible what happened to him.’
    â€˜Do you know of anyone who had it in for him? Did he ever mention being afraid of anyone? Like people he’d got on the wrong side of?’
    â€˜Hannibal used to get himself into a hell of a mess sometimes. He’d lose his rag with people and push them too far. Got into fights for all kinds of stupid reasons. But I can’t think of anyone who’d have wanted to do him in.’
    â€˜Last time I spoke to him he’d been beaten up.’
    â€˜It wouldn’t have been the first time,’ said Thurí. ‘When he was in good shape he could take the bastards on. But not by the end. By then he was no match for anyone.’
    â€˜So you can’t think of anybody he was frightened of or –’
    â€˜He wasn’t frightened of anyone; didn’t hate anyone either,’ Thurí answered quickly, then changed her mind. ‘Except maybe those brothers.’
    â€˜The brothers from next door?’
    â€˜It’s thanks to them he was chucked out of the cellar,’ she said. ‘They accused him of setting fire to the place but really they’d done it to get rid of him. The landlord didn’t believe him. That’s how he wound up sleeping by the hot-water pipes.’
    â€˜Did Hannibal have any dealings with them after that?’
    â€˜Haven’t a clue. But he didn’t have a good word to say about them. Out-and-out criminals, he called them.’
    â€˜Any idea what he meant by that?’
    â€˜No, he never explained. But he was scared of them. Shit-scared, I reckon. Look, can we call it a day? I need to get going.’
    â€˜Of course. Thanks for your help.’
    â€˜I went to fetch his stuff from the pipeline,’ Thurí added, opening the front door of the hostel. ‘A few days after they found his body. But the police had taken the best bits – sent them to his family, probably. At least I hope so. Hope they weren’t stolen.’
    â€˜Surely not.’
    â€˜Wouldn’t have been worth much.’ She paused in the doorway. ‘He wasn’t one for hoarding stuff. Though he did have a little suitcase with a few books and other odds and ends he’d picked up. That’d gone.’
    â€˜I’m sure the police passed his possessions on to his family.’
    â€˜Wanted something to remind me of him,’ Thurí said. ‘Something that … Anyway, it had all gone. Only thing I found was the earring.’
    â€˜Earring?’
    â€˜Yes, lying under the pipe.’
    â€˜You found an earring where he used to sleep?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜What … what kind of earring?’
    â€˜Looked newish. Quite big. Nice too. Gold. Hannibal must have picked it up somewhere, then dropped it in the tunnel.’

17
    That weekend Erlendur was busy at work. It was mid July, summer was at its height, the nights were light and sunny, and the warm weather brought people out in droves. The bars were packed. At closing time, crowds poured out into the streets to mill around in the mild air. The party continued in Austurvöllur Square or Hljómskálagardur, the park by the lake. Bottles were produced and passed round. Scraps broke out in alleyways, maybe over a girl. Then there were the habitual troublemakers, brainless thugs who roved around town in various stages of inebriation, provoking fights, looking to get even. If apprehended, they were thrown in the cells, but it could take as many as three officers to subdue them. Break-ins were all too common as thieves took advantage of the holiday period to clean out empty homes. It was up to vigilant neighbours to raise the alert.
    Erlendur attended two such incidents that weekend. On Friday night, in the new suburb of Fossvogur, a neighbour had noticed figures sneaking round the back of a detached house at the bottom of the valley.