The Quarry

by Johan Theorin

  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?

  ‘So what did you and Per do when you met up?’

  ‘Nothing … not much,’ Vendela said quickly. ‘But he likes exercise, so we went out for a bit of a run. Up the coast.’

  ‘I see,’ Max said calmly and slowly. ‘So you’ve been exercising together.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  She clamped her teeth together to stop herself from laughing nervously.

  44

  Jerry and his granddaughter Nilla were both in Kalmar hospital now, but on different wards. Per spent all weekend shuttling between his father and daughter, sitting by their beds.

  His steps were heavy as he made the journey – and each time he had to pass the maternity unit, with parents-to-be and new parents constantly coming and going. When they opened the door, the sound of bright voices and cheerful shouts from small children who had just become big brothers or sisters came pouring out, mingled with the thin cries of newborn babies.

  Per hurried past as quickly as possible.

  Nilla’s ward was unbearably quiet. The nurses moved silently along the corridors and spoke to each other in muted voices.

  Before Dr Stenhammar left for the weekend he had given Per and Marika a time and date for Nilla’s operation: ten o’clock in the morning on 1 May. He was being optimistic; so far no vascular surgeon had agreed to carry out the operation.

  Almost two weeks to go, Per thought. Plenty of time.

  The blinds were drawn in her room. She was lying in bed with her lucky stone and her earphones.

  He sat next to her, holding her hand. They talked quietly.

  ‘They said they’d find someone,’ she said. ‘So I’m sure they will.’

  ‘Of course they will,’ said Per. ‘And everything will work out fine … You’ll be home soon.’

  His smile felt stiff, but he hoped it looked reassuring.

  ‘I’d better go and see Granddad,’ he said.

  ‘Say hello from me.’

  She was more sympathetic than her mother. Since Per had cut Marika off when she called his mobile, she had hardly spoken to him. They had met just once, in the doorway of Nilla’s room on Saturday, but she had barely glanced at him.

  ‘Shame about Gerhard,’ she said as she walked past. ‘Hope he’s OK.’

  Do you really? Per directed the thought at her back as she went in to see Nilla, and the next moment felt thoroughly ashamed of himself.

  Jerry didn’t wake up.

  His room was small, and the closed blinds transformed the sunshine outside into small glowing dots. Per sat in the darkness beside him during Saturday and Sunday, long hours when very little happened. The nurses came and went, changing his drip. They looked at him, patted his hand, and went out again.

  Jerry had been sent for X-rays and put in plaster on Friday evening; half his face and his right arm and leg were covered in bandages. Those parts of his face that were visible were bruised and battered, but Per knew that the most serious bleeds were in the brain.

  He had been moved from the emergency department to intensive care, and then to his own room off a ward. This could have been interpreted as a positive sign, but in fact the opposite was true, as a nurse made clear to Per.

  ‘Just don’t expect any miracles,’ was all she said.

  Jerry had been moved to a room of his own because there wasn’t much they could do. He lay in a torpor, muttering to himself and opening his eyes occasionally. He was asleep for most of the time.

  Per sat by the bed, remembering that Jerry had failed to turn up when his mother Anita
lay dying of kidney failure ten years earlier. He hadn’t even phoned. Three days before her death he had sent a Get Well Soon card by post. Per had thrown it away without showing it to her.

  Then he tried to remember when he had been closest to his father during the almost fifty years they had known one another. As a child? No. And not as an adult, either. He couldn’t recall one single hour of closeness – so perhaps this was it.

  I ought to say something about his life, Per thought. I ought to tell him what I think of him. Get it all off my chest and then I’ll feel better.

  But he said nothing. He just waited.

  When he went down to get some lunch on Saturday he saw the headline in one of the evening papers in the little shop:

  DOUBLE MURDER IN PORN STUDIO

  So the news was out at last. Sex and violence in one headline – that was pure gold for the press. Per bought the paper, but didn’t learn anything new. It simply said that the police were investigating an arson attack on a property owned by ‘the notorious porn director Jerry Morner’, and that two bodies had been found in the house. Next to the article a black and white picture from the seventies showed a smiling Jerry holding a copy of Babylon up to the camera. It didn’t mention the fact that he was in hospital – merely that he was unavailable for comment.

