Reykjavik Nights by Arnaldur Indridason Page B

Erlendur, who was driving, let the van roll noiselessly down the hill in neutral and parked by the house. They took care not to slam the doors. Marteinn went round the front; Erlendur and Gardar took the garden. There was a broken pane of glass in the back door, which was standing ajar. They crept closer but could see no movement inside. On entering, they found themselves in a smart sitting room where a middle-aged woman was slumped fast asleep on the sofa, cradling a brandy bottle. They heard a noise from the hallway. Gardar stayed with the woman while Erlendur tiptoed towards the master bedroom. When he peered inside he saw a man stooping over a handsome chest of drawers. He had found a jewellery box and was turning out its clinking contents into his hand, before stuffing them into his trouser pocket.
    Erlendur watched him for a minute or two, then barked sternly: ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
    The thief was so shocked that he jumped and emitted a high-pitched shriek. Then he whipped round and, before Erlendur could react, charged straight at him. Erlendur lost his balance and tried to grab at the burglar who shot out of the bedroom, cast a glance into the sitting room where Gardar was standing guard over his sleeping girlfriend, then made a beeline for the front door. He flung it open, only to run straight into Marteinn, who forced him onto the ground. Erlendur came to his aid and between them they handcuffed the man and loaded him into the van. He was not one of the usual suspects and remained obstinately silent when asked for his name.
    Nor did they recognise his accomplice, who was still sleeping like a baby. She must have been either dead drunk or completely exhausted to have nodded off on the job and slept right through her partner’s arrest. In low voices they discussed what to do. Gardar thought it a pity to disturb her but it couldn’t be helped. Tapping her knee he commanded her to wake up, and after several tries she began to stir and finally opened her eyes. Blinking, she peered at the three police officers.
    â€˜What are you doing here?’ she asked.
    â€˜What are we doing?’ said Marteinn. ‘What about you?’
    â€˜No, I mean –’
    â€˜I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us,’ said Gardar.
    â€˜I … no, I mean … eh, you what? Where’s Dúddi?’ She sat up.
    They exchanged glances. The cuddly nickname seemed singularly inappropriate for the thug they had just loaded into the van.
    â€˜Dúddi?’ said Marteinn, trying not to laugh.
    â€˜What the…? Where is he?’
    â€˜ Dúddi ’s waiting for you outside in the van,’ Gardar told her. ‘Care to join him?’ He offered her his hand.
    They couldn’t work out whether she was still plastered or merely woozy from her nap. She sized up these three men in their black uniforms, before eventually accepting Gardar’s hand and tottering out of the house on his arm. She was still clutching the brandy bottle and took a long swig, then held it out to Gardar.
    â€˜Want some?’
    â€˜No, you hang on to it,’ he said. ‘You can share it with Dúddi.’
    Erlendur avoided Marteinn’s eye. His colleague was shaking with silent laughter. Dúddi subjected the woman to a torrent of abuse when they put her in the van with him. He was not impressed with her failure as a lookout.
    â€˜You drunken bitch,’ he snarled, unsurprisingly incensed.
    â€˜Oh, why don’t you shut up?’ the woman snapped back, hanging her head as if used to bearing the brunt of his rages.

18
    Erlendur had to psych himself up to pay a second visit to the brothers. He wanted to question them further about the fire in the cellar. Out-and-out criminals, Hannibal had called them. The more details Erlendur uncovered about Hannibal’s case, the more his curiosity grew.
    On the way there his thoughts returned to the gold earring Thurí