‘Yes.’
They chatted for quarter of an hour, and after a while Nilla seemed to be feeling a little better. Per felt calmer too. Nilla told him that Marika was at the hospital, and had been there all day.
‘I’m coming over this evening,’ he said.
‘When?’
‘Soon … in a few hours.’
‘I might be asleep by then.’ Nilla gave a tired laugh. ‘They’re going to wake me up early in the morning … I have to wash myself with some kind of spirit. Disfect my whole body.’
Disinfect, thought Per, but he didn’t correct her.
‘See you soon,’ he said.
When he had hung up and was moving across to the cooker to start making dinner, he saw something black crawling slowly across the floor. It was a big blowfly, the first one this spring – at least the first one he had seen. It looked as if it had just woken up; it was moving very slowly and listlessly.
Per could easily have killed it, and for that very reason he scooped it up on a piece of paper and let it out through the kitchen window. It managed to get its wings working and disappeared across the quarry, without bothering to say thank you.
After dinner he sat in the kitchen listening to the ticking of the clock and thinking about Vendela Larsson.
Where was she?
Of course, he knew where Vendela might have gone – back to her childhood. She could have run to the little farm, or out to the big stone on the alvar. Perhaps Max Larsson was searching there, always supposing he knew about those places. Did he?
Per tried ringing the Larsson house, but there was no reply.
It was quarter past five now. He could always take a look over at the farm himself before he set off for Kalmar, while it was still light. Running always made him feel better.
He got up, pulled on his running shoes and a tracksuit top and went outside. The air was fresh and chilly, and made him feel stone cold sober. And he was, wasn’t he?
He looked south towards the Larsson house. The big Audi was gone, and the house was in darkness.
The lights were on in the Kurdins’ house, but Per didn’t want to think about that family at the moment.
He could hear a distant rattling sound, like pistol shots. Some kids letting off bangers down by the shore.
Per didn’t run, but strode off along the track heading northeast. At first he followed the route leading away from the coast, then turned on to a smaller gravel track and eventually reached the farm.
The grass was even greener now and made the whole place look like some kind of Swedish summer idyll, but as he walked up the path he saw the outline of the stone foundations to his left. Now he knew why Vendela had stopped to look at it when she was showing him round. The rectangle on the ground was the remains of the barn that had burnt down.
The grass was slightly shorter and yellower there, or perhaps it was just his imagination.
Arsonists almost always operate on their own patch.
Per thought about Hans Bremer, who had enjoyed pyrotechnics, and who had been the person who knew the film studio outside Ryd best, along with Jerry. If anyone had had the time and opportunity to rig up incendiary devices in the house, it was Bremer. But Bremer’s hands had been tied behind his back, according to the police. And he had died in the fire – even if Jerry had carried on talking about his companion as if he were alive. Bremer had called him, Jerry insisted, and Bremer had been driving the car that had knocked him down in Kalmar.
Per hadn’t taken him seriously; after all, his father was ill and confused. But was it definitely Bremer’s body that had been found in the burnt-out house?
It had to be. His sister had confirmed it, and the police were hardly likely to have made a mistake. They had dental records, fingerprints and DNA analysis these days.
He went up to the house and knocked on the door. The family who owned the place were at home, and the woman who opened the door remembered Vendela.
‘Yes, she was here a few weeks ago … she said she lived here when she was little. But that’s the only time I’ve seen her.’
Per nodded and carried on, climbing over a moss-covered stone wall and heading out on to the alvar. It was completely dry now; the ground was covered with all the long-suffering little herbs and flowers that were able to root in the thin soil.
Spring had taken over the island, and he hadn’t even noticed.
Despite the dry weather he didn’t see a single rambler out there; they had probably all gone home to celebrate May Day. All he could hear was the faint soughing of the wind and the sound of distant birdsong. A whitethroat, perhaps, or a blackcap? Per was hopeless when it came to birdsong.
He increased his speed. There was nobody to ask, and he could only hope that he was running in the right direction, towards the great stone that belonged to the elves.
65
Per thought he must be somewhere in the middle of the narrow island now. He had moved quickly along the tracks among the undergrowth for a kilometre or so, then set his sights on a clump of trees on the horizon and begun to run.
After ten minutes he was hot and out of breath. There was no sign of the elf stone, but when he looked to the north he spotted a group of juniper bushes that looked familiar. They were a few hundred metres away in a circular grove, and he headed in that direction.
When he got there he could just see the top of a large block of stone, and recognized its angular shape. He had reached the place Vendela had shown him.
The sun had emerged from the clouds and its evening glow shone over to the west. It made the shadows of the bushes extend like long black ribbons across the grass. He made his way through the thicket and stopped.
The stone rose up in the glade in front of him, and there was someone standing on the grass beside it. A slender figure who didn’t reach the top of the stone.
It was a boy, wearing jeans and blue jacket. He turned to face Per, and seemed to be smiling.
Per looked at him and blinked several times, but the boy was no illusion, he was still there, and Per could see that he was holding a little wooden box in his hand. He was perhaps nine or ten years old.