  Inspector Marklund turned up at the hospital at about three o’clock on Sunday afternoon, and Per met him outside the door of Jerry’s room.

  ‘I’m on my way back to Växjö,’ Marklund said quietly. ‘How is he? Has he said anything?’

  ‘He hasn’t come round yet … They think he’s suffered brain damage.’

  Marklund just nodded.

  ‘Have you found the driver?’ said Per.

  ‘Not yet, but we’re examining the motorway and we’ve found some tyre marks. The car must have been damaged, so we’re checking garages too. And we’re looking for witnesses.’

  Per glanced towards Jerry’s room. ‘It must have been someone Jerry knew … I mean, he was getting out of the car when I spotted him. So he must have gone along with whoever it was of his own free will.’

  ‘Did you recognize the driver?’

  Per shook his head.

  ‘Did you get the number?’

  ‘I was too far away; the car was up above me on the bridge. I could see it was dark-red … I think I saw one like it driving past our cottage on Öland a few days ago.’

  Marklund took out his notebook. ‘Can you remember any details?’

  ‘Not many … It was a Swedish number plate, and I think it was a Ford Escort, a few years old.’ He looked wearily at the inspector. ‘Is that any help?’

  Marklund closed the notebook. ‘You never know.’

  But Per realized it was no help at all.

  Jerry was sinking deeper and deeper into unconsciousness, but his eyes occasionally moved behind his eyelids. His breathing was shallow, and he mumbled disjointed words. They sounded like a long series of Swedish names, many of them women: ‘Josefine, yes … Amanda … Charlotte? … Suzanne, what do you want?’

  He never mentioned Per’s mother Anita, nor Regina.

  As the day passed, his breathing grew weaker and weaker, but in the midst of all the mumbling there were other names and words Per recognized: ‘Bremer … Moleng Noar … and Markus Lukas, so ill …’

  At about eight o’clock on Sunday evening, when Per had almost fallen asleep, Jerry suddenly looked at him with total clarity and whispered, ‘Pelle?’

  ‘I’m here,’ said Per. ‘There’s nothing to worry about, Dad.’

  ‘Good, Pelle … Good.’ He fell silent.

  Per leaned closer. ‘Who was it?’ he asked. ‘Who was driving the car?’

  ‘Bremer.’

  ‘It can’t have been.’

  But Jerry simply nodded, then closed his eyes again.

  He passed away just after nine on Sunday evening, with a barely audible sigh. The wheezing Per had heard ever since he was a child stopped with a quiet exhalation, and his body gave up the struggle.

  Per was sitting by the bed holding Jerry’s hand when it happened, and he remained there when the room became utterly silent.

  He sat there for several minutes. He tried to think of someone who needed to know that Jerry had gone, someone he ought to call – but he couldn’t come up with a single person.

  Eventually he went to look for a doctor.

  45

  Per got back to Casa Mörner an hour after midnight, once he had seen his father’s body transferred to a trolley and wheeled away by a porter.

  The last thing one of the night nurses had done in Jerry’s room was to go over and open the window wide, the curtains fluttering as the cold night air swept in.

  She turned to Per and gave him a brief, embarrassed smile. ‘I usually open the window when they’ve gone,’ she said. ‘To let the soul out.’

  Per nodded. He looked over at the window and could almost see Jerry’s spirit drifting away through the night, like a shimmering silver ball outside the hospital. Would it sink down towards the ground, or float up to the stars?

  He left Kalmar at half past midnight and drove slowly across the Öland bridge. As he drove north on the island he kept glancing in the rear-view mirror. A couple of times he saw headlights coming up behind him at high speed and gripped the wheel more tightly, but both cars overtook him.

