Kennedy's Brain by Henning Mankell

Author:Henning Mankell
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Mystery And Suspense Fiction, Death, AIDS (Disease), Children - Death, Mystery & Detective, Fiction - Espionage, AIDS (Disease) - Patients, Fiction, Thrillers, Patients, Swedish (Language) Contemporary Fiction, Archaeologists, General, Children, Thriller
ISBN: 9780307385918
Publisher: Random House, Inc.
Published: 2008-11-11T08:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 14

She stood by the window and watched the sun leap out of the sea. Once, when she was a child, her father had told her the world was like an enormous library stocked with sunrises and dusks. She had never really understood what he meant, how the movements of the sun could be like the pages of books. Not even now, as she watched light spreading over the water, could she fathom his thoughts.

She wondered whether to phone him and ask. But she let it pass.

Instead she sat down on the little balcony and dialled the number of her hotel in Barcelona. It was Xavier who answered. Mr Cantor had not been in touch, nor had the police. Mr Castells would have told him if there had been any news about Mr Cantor.

'But at least we haven't heard any bad news,' he shouted, as if the distance between Barcelona and southern Africa was too far for a normal tone of voice to be used.

The connection was lost. She did not try again, she had already received confirmation of what she knew already: Aron was still missing.

She got dressed and went down to the dining room. A fresh breeze was blowing in from the sea. She had just finished eating when somebody addressed her by name. 'Mrs Cantor', with the stress on the second syllable. When she turned round she found herself looking into a bearded face, a man of mixed race, just as much European as African. His eyes were bright. When he spoke she could see that his teeth were bad. He was short, corpulent and impatient.

'Louise Cantor?'

'That's me.'

His English had a strong Portuguese accent, but was easy to understand. Without waiting for an invitation, he pulled out the chair opposite her and sat down. He waved away the waitress who came up to the table.

'I'm Nuno, a friend of Lucinda's. I heard that you were here and that Henrik's dead.'

'I've no idea who you are.'

'Of course you don't. I haven't been here for a minute yet.'

'Nuno who? Did you know my son?'

'Nuno da Silva. I'm a journalist. Henrik sought me out a few months ago. He wanted to ask me some questions, important questions. I'm used to people seeking me out, but they don't always ask questions that interest me.'

Louise tried to remember if there had been any mention of the man's name in Henrik's notes, but she could not recall a Nuno da Silva.

'What kind of questions did he ask?'

'Tell me first what happened. Lucinda said that he died in his bed. Where was his bed?'

'Why do you ask such an odd question?'

'Because he seemed to be the sort of man who often slept in different places, a young man on the move. When I met him I thought immediately that he reminded me of myself twenty-five years ago.'

'He died in Stockholm.'

'I've been there. It was in 1974. The Portuguese were beginning to lose the war in their African colonies. It was not long before the captains started their revolt in Lisbon.

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