The Quarry töq-3

by Johan Theorin

  The truth and nothing but the truth, as far as he could remember. It took about quarter of an hour.

  ‘That’s all I know,’ he said when he had finished. ‘I was inside the house, but I had nothing to do with starting the fire.’

  ‘Nobody said you did,’ said Marklund, making a note on his pad.

  Per leaned forward. ‘But what have you found out? It must have been carefully set up, surely?’

  Marklund didn’t respond at first.

  ‘Normally we wouldn’t comment, but you did see a can of petrol with holes punched in it, and a car battery – what does that indicate?’

  ‘Planning,’ said Per.

  Marklund nodded. ‘The forensic team found remnants of paper near the places where the fires started … remnants of documents.’

  Per thought about the open door to Jerry’s apartment. ‘They might have been contracts,’ he said. ‘For people who appeared in Jerry and Bremer’s films and magazines. Have you spoken to any of them?’

  ‘They’re not that easy to find,’ said Marklund. ‘We haven’t had much success so far.’

  ‘No, they didn’t use their real names,’ said Per. ‘Do you need any help? I could have a look for—’

  The detective quickly shook his head. ‘That’s our job.’

  Per raised his eyes wearily to the ceiling. Ungrateful sod.

  ‘But we believe the dead woman was a former model,’ said Marklund.

  Per looked at him. ‘Oh? What was her name?’

  ‘We’re not prepared to reveal her name at this stage.’ Marklund made a note, then went on, ‘Tell me about your father … How long has he been involved in this particular profession? And what did he do before that?’

  ‘Jerry’s never said much about it,’ said Per. ‘But I know his father was a vicar, and Jerry left home pretty early on and became a car dealer at the beginning of the fifties. I’m sure he was good at it … And a few years later he bought a postcard company and started printing erotic pictures. They sold well. Then in the sixties he launched his first magazine, Babylon; it was printed in Denmark and smuggled into Sweden aboard small motorboats.’ He stopped, then added, ‘But then porn became legal in Sweden at the beginning of the seventies. He formed a limited company and started employing people, and sold magazines all over Europe.’

  ‘So that was the start of your father’s glory days, if I can put it that way?’ Marklund made another note before looking up. ‘And the people he employed – what do you know about them?’

  ‘Nothing. One guy who was around a lot was called Markus Lukas, but that sounds made up as well.’

  ‘And Bremer? What do you know about Hans Bremer?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Have you ever met him?’

  Per shook his head. ‘I only know bits and pieces that my father has mentioned over the years … they started working together at the end of the seventies, and Bremer lived in Malmö. Jerry said he was a fast, efficient worker, and he was very pleased with him.’

  Marklund wrote this down, then said, ‘We probably know a little bit more about Bremer than you do.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I can’t go into detail, but Bremer was involved in various things down in Malmö. The film business was just one of his many interests … We’re busy looking into everything else at the moment.’

  ‘So he was a gangster?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. So they got on well, your father and Bremer?’

  ‘I think so, I mean they worked together for many years. And Jerry had gone to the house to meet Bremer before it caught fire.’

  Marklund looked through his papers. ‘But they’d quarrelled that day, hadn’t they?’

  ‘So Jerry says. He insists it was Bremer who cut him with the knife, if I’ve understood him correctly … but if Bremer was tied up and locked in, it must have been somebody else.’

  ‘Did you see anyone else?’

  Per hesitated. Markus Lukas, he thought. Who else could it be?

  ‘I don’t know … I thought I saw someone running off into the trees at the edge of the forest, just after the fire had broken out. There’s a track, and tyre marks on the ground … I think.’ He hesitated again, but went on, ‘I got the idea that Bremer’s car had been parked in the forest and someone drove off in it once the house was on fire.’

  ‘Oh?’ Marklund looked at his notes again. ‘What makes you think Hans Bremer had a car?’