  Down by the quarry it was almost completely dark, with only a couple of outside lights showing over at the new houses. Per drove up to his little cottage, got out of the car and listened, but everywhere was quiet. The faint soughing of the wind, nothing else.

  Then he heard the telephone ringing in the kitchen.

  He began to walk slowly towards the house, and the phone continued to ring.

  Markus Lukas, he thought. You’ve killed Bremer and now you’re hiding somewhere, wondering if you managed to kill my father.

  He unlocked the door and followed the sound into the kitchen. He looked at the telephone for a few seconds, then picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?’

  No one spoke; all he could hear was an echoing sound, and rhythmic cries in the background.

  It was a recording, Per realized, and he had heard it before. On Maundy Thursday someone had rung up and played exactly the same thing in the middle of the day.

  And now he recognized what he was listening to – a girl crying out. It was the soundtrack from one of Jerry’s films.

  He clutched the receiver tightly. ‘Talk to me,’ he said. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  There was no answer – the soundtrack continued. He listened and closed his eyes. ‘You don’t need to play that … Jerry’s gone now,’ he went on. ‘You killed him.’

  He held his breath and listened for some kind of response, but all he heard was the sound of the film for a few more seconds, then a click. The call was over.

  He slowly replaced the receiver and saw his own pale face reflected in the kitchen window.

  What was the message he had just been given? That this Markus Lukas intended to carry on? That he wasn’t just pursuing Jerry for what he’d done, whatever that might be, but the whole Mörner family? The sins of the father passed on to the children and grandchildren …

  He got up and went back out into the night. To Ernst’s old workshop.

  The trolls stared at him from the shelves lining the walls as he started to carry out Ernst’s tools. Hammers, saws, chisels, sledgehammers and wooden clubs – plenty of excellent weapons. Under the light outside the cottage, Per could see that many of the tools were blunt and worn, but some were sharp. There was a big axe for chopping wood that looked lethal. He raised it with both hands.

  You want revenge? You just come here then. Come here and see if I’m prepared to pay for something my father did …

  He took his weapons inside, locked the door and distributed them through the different rooms. He placed the axe next to his bed. Then he turned off the light and lay in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling and thinking of Marku
s Lukas, the man whose face was turned away.

  Eventually he fell asleep.

  Four hours later the rising sun woke him. He raised his head, blinked and saw the big axe within reach on the floor. It all came flooding back.

  His father had been murdered and his daughter was seriously ill.

  The world was cold and empty.

  He lay in bed for an hour or so but couldn’t get back to sleep, and in the end he got up and had some breakfast. He looked at the telephone, but it remained silent.

  After a while he picked up the receiver and made the necessary calls following the death of a relative: to a funeral director, to Jerry’s bank, and to the priest at the church where the funeral would take place.

  Then he sat and stared out of the window, waiting for something to happen. But he had to occupy himself in the meantime. He took out his questionnaires.

  He couldn’t work at the moment, of course, he just didn’t have the strength – so he started making up the answers. He filled in the forms himself, one after another. At first it was a slow process, but as time went by it became surprisingly easy to conjure up people who had seen an advert for a particular soap and were considering buying it. Some of them, like ‘Peter from Karlstad’ and ‘Christina from Uppsala’, were absolutely certain they would be making a purchase. They were convinced that this soap would give their life new meaning.

  If Per hadn’t been feeling so bad, he would have laughed.

  Making up his own answers was much quicker, too – in just a few hours he had done three days’ work. And his fear of Markus Lukas had begun to subside.

  Afterwards he went into Jerry’s bedroom and looked around. His father hadn’t been there for long and had left few traces, not even his smell. A pair of scruffy flannel trousers was draped over the back of a chair, and Jerry’s briefcase was still lying on the bed.

  Per went over and opened it. He had hoped there might be something important inside, but he found nothing but some pills for high blood pressure and two small spring-loaded hand grippers that Jerry had been given to help rebuild his strength after the stroke.