Read Online Tainted Blood by Arnaldur Indridason - Free Book Online
Authors: Arnaldur Indridason
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Crime, Detective and Mystery Stories, Genetic engineering, Murder, Reykjavik (Iceland)
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sensibly, I thought. She decided straight-away to be happy about the child despite the circumstances, and she genuinely loved Audur. They were very attached to each other and my sister took particularly good care of her daughter. Did every-thing she could for her. That poor sweet girl."
"So Holberg knew the child was his?"
"Of course he knew, but he denied it completely. Said she was nothing to do with him. Accused my sister of sleeping around."
"They never kept in contact then, not about their daughter or ..."
"Contact! Never. How could you imagine such a thing? That could never have happened."
"Kolbrun couldn't have sent him the photo?"
"No. No, I can't imagine that. That's out of the question."
"He could have taken it himself. Or someone who knew the background took it and sent it to him. Maybe he saw the death announcement in the papers. Were any obituaries written about Audur?"
"There was a death announcement in the local paper. I wrote a short obituary. He could have read that."
"Is Audur buried here in Keflavík?"
"No, we're from Sandgerdi, my sister and me, and there's a small cemetery at Hvalsnes, just outside it. Kolbrún wanted her to be buried there. It was the middle of winter. Took them ages to dig the grave."
"The death certificate says she had a brain tumour."
"That was the explanation they gave my sister. She just died. Died on us, poor little thing, and we couldn't do a thing, in her fourth year."
Elín looked up from the photograph to Erlendur. "She just died."
It was dark in the house and the words echoed through the gloom full of questioning and grief. Elin stood up slowly and switched on the dull light of a standard lamp as she walked out to the hallway and into the kitchen. Erlendur heard her turn on the tap, fill something with water, pour it, open a tin, he smelled the aroma of coffee. He stood up and looked at the pictures on the walls. They were drawings and paintings. A pastel by a child was in a thin black frame. Eventually he found what he was looking for. There were two, probably taken two years apart. Photographs of Audur.
The earlier photo had been taken at a studio. It was black-and-white. The girl was probably no more than one year old and was sitting on a big cushion wearing a pretty dress, with a ribbon in her hair and a rattle in one hand. She was half turned towards the photographer and was smiling, showing four little teeth. In the other she was aged about three. Erlendur imagined her mother had taken it. It was in colour. The girl was standing among some shrubs and the sun was shining straight down on her. She was wearing a thick red jumper and a little skirt, with white socks and black shoes with shiny buckles. She was looking directly into the camera. Her expression serious. Maybe she'd refused to smile.
"Kolbrún never got over it," said Elín, from the sitting-room doorway. Erlendur stood up straight.
"That must be the worst thing anyone could go through," he said, taking a cup of coffee. Elin sat back down on the sofa with her cup and Erlendur sat down facing her again and sipped his coffee.
"Do smoke if you want to," she said.
"I'm trying to stop," Erlendur said, trying not to sound apologetic. His thoughts turned to the pain he had in his chest but nevertheless he fished a crumpled pack out of his coat pocket and took one out. His ninth cigarette of the day. She pushed an ashtray towards him.
"Mercifully she didn't take long to die," Elín said. "Started feeling pains in her head. As if she had a headache, and the doctor who examined her only ever talked about child migraine. He gave her some pills, but they didn't do any good. He wasn't a good doctor. Kolbrún told me she smelled alcohol on his breath and she was worried about it. But then it all happened so suddenly. The girl's condition got worse. There was mention of a skin tumour that her doctor should have noticed. Marks. They called them cafe au lait at the hospital. Mainly under her arms. Finally she
"So Holberg knew the child was his?"
"Of course he knew, but he denied it completely. Said she was nothing to do with him. Accused my sister of sleeping around."
"They never kept in contact then, not about their daughter or ..."
"Contact! Never. How could you imagine such a thing? That could never have happened."
"Kolbrun couldn't have sent him the photo?"
"No. No, I can't imagine that. That's out of the question."
"He could have taken it himself. Or someone who knew the background took it and sent it to him. Maybe he saw the death announcement in the papers. Were any obituaries written about Audur?"
"There was a death announcement in the local paper. I wrote a short obituary. He could have read that."
"Is Audur buried here in Keflavík?"
"No, we're from Sandgerdi, my sister and me, and there's a small cemetery at Hvalsnes, just outside it. Kolbrún wanted her to be buried there. It was the middle of winter. Took them ages to dig the grave."
"The death certificate says she had a brain tumour."
"That was the explanation they gave my sister. She just died. Died on us, poor little thing, and we couldn't do a thing, in her fourth year."
Elín looked up from the photograph to Erlendur. "She just died."
It was dark in the house and the words echoed through the gloom full of questioning and grief. Elin stood up slowly and switched on the dull light of a standard lamp as she walked out to the hallway and into the kitchen. Erlendur heard her turn on the tap, fill something with water, pour it, open a tin, he smelled the aroma of coffee. He stood up and looked at the pictures on the walls. They were drawings and paintings. A pastel by a child was in a thin black frame. Eventually he found what he was looking for. There were two, probably taken two years apart. Photographs of Audur.
The earlier photo had been taken at a studio. It was black-and-white. The girl was probably no more than one year old and was sitting on a big cushion wearing a pretty dress, with a ribbon in her hair and a rattle in one hand. She was half turned towards the photographer and was smiling, showing four little teeth. In the other she was aged about three. Erlendur imagined her mother had taken it. It was in colour. The girl was standing among some shrubs and the sun was shining straight down on her. She was wearing a thick red jumper and a little skirt, with white socks and black shoes with shiny buckles. She was looking directly into the camera. Her expression serious. Maybe she'd refused to smile.
"Kolbrún never got over it," said Elín, from the sitting-room doorway. Erlendur stood up straight.
"That must be the worst thing anyone could go through," he said, taking a cup of coffee. Elin sat back down on the sofa with her cup and Erlendur sat down facing her again and sipped his coffee.
"Do smoke if you want to," she said.
"I'm trying to stop," Erlendur said, trying not to sound apologetic. His thoughts turned to the pain he had in his chest but nevertheless he fished a crumpled pack out of his coat pocket and took one out. His ninth cigarette of the day. She pushed an ashtray towards him.
"Mercifully she didn't take long to die," Elín said. "Started feeling pains in her head. As if she had a headache, and the doctor who examined her only ever talked about child migraine. He gave her some pills, but they didn't do any good. He wasn't a good doctor. Kolbrún told me she smelled alcohol on his breath and she was worried about it. But then it all happened so suddenly. The girl's condition got worse. There was mention of a skin tumour that her doctor should have noticed. Marks. They called them cafe au lait at the hospital. Mainly under her arms. Finally she
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