The Voices Beyond: (Oland Quartet Series 4)

by Johan Theorin

  The Homecomer waited. The night air was warm and dry, with the faint smell of dung. He looked around, at the silo and the barn and the new machines. There were still those on the island who made a good living from farming, he realized. Perhaps the old-fashioned smallholdings had all disappeared.

  He heard soft footsteps on the grass and saw a slender figure coming towards him – Rita, moving quickly and quietly.

  ‘There you go,’ she said, sounding out of breath. ‘Nobody saw me.’

  The bucket was no longer empty. It was heavy and full to the brim, its lid firmly closed. It was impossible to see what was inside.

  The Homecomer took the bucket and looked at the other object Rita was carrying. It was a red plastic box with some kind of long hose. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A high-pressure pump. Which means we have everything we need.’

  He nodded. ‘Time to visit the Kloss family, in that case.’

  The New Country, May 1935

  ‘We can go home now,’ Sven says at the beginning of summer, when the ground has dried out and it is easier to dig. ‘Home to Rödtorp.’

  Aron looks at him. ‘Is that true?’

  ‘It’s true. I’ve handed in my passport to the office, and the secretary has sent it to Leningrad. Soon it will come back with the right stamps for the journey, and then we can go.’

  Aron believes him. Now, he thinks. Now.

  But the days of summer pass, and there is no sign of the passport.

  The only thing that does arrive is an increase in food rations, so that Aron no longer shakes with hunger every morning and night. There is an abundance of berries in the forest this summer, and wagons deliver plenty of meat and apples.

  But, just as the food pours into the camp, people begin to disappear.

  One of the first to vanish is Michail Suntsov, an old labourer from Minsk who lives in the room next to the one occupied by the Swedes. Suntsov has told Aron extraordinary tales of life in the Soviet Union and has whittled him a beautiful fighter plane from birch wood, which Sven has hung up above their beds.

  But one day Suntsov is gone. As they set off in the morning to carry on digging, some strange men in uniform are waiting for him. They take him aside and speak to him, and Suntsov doesn’t turn up to work that day.

  He is simply not there any more. His bed is empty and, when Sven asks the others in the room, no one knows what has happened. Or perhaps they do know, but no one is talking.

  Those who whisper too much also disappear. This almost always happens at night. They are taken away in the darkness by uniformed men who are no more than shadows in the room. The workers are led out, alone or in twos, and they are never seen again.

  And there is still no sign of Sven’s passport.

  Autumn comes, bringing back the cold. The grass is covered in frost and the ground is hard.

  Sven gradually loses his determined expression; his eyes begin to flicker from side to side. His back is bent, and his limp is worse than ever.

  ‘We’re going home anyway,’ he assures Aron. ‘I’ve written to the Swedish consulate in Leningrad, explained the situation … told them we’re not free to travel as we wish. So things will soon be sorted out.’

  But he sounds less than certain.

  And nothing happens. The days pass, the first snow falls, they carry on digging.

  One day, Sven is called into the office after work. Aron watches him go, sees the door close. Sven is in there all evening, or so it seems.

  When he returns to the hut, he sounds stressed. ‘They had my passport,’ he says. ‘They’ve had it all the time. And the letter, the one I wrote to the consulate … They keep all letters; they’ve also confiscated letters from Sweden.’

  He slumps down on the bed and goes on, ‘They’re talking about crushing the conspirators.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Aron asks. ‘What’s a conspirator?’

  Sven shakes his head and looks over at the closed door of the office. ‘I shouldn’t have handed in my passport,’ he says to himself. ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’

  He sits there, mumbling to himself. Aron goes to bed and gazes up at the model plane hanging from the ceiling. The only proof that Suntsov ever existed.

  He closes his eyes and tries to sleep. He still has his own passport; he keeps it in his pocket and never shows it to anyone.

  Sven is still sitting on the edge of the bed, but Aron falls asleep.

  He is woken by a hand on his shoulder. A hard hand in a leather glove, shaking him.

  ‘Up!’ he hears in Russian.

  It is an order, issued quietly.

  Aron opens his eyes and sees three men standing in the hut. A tall man by his bed, and two others over by the door. They are all wearing dark coats and caps, some kind of field uniform.

  ‘Up!’ the man with the leather gloves says again, dragging Aron out of bed.

  The floor is ice cold. The man picks up Aron’s clothes and boots and throws them at him.

  ‘Come with us.’

