“Would you like to read something?” he asked Lisa.
“What?”
“This note.”
Joakim reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a copy of the note he had found in Ethel’s denim jacket in the hayloft.
He handed it over to Lisa. She took it and read:
“‘Make sure the junkie-’”
She stopped abruptly and looked inquiringly at Joakim.
“Carry on,” he said. “Wasn’t it you who wrote it and gave it to Katrine?”
She shook her head.
“Then it must have been Michael.”
“I… I can’t imagine that.”
Lisa handed back the note. Joakim took it and stood up.
“Can I put your stereo on?” he said. “I’ve got something I’d like you to listen to.”
“Of course… is it music?”
Joakim went over and inserted the cassette. “No,” he said, “it’s just talking, actually.”
When the cassette started, he took a couple of steps backwards and sat down on the sofa directly opposite Lisa. There was a rattling noise from the speakers, then Gerlof Davidsson’s tinny, slightly grumpy voice came through:
“Right, let’s see… I’ve borrowed a tape recorder from Tilda, and I think it’s running now. I’ve been thinking a great deal about the death of your wife, Joakim. If you don’t want to be reminded of it, you should stop listening now… but as I said, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”
Lisa looked dubiously at Joakim, but Gerlof’s voice went on:
“I think someone killed Katrine: a person who left no traces of themselves on the sandy shore, and therefore must have come from the sea. I can’t tell you the name of Katrine’s murderer, but I believe he’s a powerfully built, middle-aged man. He lives or has a house in southern Gotland, and there he keeps a big boat with an inboard motor. The boat must have been big and fast to be able to cover a day trip between the islands, but at the same time light enough to be able to come into the jetty at Eel Point, where the water is no more than three feet deep. He must have-”
“Joakim, who’s actually talking here?” said Lisa.
“Just listen,” said Joakim.
“… and aiming for the twin lighthouses as you approach Öland isn’t particularly difficult,” Gerlof went on. “But how did the murderer know your wife was going to be home alone that day? I think Katrine knew him. When she heard the sound of the engine approaching across the water, she went down to the shore. The murderer was standing in the prow holding the murder weapon in his hand when she came out onto the jetty. But your wife wasn’t suspicious, because he
was holding something almost everyone uses when they moor a boat.”
Gerlof coughed quietly and continued:
“The murder weapon was a wooden boat hook… long and heavy and with a big iron hook on one end. I’ve seen them used in fights at sea. It’s easy to grab the opponent’s clothing with the hook. Then you pull, and the victim loses balance and falls into the water. If you want to drown someone, then of course all you have to do is hold the hook beneath the surface of the water. There are no fingerprints, no major injuries. All that is visible afterward is the odd small tear in the clothing. There are holes like that in your wife’s clothes.”
Gerlof stopped again, before finishing off his recording:
“Well, that’s what I think happened, Joakim. This won’t make things any easier for you in your grief, I know that… but we all feel better when questions have been answered. You’re welcome to come over for coffee again sometime. Now I’m going to switch this off…”
The crackling voice on the tape fell silent, and all that could be heard from the speakers was a faint hissing sound.
Joakim went over and took out the tape.
“That’s it,” he said.
Lisa had risen to her feet. “Who was that?” she asked again. “Who was talking?”
“A friend. An old man,” said Joakim, slipping the tape into his pocket. “Nobody you know…But is it true?”
Lisa opened her mouth, but seemed unable to find any words. Finally she managed to say, “No. Surely you don’t believe all that?”
“Was Michael at your cottage on Gotland when Katrine died?”
“How should I know? It was back in the fall…I don’t remember.”
“But when was he there?” said Joakim. “I mean, he must have gone down there sometime to take the boat out of the water. Mustn’t he?”
Lisa looked at him without replying.
“I was here in Stockholm the evening Katrine drowned,” said Joakim, “and I remember I rang your doorbell. But nobody was home.”
He got no reply.
“Does Michael have a calendar we could look at?” asked Joakim. “Or a diary?”