  Per looked at him. ‘He did, didn’t he? He used to give my father a lift sometimes. Bremer must have picked him up at the bus station before the fire … By the way, have you found all his keys?’

  Marklund checked his notes once more. ‘His keys? Would he have had a lot of keys?’

  ‘I don’t know … But someone went into my father’s apartment in Kristianstad while he was on Öland and broke into a chest of drawers. They were obviously looking for something. They’d been rifling through all Jerry’s papers. We discovered it over Easter, and my father said that Bremer had a set of keys to his apartment. I did report it to the police.’

  ‘A break-in?’ Marklund made a note. ‘I’d better check up on that.’

  ‘Good,’ said Per.

  There was a brief silence. Marklund looked at the clock and said, ‘Is there anything you’d like to add?’

  Per thought about it. Part of him wanted to carry on talking, to tell Marklund he could still hear the woman’s screams reverberating in his head, mingled with Regina’s cries in the forest. But this wasn’t a therapy session.

  Then something occurred to him.

  ‘One thing, perhaps … My father and I have had some strange phone calls since the fire.’

  ‘From whom?’

  ‘I don’t know. They were anonymous calls.’

  ‘OK, but sometimes it’s possible to get the number anyway … We’ll give it a try.’

  Marklund made a few more notes, then nodded. ‘Right, I think we’re done here.’ He looked at Per. ‘Many thanks. Would you like to go and bring Gerhard in now?’

  Per stood up. He thought about Nilla, and asked, ‘How long will it take?’

  ‘Not long … Twenty minutes, maybe?’

  ‘OK … but Jerry doesn’t talk much, as I told you.’

  As he left the room he looked at his watch and discovered that the interview had gone on for a good half-hour. Jerry had no doubt fallen asleep.

  But when he got to reception his father was not fast asleep on the sofa; in fact, he wasn’t there at all. The sofa was empty.

  Per stared at it for a few seconds, then checked the toilets in the little cloakroom. They were also empty.

  The woman on reception looked up as Per went over to her. ‘The old man?’ she replied. ‘He left.’

  ‘Left?’

  ‘I think he spotted someone out in the street, and he went off.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Not long ago. I’m not sure … maybe quarter of an hour ago?’

  Per turned and was out of the police station in three strides.

  He stood on the pavement looking around, blinking in the sunshine. A few cars went whizzing by along the street to his right, but there wasn’t a soul in sight.

  Jerry had disappeared.

  42

  Kalmar was a labyrinth. Per had always thought it was just the right size, and easy enough to find your way around, but right now the town seemed like a confusing tangle of streets and pavements.

  There was no sign of Jerry anywhere.

  Per dashed over to the wide junctions at either side of the police station, then ran all the way around the block, but there was nothing. He switched on his mobile and tried to call Jerry. No reply.

  After that he gave up and went back to reception. Lars Marklund was waiting just inside the door. He looked at his watch and asked, ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘My father’s disappeared,’ said Per, his heart in his mouth. ‘I need to drive around and look for him.’

  He turned away, but Mark
lund called after him, ‘Hang on! You can’t just go rushing off … Let’s have a description.’

  Per stopped and came back, forcing himself to calm down.

  Marklund took out a notebook and together they ran through Jerry’s appearance, height, and what he was wearing.

  ‘Good,’ said Marklund. ‘We’ll put out a call.’

  Per hurried to the car. He started the engine, but didn’t set off. He clutched the wheel like a lifebuoy and tried to think – where could Jerry go? To a bar? To the bus station?

  It was pointless, he would just have to search at random.

  He pulled away and started to search, block by block. He turned left, then left again, scanning the streets around the police station. He met several cars and saw groups of schoolchildren on their way home, and mothers with buggies, but there was no sign of Jerry.

  He was heading north towards the motorway when his phone began to ring in his pocket. He slowed down and got it out. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Where have you been, Per? I’ve been calling you for ages.’