  Aron gets dressed and is led silently out of the hut, half asleep and feeling lost – but then he sees that he is not alone. Another man is being led outside.

  Sven. They have woken Sven, too.

  A fourth man in uniform is standing in the snow beside a black car, a number of documents in his hand. Aron can see that one of them is Sven’s passport, but the man doesn’t give it back, and nor does he introduce himself. He simply reads out both their names, slowly and in Russian.

  ‘Is this you?’

  Sven nods.

  ‘In that case, you will come with us.’

  They are pushed into the back seat of the car, with a guard on each side, so that Aron has to sit on Sven’s knee. The car drives away from the labour camp, into the darkness.

  Sven moves cautiously, putting his mouth close to Aron’s ear. ‘Keep calm,’ he whispers in Swedish.

  ‘I am calm.’

  ‘It’s important. We have to keep calm.’

  But Sven seems anything but calm; his upper body is twisting and moving back and forth, as if he is in pain.

  Aron does feel calm. He is surprised to find that he is almost enjoying the trip. This is the first time he has ever been in a car, and somehow he has the sense that he is leaving all his troubles behind. Sven keeps his eyes lowered, but Aron gazes around, studying the gun belt the man next to him is wearing. A black pistol butt is sticking up out of a holster, but he can’t see what model it is. A Mauser? He’s heard that the Soviet police usually carry Mausers.

  He suddenly remembers his dream: to be a sheriff in America.

  It is a long journey through the darkness, but Sven says nothing, and Aron keeps quiet, too.

  Eventually, they see lights. Floodlights, on top of a black structure looming up above the forest – a watchtower, Aron realizes.

  He can also see barbed wire. The car drives in through an open metal gate, which is then closed behind them. It pulls up in front of a low stone building, and Sven and Aron are led out of the car and in through a doorway.

  A guard carrying a machine gun takes them down a long corridor with a cement floor, past a series of closed wooden doors.

  They can hear sounds all around them, muffled thuds and loud cries.

  The soldier opens one of the doors. He gives Aron a shove. ‘Get down there,’ he says.

  He steps aside, and Aron sees a flight of wide stone steps plunging down into the underworld.

  Gerlof

  Gerlof has never visited the Kloss family – he has never even set foot on their land. The garden consists of a sparse but attractive rockery with viper’s bugloss and juniper bushes sheltered from the road by a stone wall. Side by side beyond the wall lie two single-storey houses that look like boxes made of pine and glass, flanked by garages and smaller guest chalets.

  Back in the fifties, Gerlof could have bought a plot of his own on the coast road, but he had turned down the opportunity. He had been a ship’s captain in those days and had
n’t wanted to see a single drop of seawater when he wasn’t working, which was why his cottage was where it was. Out of sight of the water.

  John gave him a lift, but it wasn’t a member of the Kloss family who met him when he got out of the car. A middle-aged woman with short grey hair and a steady gaze was waiting on the drive.

  ‘Gerlof Davidsson?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  He had never met the woman, but he recognized the firm handshake and the look in her eyes – she was a civilian police officer. Perhaps it was also her sensible clothing; in spite of the fact that it was a warm evening, she was wearing a dark skirt, a white blouse and a cardigan.

  ‘Cecilia Sander. I’m with the County Police – I’m responsible for conducting interviews with children, and I’m here to talk to Jonas Kloss. I believe you’re acting as an independent observer?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Gerlof said again.

  ‘You know what that involves?’

  ‘Yes. I listen and remember.’

  ‘Good.’ Cecilia Sander turned around and headed towards the house furthest south. ‘Everything’s arranged. We’re in here.’

  Gerlof followed her across the recently sanded wooden decking to a sliding glass door, then into a large room with a polished stone floor and pale wooden panelling. It was wonderfully cool indoors; concealed fans in the ceiling seemed to be doing an excellent job.

  Veronica Kloss was standing by the door, wearing jeans and a white top. Her dark hair tumbled around her shoulders; she smiled and held out her hand. ‘Gerlof?’

  ‘Good evening … We’ve met before,’ he said, hoping she would remember.

  ‘Really? Where was that?’

  ‘Up at the home in Marnäs, when you came to talk about the Kloss family, and the story of the Ölandic Resort.’

  ‘Yes, of course, I was there last summer,’ Veronica said. ‘It was very enjoyable … A lot of elderly people have so many stories to tell.’

  ‘To those who are prepared to listen,’ Gerlof said.

  He relaxed and allowed himself to be led further into the room, past a treadmill and a wine rack.