Lisa turned her back on him. “That’s enough now, Joakim…I need to make a start on dinner.”
She went over to the front door, opened it, and looked at him.
Joakim said nothing. Before he left the house, he stopped next to the photographs on the wall and looked closely at one of them: a picture of Michael Hesslin on board his white motor cruiser. He was standing behind the shining gunwale in the prow, waving at the camera. There was no sign of any boat hook.
“Nice boat,” said Joakim quietly.
He left, and she quickly closed the door behind him. Joakim heard the lock click into place.
He sighed and went out into the street, but stopped when he heard a faint noise carried on the air. It was the hum of a car engine.
When it turned onto the street, Joakim saw that it was Michael’s car.
Michael drove up to the garage, switched off the engine, and got out with four long fireworks under his arm. His two boys jumped out of the back seat and ran off toward the house, each clutching their own bag of firecrackers.
“Joakim, you’re back!” said Michael, coming out into the street. “Happy New Year!”
He held out his hand, but Joakim didn’t take it. Instead he asked:
“What did you dream about that night at Eel Point, Michael? You woke up screaming… Did you see ghosts?”
“Sorry?”
“You killed my wife,” said Joakim.
Michael was still smiling, as if he hadn’t heard properly.
“And the previous year you lured Ethel down to the water,” Joakim went on. “You gave her a fix of heroin… then you pushed her into the water.”
Michael stopped smiling and lowered his outstretched hand.
“She was spoiling the idyll,” said Joakim. “And perhaps junkies might give the neighborhood a bad name… but I’m sure murder suspects are even worse.”
Michael simply shook his head slightly, as if his former neighbor were beyond all help.
“So you’re going to try and set me up for murder?”
“I can help,” said Joakim.
Michael looked at his house and started to smile again. “Forget it.” He walked straight past Joakim as if he didn’t exist.
“There’s proof,” said Joakim.
Michael kept on walking toward the gate.
“Your business cards,” said Joakim. “Where did you keep them?”
Michael stopped. He didn’t turn around, but stood there listening. Joakim moved closer and raised his voice.
“Thieving is always a problem with users. They’re always looking for something they can pick up. So when my sister went down to the water with you, she took the opportunity to steal something from you… something valuable out of your jacket pocket.”
Joakim took a Polaroid photograph out of his pocket. It was a picture of a small object inside a clear plastic bag. A flat case, gold colored, with the words hesslin financial services engraved on the front.
“Your case was hidden inside Ethel’s jacket,” he went on. “Is it made of gold? I’m sure my sister thought it was.”
Michael didn’t reply. He took a final quick look at Joakim and the photograph before going through
the gate.
“I’ve already given this to the police, Michael,” said Joakim. “I’m sure they’ll be in touch.”
He felt a bit like Ethel, standing there yelling out in the street, but it didn’t matter any longer.
He stood there and watched Michael disappear up the path.
His rapid footsteps gave him away. Joakim could imagine what the new year would be like for Michael: constantly watching from the window, sweating as he waited for a police car to pull up on the street all of a sudden. Two police officers getting out, opening the gate, ringing the bell on the imposing front door.
In the houses further down the street, the curtains would be discreetly pulled to one side by curious neighbors. What was going on?
“Happy New Year, Michael!” Joakim shouted as Michael opened the front door and went inside.
The door slammed shut.
Joakim was alone on the street again. He breathed out and lowered his eyes.
Then he set off back toward the subway, but stopped for one last time at the gate of the Apple House.
The bunch of roses he had propped up against the electrical service box had fallen over in the wind; he propped it up again.
He stood for a moment, thinking of his sister.
I could have done more for her, he had said to Gerlof.
Joakim sighed and took a final look along the street.
“Are you coming?” he asked.
He waited for a few seconds, then set off again, back to his little family to celebrate New Year’s Eve.
Far away in the east the first fireworks could be seen over Stockholm. The rockets drew narrow white lines against the night sky, before they burst into a shower of light, then went out, like ghostly lighthouses.
