Reykjavik Nights Read Online Free Page A

Icel—’
    â€˜I’ve got to go home now,’ interrupted the boy and, climbing onto his saddle, was off before Erlendur could finish his sentence.
    Erlendur followed the track between the old workings and up the hill towards the heating conduit. The pipeline was fifteen kilometres long and ran from the geothermal zone in the Mosfell valley north of the city, skirted the suburbs, then finally discharged into the huge hot-water tanks that crowned Öskjuhlíd. Inside the concrete casing ran two fourteen-inch steel pipes booming with naturally heated water. Although insulated, these had still emitted enough warmth to provide comfort for Hannibal during the last days of his life.
    They had not yet repaired the hole in the casing. Erlendur contemplated the broken-off slab of concrete lying in the grass and wondered what had caused the damage. An earthquake, perhaps, or frost.
    The opening was large enough for a grown man to crawl through with ease. He noticed that the grass around the entrance was flattened, and when he poked his head inside he saw that someone else must have had the same idea as Hannibal. A blanket had been dragged in there. Two empty brennivín bottles and a handful of methylated spirits containers were scattered under the pipes. Not far beyond them he could make out a shabby hat and a mitten.
    The gloom intensified as Erlendur peered further inside. As his eyes adjusted, he was jolted by the sight of a mound deep within the tunnel.
    â€˜Who’s there?’ he called.
    There was no answer, but the mound suddenly came to life and began to move in his direction.

5
    Erlendur nearly jumped out of his skin. Panicking for an instant, he backed out of the opening and stumbled away. A moment later a head popped up, followed by the rest of a man who crawled out of the hole and hunkered down on the grass in front of him. He wore a ragged, dark coat, fingerless gloves, a woolly hat and large rubber galoshes. Erlendur had seen him before in the company of other Reykjavík drinkers, but didn’t know his name.
    The man said good evening as if he were accustomed to receiving visitors there. From his manner, you would think they had met in the street rather than crawling around in a concrete pipeline. Erlendur introduced himself and the man replied that his name was Vilhelm. His age was hard to guess. Possibly not much over forty, though given the missing front teeth and the thick beard that covered his face, he might have been ten years older.
    â€˜Do I know you?’ asked the tramp, regarding Erlendur through horn-rimmed glasses. The thick lenses rendered his eyes unnaturally large, giving him a slightly comical look. He had an ugly, hacking cough.
    â€˜No,’ said Erlendur, his attention drawn to the glasses. ‘I don’t believe so.’
    â€˜Were you looking for me?’ asked Vilhelm, coughing again. ‘Did you want to talk to me?’
    â€˜No,’ said Erlendur, ‘I just happened to be passing. To tell the truth, I didn’t expect to find anyone here.’
    â€˜Don’t get many passers-by,’ said Vilhelm. ‘It’s nice and quiet. You don’t have a smoke, do you?’
    â€˜Sorry, no. Have you … May I ask how long you’ve been living here?’
    â€˜Two or three days,’ said Vilhelm, without explaining his choice of camp. ‘Or … What is it today?’
    â€˜Tuesday.’
    â€˜Oh.’ Vilhelm’s cough rattled out again. ‘Tuesday. Then maybe I’ve been here a bit longer. It’s not bad for the odd night, though it can get a bit nippy. Still, I’ve known worse.’
    â€˜Do you think your health can cope with it?’
    â€˜What the hell’s that got to do with you?’ asked Vilhelm, his body racked by another spasm.
    â€˜Actually, I’m not here completely by chance,’ Erlendur continued, once the man had recovered. ‘I used to know a bloke who dossed down