Tainted Blood - By Arnaldur Indridason Page 0,6

Óli noticed two adjoining bedrooms. From the sitting room he could see into the small kitchen.

"We read your statement," said Sigurdur Óli, who had flicked through it in the car on the way to the sisters. "Can you give us any more details about the man who attacked you?"

"Man?" Fjóla said. "He was more like a boy."

"Old enough to attack us though," Birna said. "He was old enough for that. Pushed me to the floor and kicked me."

"We haven't got any money," Fjóla said.

"We don't keep money here," Birna said. "And we told him so."

"But he didn't believe us."

"And he attacked us."

"He was wild."

"And swore. The things he called us."

"In that horrible green jacket. Like a soldier."

"And wearing these sort of boots, heavy, black ones laced up his legs."

"But he didn't break anything."

"No, just ran away."

"Did he take anything?" Erlendur said.

"It was like he wasn't in his right mind," said Fjóla, who was trying as hard as she could to find some saving grace for her attacker. "He didn't break anything and he didn't take anything. Just attacked us when he realised he wouldn't get any money from us. Poor wretch."

"Stoned out of his mind more like," Birna spat out. "Poor wretch?" She turned to her sister. "Sometimes you can be a real dimwit. He was stoned out of his mind. You could tell from his eyes. Harsh, glazed eyes. And he was sweating."

"Sweating?" Erlendur said.

"It was running down his face. The sweat."

"That was the rain," Fjóla said.

"No. And he was shaking all over."

"The rain," Fjóla repeated and Birna gave her the evil eye.

"He hit you over the head, Fjóla. That's the last thing you needed."

"Does it still hurt where he kicked you?" Fjóla asked, and she looked at Erlendur. He could have sworn her eyes were dancing with glee.

It was still early morning when Erlendur and Sigurdur Óli arrived in Nordurmýri. Holberg's neighbours on the ground and first floor were waiting for them. The police had already taken a statement from the family who had found Holberg but Erlendur wanted to talk to them further. A pilot lived on the top floor. He'd arrived home from Boston at midday on the day Holberg was murdered, gone to bed in the afternoon and not stirred until the police knocked on his door.

They started with the pilot, who answered the door unshaven and wearing a vest and shorts. He was in his thirties, he lived alone and his flat was like a rubbish heap; clothes strewn everywhere, two suitcases open on a newish leather sofa, plastic bags from the duty-free shop on the floor, wine bottles on the tables and open beer cans wherever there was space for them. He looked at the two of them then walked back inside the flat without saying a word and slumped into a chair. They stood in front of him. Couldn't find anywhere to sit. Erlendur looked around the room and thought to himself that he wouldn't even board a flight simulator with this man.

For some reason the pilot started talking about the divorce he was going through and wondered whether it could become a police matter. The bitch had started playing around. He was away, flying. Came home from Oslo one day to find his wife with his old school-friend. Godawful, he added, and they didn't know which he found more godawful, his wife being unfaithful to him or his having to stay in Oslo.

"Concerning the murder that was committed in the basement flat," Erlendur said, interrupting the pilot's slurred monologue.

"Have you ever been to Oslo?" the pilot asked.

"No," Erlendur said. "We're not going to talk about Oslo."

The pilot looked first at Erlendur and then at Sigurdur Óli, and finally he seemed to cotton on.

"I didn't know the man at all," he said. "I bought this flat four months ago, as far as I understand it had been empty for a long while before that. Met him a few times, just outside. He seemed all right."

"All right?" Erlendur said.

"Okay to talk to, I mean."

"What did you talk about?"

"Flying. Mostly. He was interested in flying."

"What do you mean, interested in flying?"

"The aircraft," the pilot said, opening a can of beer that he fished from one of the plastic bags. "The cities," he said, and gulped down some beer. "The hostesses," he said and belched. "He asked a lot about the hostesses. You know."

"No," Erlendur said.

"You know. On the stopovers. Abroad."

"Yes."

"What happened, were they hot. Stuff like that. He'd heard things get pretty wild .