COMMENTARY ON THE BOOK OF THE BLIZZARD
BY KATRINE WESTIN
I’ve read your book now, Mom. And since there are some blank pages left at the end, I’m going to write down some comments before I give it back to you.
You tell a lot of stories in this book. You claim my father was a young soldier, Markus Landkvist, who died when the ferry to the mainland capsized in a blizzard in the winter of 1962-but there has never been such a ferry disaster here. At least no one on the island that I have spoken to knows anything about it.
I’m used to it, of course. I mean, I’ve heard other stories about my father in the past-that he was a classmate of yours at art school, that he was the son of an American diplomat, that he was a Norwegian adventurer who ended up in jail for robbing a bank before I was born. You’ve always liked crazy stories.
And did you really poison an old fisherman when you lived here? Did you really hit your half-blind mother, Torun, and leave her to her fate one stormy winter’s night?
It’s possible-but you’ve always rearranged things and made things up. You’ve always been allergic to the reality of everyday life, to duties and responsibilities. Growing up with a parent like that isn’t easy-whenever I talked to you I always had to try and work out what had actually happened.
One thing I promised myself: that my own children would grow up in a much calmer, more secure environment than I did.
Joakim’s sister hated me because I took care of her daughter, but
she couldn’t do it herself. You ought to see what drugs really do to people, Mom, you with your romantic notions about that kind of thing.
Ethel’s hatred just grew and grew. But she could have stood outside our house yelling for ten years, I still wouldn’t have let her take care of Livia again.
People living around us were sick and tired of Ethel and the trouble she caused.
I had a feeling something was going to happen, it was in the air. But I did nothing that evening when I saw a neighbor go up to Ethel by the gate. And I couldn’t feel any sorrow when she was found dead in the water-but I know it’s different for Joakim. He misses his sister. If someone hurt her, he wants to know who it was.
I don’t have all the answers yet, but the man who took Ethel down to the water has promised to come over to the island today to give them to me. I’m going down to the point to meet him.
Your book can stay here on the bench for the time being, along with Ethel’s jacket.
Just like you, I like sitting here in the darkness of the barn, Mom. It’s peaceful in here.
So far I have kept this hidden room to myself. I’m going to show it to Joakim now that he’s moved here. There’s plenty of room for both of us.
This is a remarkable room, full of the memories of people who once lived at Eel Point. They are gone now. They passed the responsibility for the house and the land to us and disappeared-all that is left are names, dates, and short poems on postcards.
That’s what we will all be one day.
Memories and ghosts.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are many beautiful lighthouses along the coasts of Öland, and there are also cult sites where animals and people were once sacrificed. But Eel Point and its surroundings are freely invented, as are all the characters in this novel.
A book about Öland that has been particularly important to me during the writing of the novel is Fåk-öländsk ovädersbok (Blizzard-A Book of Bad Weather on Öland) by Kurt Lundgren.
Thank you to Anita Tingskull, who showed me her beautiful home in Persnäs, and to Håkan Andersson, who showed me the fine royal estate in Borgholm. Thanks to Cherstin Juhlin, and to Kristina Österberg, who is the daughter of a lighthouse keeper. Thanks also to three “Stockholmers”: Mark Earthy (who found my maternal grandfather Ellert’s loading quay), Anette C. Andersson, and Anders Wennersten.
Thanks to the Gerlofsson family on Öland, above all my mother, Margot, and her cousins Gunilla, Hans, Olle, Bertil, Lasse, and their families.
Among those working on The Darkest Room, I would especially like to thank Lotta Aquilonius, Susanne Widén, Jenny Thor, and Christian Manfred.
Hugs to Helena and Klara; my father, Morgan; and my sister, Elisabeth, and her family.
Johan Theorin
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JOHAN THEORIN was born in 1963 in Gothenburg, Sweden, and has spent every summer of his life on northern Öland. He is a journalist and scriptwriter. The Darkest Room is his second novel.
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