Reykjavik Nights by Arnaldur Indridason Page A

born no more than two years apart, though they looked nothing like each other. One was stocky and ungainly with coarse features; the other tall and lean with finer features, yet it seemed they were inseparable. Frímann thought they both worked as carpenters or builders. As far as he knew, in the seven years they had been his neighbours no woman had ever darkened their door.
    Vignir, the stocky one, answered Erlendur’s knock. He did not appear unduly surprised to receive an unexpected visit, as if the brothers were used to having their evenings disturbed. Erlendur introduced himself as an acquaintance of Hannibal, their old neighbour – if that was the right word – who had died suddenly about a year ago, and wondered if he could ask them a few questions about him.
    By the time Erlendur had finished Ellert had joined his brother in the doorway. They exchanged glances.
    â€˜Will it take long?’ asked Ellert.
    â€˜No, not long. I only have a couple of questions.’
    â€˜We were just about to watch Ironside. ’ Vignir ushered him in. ‘Never miss it.’
    â€˜Oh no, shouldn’t be a problem,’ said Erlendur, unsure what he was referring to. ‘I won’t stay long.’
    The television set in the sitting room looked brand new. The news had finished and a nature programme was starting. The entire time the brothers were talking to Erlendur they kept one eye on the box, as if resenting every minute they missed of the broadcast.
    â€˜We’ve just bought a new set,’ said Vignir.
    â€˜Our old one was on its last legs,’ added his brother.
    It emerged that they’d barely interacted with Hannibal. Not that they had anything against a tramp living next door. He had rarely been home, except now and then to sleep. Frímann had asked them if they minded his taking refuge there, and the brothers had made no objection. Hannibal was no trouble; he never made any noise or had any guests, male or female, so, to cut a long story short, they’d had no reason to complain.
    â€˜He never brought any bums home with him,’ said Vignir.
    â€˜No, not that I noticed,’ agreed Ellert.
    â€˜Though there was no lock on the door,’ Erlendur pointed out, ‘so anyone could have walked in.’
    â€˜Actually there used to be a padlock,’ said Vignir, ‘but I gather Hannibal lost the key one night and had to break in.’
    â€˜We had nothing to do with the guy,’ said Ellert.
    â€˜Frímann seems to have been very easygoing,’ remarked Erlendur.
    The brothers did not reply. They were watching, fascinated, as a lioness sank her claws into an antelope. They were seated in twin armchairs, parked directly in front of the television, their faces lit up by the glare.
    â€˜Bloody hell, look at that,’ exclaimed Vignir as the pride began to rip the antelope apart.
    Erlendur did not like to interrupt, so for several minutes the three of them sat there, intent on the events unfolding on screen. The sitting room was small and carpeted, furnished with bookshelves but few ornaments. The whole flat appeared to be very tidy. From where he was sitting, Erlendur could see into a compact kitchen. He wondered idly whether they took it in turns to cook or shared the housework. He might as well have been visiting a contented married couple.
    â€˜What was that?’ asked Vignir when the lions had finally had their fill.
    â€˜Oh, I was asking about Frímann,’ said Erlendur. ‘Any idea why he’s selling the house?’
    â€˜Obviously skint,’ said Ellert.
    â€˜Probably needs the money,’ agreed Vignir.
    â€˜But do you know why?’
    â€˜No,’ said Ellert.
    â€˜What happened the night the house caught fire?’
    â€˜The guy nearly burnt it down,’ said Vignir. ‘If we’d gone to bed, there’s no telling what would have happened. The whole place would have gone up in smoke. But luckily we were