  It was Marika. Per could feel his guilty conscience like a weight on his shoulders, but he kept on staring through the windscreen. ‘With … I’ve been in a meeting.’

  He still didn’t want to tell her he’d been interviewed by the police, and Marika didn’t ask any more questions. ‘You have to come to the hospital,’ she said.

  ‘I haven’t got time right now, Marika,’ said Per, gazing around. Still no Jerry. ‘I’ll be there in a little while, but at the moment I have to—’

  She interrupted him. ‘I’ve been talking to Stenhammar.’

  ‘Stenhammar?’

  ‘Nilla’s doctor, Per. Don’t you remember?’

  ‘Yes, of course … What did he say?’

  There was silence on the other end of the phone.

  ‘What is it, Marika?’

  ‘It’s a tumour,’ she said quietly. ‘A particular kind of tumour … It isn’t growing quickly, but it has to be removed.’

  Per slowed down and closed his eyes briefly. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘But we knew that, didn’t we?’

  Marika’s voice was still quiet. ‘It’s right next to the artery.’

  Per didn’t understand. ‘Next to the artery?’

  ‘Yes. It’s wrapped itself around the main artery. The aorta.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Marika fell silent again, then spoke even more quietly. ‘Nobody’s prepared to operate.’

  ‘But … they have to,’ said Per.

  Marika didn’t reply.

  ‘They have to,’ said Per.

  ‘Georg and I spent half an hour with Stenhammar. He’s spoken to several vascular surgeons, but he says none of them is prepared to risk it.’

  But they have to, thought Per. Otherwise there’s no hope.

  ‘Marika, I’m out in the car, there’s something I have to do for Jerry … But I’ll call you back soon.’

  She started to say something, but he switched off the phone. He put his foot down. He had to find Jerry. He’d think about all the other stuff later, but first he had to find Jerry.

  No hope for Nilla, he thought. But there has to be hope.

  He gazed blankly out through the windscreen. Nilla …

  But they have to operate, they just have to!

  He was on his way out of the town now. He passed a petrol station, followed by a grassy area on both sides of the road, with a viaduct crossing over it. There were fewer cars here.

  He had almost reached the motorway. Best turn back.

  Per looked up at the viaduct, a hundred metres away, and on the other side of the barrier he saw a dark-coloured car. It had stopped on the carriageway. The passenger door opened, and someone got out.

  An old man in a grey coat, stooping. Per suddenly realized it was Jerry.

  The car started to reverse; Jerry stood still. He seemed to be looking around, lost and confused. Then he started shambling forwards.

  Per braked and stopped the car; he’d found Jerry, but couldn’t get to him. He was on the wrong carriageway. How could he get up on to the viaduct? The area was completely unfamiliar to him.

  In the end he started to reverse. He was just about to do a U-turn and take the entry slip for the motorway, in defiance of the traffic regulations, when he saw that the car that had dropped Jerry off had stopped reversing. It was moving forwards instead.

  Per realized it was picking up speed. It was a red car, he could see now – possibly a Ford Escort. Was it the car from the quarry? The driver was wearing a cap, and was nothing more than a dark shadow behind the wheel.

  The car was coming up behind Jerry on the viaduct, but instead of slowing down and sticking to the middle of the road, it was speeding up.

  Per was a hundred and fifty metres away, perhaps two hundred. He stopped the car, opened the door and yelled: ‘Jerry!’

  But Jerry kept on walking, his head lowered against the wind.

  Per got out of the car and cupped his hands: ‘Dad!’

  Jerry seemed to hear him. He turned his head, but by that time the car behind him was no more than ten metres away. It didn’t stop. On the contrary, the driver put his foot down.

  Jerry looked like a rag doll as the car hit him.

  The front of the car knocked his legs from underneath him and lifted him off the ground. Per could only watch as Jerry’s body flew up over the bonnet and was thrown forwards like a blurred shadow, his arms outstretched and his coat flapping.