‘Hi,’ said Per.
The boy said nothing.
Per moved one step closer. ‘What’s your name?’
The boy didn’t respond to that either.
‘What are you doing here?’
The boy opened his mouth and looked sideways. ‘I live over there.’
He pointed somewhere behind him, towards the north-east. Per couldn’t see any buildings, or indeed any sign of human habitation, but if there were houses they were probably hidden by the trees.
‘Are you all on your own here?’
The boy shook his head and took a step away from the stone. ‘I’ve turned her on her side,’ he said. ‘That’s what you’re supposed to do.’
That was when Per spotted Vendela.
She was lying with her eyes closed behind the boy, half hidden by the stone and with her hands joined in front of her face. She was wearing a hat and a bulky padded jacket, and looked as if she were just resting.
Per quickly went over and bent down to her. ‘Vendela?’
When he shook her shoulders he realized she wasn’t sleeping. She was unconscious; he could see scraps of food gleaming among the grass, and there was a sour smell emanating from her open mouth. She had been sick.
‘Vendela?’
No response.
The boy was still standing a couple of metres away, watching with interest as Per attempted to revive her. It wasn’t working.
He straightened up. He had his mobile with him, but an ambulance would never find its way out here. He looked at the boy. ‘We have to help Vendela … she’s ill,’ he said. ‘Do you know if there’s a road near here?’
The boy nodded and turned away. Per bent down, managed to get his arms under Vendela’s back and picked her up. Her body was thin and limp; he could carry her.
They left the stone and headed eastwards in silence, with the s
un at their backs. The boy was still carrying the wooden box, but after fifty metres he stopped by a particular juniper bush and pushed it in beneath the lowest branches.
‘This is my hiding place,’ he said.
Per nodded and noticed that there were some magazines tucked under the bush as well. Only comics, thank goodness.
‘Come on,’ he said.
His arms were beginning to ache, and he kept on walking so that he wouldn’t lose the rhythm. The boy caught up with him and led the way eastwards through the undergrowth.
After a few hundred metres he became aware of a swishing sound. He recognized the sound of a car driving past, and realized they were close to the main road – much closer than he had thought.
As the trees and bushes thinned out, he saw a pair of headlights flickering past only fifty metres away. He staggered on with Vendela in his arms; he didn’t know how much longer he could go on carrying her.
‘Vendela?’
She was still breathing and opened her eyes for a few seconds, but didn’t seem to recognize him. She mumbled something in response, then she was gone again.
He took a firmer hold of her body and carried her the last few metres to the road.
There were no cars in sight, but there was a bus stop about a hundred metres away. He made his way there and laid her down on the wooden bench in the shelter before taking out his mobile and calling the emergency services. He explained what had happened, but when he had finished the call and looked up, he was alone with Vendela.
The boy had disappeared.
It took half an hour for the ambulance to reach the bus stop, and in the meantime Per tried to keep Vendela warm and to bring her round. He wrapped his tracksuit top around her, and by the time the ambulance finally pulled in by the bus stop she had opened her eyes and kept them open for several minutes before closing them again. Her breathing was faint but steady in the chill evening air.
The paramedics came over with their emergency kit and bent over Vendela; they took off her jacket and checked her blood pressure. Per stepped back.
‘We’ll be taking her to Kalmar,’ one of them said.
Vendela had become a patient, Per realized, just like Nilla.
‘Is she going to be all right?’
‘I’m sure she is. Are you her husband?’
‘No … just a friend. I’ll try to get hold of him.’
Ten minutes later the ambulance set off towards the bridge leading to the mainland, and Per breathed a sigh of relief.
He took Vendela’s padded jacket with him as he headed back down the gravel track and then along the path leading out on to the alvar.
At the end of the path the boy was waiting for him. He had pulled his wooden box out of the bushes and was sitting on it.
Per stopped by the juniper bushes. ‘They’ve taken her to hospital in the ambulance … Thanks for your help.’
The boy didn’t reply. It was almost twilight on the alvar, so Per asked, ‘Are you OK to find your way home?’
The boy nodded.
‘Good.’ Per was about to go on his way when something occurred to him, and he asked, ‘What’s the box for?’
The boy didn’t say anything at first. He seemed to be thinking it over, then he decided he could trust Per.
‘I’ll show you.’
He got to his feet and picked up the box. It had no bottom, and hidden in the grass underneath it was an old rusty biscuit tin. The boy removed the lid and showed Per what was inside.
‘I need the box to reach the top of the stone,’ he said. ‘There’s nearly always something new up there.’
Per saw that the tin was half full of coins and small pieces of silver jewellery.
And on top lay a shiny wedding ring.
66
That evening Gerlof was sitting in his garden with a blanket over his legs. He thought he could hear the sound of distant sirens from the main road. Ambulance, fire engine or police?
Probably an ambulance. Somebody at the home in Marnäs who had had a heart attack, perhaps? No doubt he would read about it in the paper sooner or later.
He had gone back to his chair out on the lawn after dinner, and didn’t want to go inside. It was Walpurgis Night, after all, the high point of spring, the night when every student in Sweden went out to welcome in the month of May. You couldn’t just sit indoors.
The sky was beginning to grow darker, and a breeze rustled through the tree tops above him. The birds around the garden fell silent, one by one. When the sun had gone down it would be a cold evening; there might even be a touch of frost during the night. It wasn’t really the weather to be sitting outside; he would go in soon and watch the news on TV.
Gerlof refused to ponder on riddles and mysteries these days, as he had told Per Mörner, but the ideas came anyway. He had been incurably fixated on puzzling out mysteries since childhood, and now he was sitting here with the diary thinking about Ella’s changeling, who must have been Henry Fors’s son.
But where had he gone? He had been running north towards the sea when Ella saw him that last evening, but what had happened when he reached Henry at the edge of the quarry?
A quarrel, followed by a killing? Or an accident? In which case, if the boy was dead, he was probably buried beneath one of the piles of reject stone.
If Gerlof’s legs had been healthy and ten years younger, he would have got up out of his chair that very minute and gone straight to the quarry to start searching. But his body was too old and stiff, and after all he wasn’t absolutely certain that Henry had hidden his son’s body there.
And where would he search, given the amount of reject stone there was?
Gerlof suddenly realized he was longer fixated on his own death; he hadn’t really thought about his forthcoming demise since Easter. He had been too busy. Ella’s diaries had helped him in that respect. Or perhaps it was the new neighbours and their problems that had made him forget his own.
He shivered in his chair, despite the blanket. It had grown noticeably colder as the evening drew in, and he got to his feet.
He could hear the sound of a car on the village road. More and more cars had been passing along there in the last few weeks, most of them driving far too fast for the narrow road – but this one sounded as if it were moving very slowly. He heard it brake and stop, but the engine kept on running, strangely enough.
Gerlof was expecting to see a visitor at the garden gate, but no one appeared.
He waited for a few more minutes, then made his way towards the sound of the engine, leaning on his stick for support. He felt slightly wobbly on the grass, but kept his balance.
When he reached the gate he saw a car had stopped on the road; a man in a cap was sitting behind the wheel holding something in his hand.
Gerlof didn’t recognize him. An early tourist? He grabbed hold of the gatepost and stood there just a few metres from the road, but the man didn’t appear to have noticed him. In the end Gerlof cupped his hands around his mouth. ‘Do you need any help?’
He hadn’t shouted loudly, but the man turned his head and caught sight of him. He looked surprised, almost caught out somehow.
Gerlof suddenly saw that the object the man was holding was a plastic bottle. A litre bottle containing some kind of red liquid, which he was mixing with a fluid from a smaller glass container. There were strings of some sort attached to the bottle.
‘Are you lost?’ he called out.
The driver shook his head, then put down the bottle and grabbed the wheel with his left hand. Gerlof saw something glint on his wrist.
The man quickly put the car in gear with his right hand, and it moved away.
Gerlof stayed where he was, watching it disappear in the direction of the sea. It slowed down when it reached the coast road and turned right, heading north towards the quarry.
He let go of the gatepost, leaned on his stick and managed to turn around without falling over. He headed back towards his chair, but stopped a few metres away and thought
about what the man in the car might have been up to.
He wasn’t happy about what he had just seen. In fact, the situation was so bad that the evening seemed to have grown even colder.
He set off again, but towards the cottage this time. He managed to haul himself up the steps with the help of the iron railing, and went into the living room. He could still remember the telephone number for Ernst’s cottage, and keyed it in with a trembling finger.
The phone rang out twelve times, but neither Per Mörner nor anyone else answered.
Gerlof put the phone down. He blinked and assessed the situation.
Eighty-three years old, with rheumatism and hearing difficulties. And the first butterflies he had seen this year had been a yellow one and a black one.
Things could go well, or they could just as easily go very badly.
Gerlof didn’t know if he could manage it, but he just had to get himself over to the quarry to see if Per needed any help.
67
As Per made his way back towards the coast, the shadows across the alvar were even longer than before. The sun hovered in front of him like a gold disc in a narrow blue strip between the clouds and the horizon.
He was very tired. The last thing he had done up by the road was to call Max Larsson and explain that he had found Vendela unconscious out on the alvar, but that she had come round and was on her way to the hospital in Kalmar. After that he had set off home, heading west.
Less than fourteen hours to go.
He thought about it when he got back to the spot where he had come across Vendela and the boy keeping watch beside her – back by the dense thicket of juniper bushes and the big rock in the centre.
The elf stone.
He had lingered for a while. This was where he and Vendela had sat a few evenings earlier, exchanging secrets. He had told her things about himself and his father that he hadn’t told anyone else, and she had told him that she was the one who wrote most of Max’s books.
Max has nothing against being well known, but I prefer to remain invisible, Vendela had said.
Per had remained by the stone for a few minutes looking at the empty hollows in its surface. Then he had taken out his wallet and placed a note in one of them, with a few coins on top.
The Quarry töq-3 Page 34