  His father spun around in the air and landed heavily.

  ‘Jerry!’

  The car had slowed down after the collision; Per could see that the windscreen was cracked.

  He left the door of the Saab open and started to run up the slope, up towards the viaduct. His shoes slithered and skidded on the grass.

  Jerry slowly raised his head from the tarmac. He was bleeding, but still conscious. Then his head sank down again.

  The car that had mown him down stopped by the side of the road ten or twelve metres ahead of him; Per saw the driver turn his head and look back, then the car sped away. Faster and faster.

  It was a hit-and-run.

  Per slipped again on the grass. He battled his way up the slope and fumbled in his pocket for his mobile – then remembered he’d left it in the car.

  He jumped over the barrier and landed two metres away from Jerry, just as the car that had hit him joined the motorway.

  Per bent over the body on the tarmac. ‘Jerry?’

  So much blood. It was pouring from his nose and forehead, running between his broken teeth.

  ‘Dad?’

  His father’s eyes were open, but his whole face was scraped raw, and there was no response. Per looked around in despair for someone who might help him.

  The red car accelerated south and disappeared up the motorway. The last thing Per saw was water spurting over the windscreen.

  43

  ‘That was just the pits,’ said Max. ‘It was absolutely terrible.’

  ‘Don’t think about it,’ said Vendela.

  After she had settled Max in an armchair and poured him a whisky, she began to massage his neck and shoulders. She leaned forward and said quietly, ‘Max, there are those who are worse off than you.’

  He took a slug of his whisky, closed his eyes and sighed. ‘Yes, but there was the same level of incompetence wherever I went … Wrong directions, hotel rooms with hairs in the bath – and then the local radio station that had forgotten they’d booked me for an interview. They’d forgotten!’ He shook his head. ‘And every time I walked on to a new stage, there was a bloody spotlight shining straight into my eyes. I couldn’t even see the audience!’

  ‘Were there any good—’ Vendela began, but Max interrupted her; he hadn’t finished yet.

  ‘And nothing but a dried-up sandwich before I was due on stage, even though my contract states that they’re supposed to provide dinner. I didn’t even get a glass of wine … Bread and water, that’s what they
expected me to get through an entire lecture on!’

  ‘But what about the audiences?’ Vendela asked. ‘Lots of people turned up, didn’t they?’

  ‘About three hundred each night,’ Max said quietly. ‘I’d been hoping for five hundred … none of the venues was full.’

  ‘But that’s still a good number,’ said Vendela, ‘and it’ll be even better when the book comes out.’

  Max emptied his glass and stood up. ‘Any post?’

  ‘Just a few letters,’ replied Vendela, following him into the kitchen.

  She looked around for Aloysius, but the dog had hardly shown himself since his master came home. Ally could tell when Max was in a bad mood.

  Max picked up the pile of post and started to flick through it. ‘So what else has been happening here?’

  ‘Not much,’ said Vendela. ‘I planted a bit more ivy at the front, and carried on with the lilac hedge. And I’ve planted three robinias at the back.’

  ‘Good, they’ll provide a good screen in time.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  Max picked up a note from the worktop. ‘What’s this?’

  Vendela saw that he was holding up the note from Per Mörner.

  ‘Thanks a lot for the stone! … Per.’ Max read out. ‘What stone? And who’s Per?’

  She stared back, not knowing what to say.

  ‘It’s from our neighbour,’ she said eventually. ‘You know, Per Mörner. His daughter had lost her lucky stone. I helped them to find it.’

  ‘Oh? So where was it, then?’

  ‘Outside their cottage,’ said Vendela, unable to look Max in the eye.

  It was a lie, but she couldn’t tell him the truth; she couldn’t tell him she had asked the elves for help.

  ‘So you’ve been meeting our neighbour,’ said Max. ‘Is that why you haven’t been answering the phone?’

  Vendela blinked and didn’t answer. What could she say?