  Several people were seated on sofas around an oak coffee table. There was more tension in the air in here. He recognized Jonas Kloss, who looked more stressed than anyone else. His Uncle Kent was sitting beside him, with a healthy tan; he was wearing a light-brown summer jacket.

  There were also three teenage boys smartly dressed in shirts and dark-blue jeans. Jonas’s brother and cousins, Gerlof assumed.

  A younger woman was moving around the table, pouring iced water; at first Gerlof assumed she was another sister, but when she said, ‘You’re welcome,’ in broken Swedish, he realized she must be the housekeeper. Some people could still afford such a luxury.

  ‘Right,’ Cecilia Sander said, sitting down at the end of the table, where she could see everyone. ‘Let’s get started. It would be best if just Jonas and one member of the family stays; the rest of you can go.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll stay,’ Kent Kloss said quickly. ‘I’m his uncle. His parents aren’t here.’

  He smiled at the police officer, but she didn’t smile back.

  ‘Where are they, Jonas?’ she asked.

  ‘Mum’s at home … She lives in Huskvarna. Dad’s here, but he …’

  Jonas paused and looked at his uncle.

  ‘He’s working in our restaurant,’ Kent Kloss explained. ‘He has to be there, otherwise we lose our alcohol licence.’

  Jonas didn’t say anything.

  ‘OK, Jonas,’ Cecilia Sander said, opening her notebook. ‘Let’s have a little chat.’

  She glanced at her papers, then went on. ‘One evening towards the end of June, the twenty-eighth, you were supposed to be going to the cinema in Kalmar. But that didn’t happen, so you went down to the shore instead.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go to the cinema?’

  ‘Because I was too young for the film that was on. I wasn’t allowed to go with them.’

  Kent cleared his throat and leaned forward. ‘The older boys cooked this up behind our backs – needless to say, it wasn’t the right thing to do. We’ve spoken to them about the way they treated Jonas, and they’re all very sorry.’

  Cecilia Sander listened carefully to what he had to say but kept her eyes fixed on Jonas. ‘So you went down to the shore. What happened then?’

  Jonas glanced around the table. ‘I … I saw a ship coming towards me … when I’d rowed out a little way in the dinghy.’

  ‘Can you tell me what happened next?’

  ‘She was called Elia, the ship I mean … I climbed on board.’

  He started to tell the story Gerlof had already heard twice. It was a slow process, but it was impressively consistent.

  Cecilia listened and made notes until the end of the story, when Jonas had jumped overboard and made his way ashore, then she reached into her bag and took out a number of photographs.

  ‘I’m going to show you a rather unpleasant picture now. I’m telling you so you’re prepared. It’s the photograph of a dead man who was found floating in the Sound a few days ago, five nautical miles to the north …’

  She held up a picture of a chalk-white face with closed eyes and a thin beard. A man in his fifties, wearing overalls. The face was swollen; Gerlof could see that he had been underwater for some time.

  ‘Do you recognize him?’ Cecilia Sander asked.

  Jonas glanced at the photograph, looked away, then back, this time for longer. He nodded. ‘He was on the ship … He was the one who was lying by the hatch.’

  Cecilia nodded. ‘He’s German, and his name is Thomas Herberg,’ she said. ‘His wallet was in his pocket, so we were able to identify him.’

  No one said a word, so she picked up another picture. ‘And the ship you boarded, the Elia … could this be her?’

  Gerlof leaned forward. The photograph had been taken at an angle from the front, and showed a small cargo ship with a black-painted hull and two wooden structures on deck. He felt quite proud when he saw that it was very similar to the drawing he had done in the boathouse, with Jonas’s help. The big difference was that the ship in the photograph was safely tied up at a quayside.

  ‘Yes … I think so,’ Jonas said.

  Gerlof glanced at Kent Kloss, who had looked at the picture then immediately turned away to gaze out of the window.

  ‘You got part of the name right,’ Cecilia said. ‘She’s actually called Ophelia, and she’s an old cargo ship from Hamburg.’

  She turned the picture over and added, ‘Thomas Herberg was the captain.’

  Ophelia, Gerlof thought. Not Elia – but perhaps the crew had painted over part of the name?

  ‘I have some more pictures,’ Cecilia Sander said, lining up four more. They were photographs of young men, aged between twenty and thirty. They were all staring into the camera with serious expressions, and Gerlof thought the pictures looked like police photographs. He didn’t recognize any of the faces, but Jonas quickly pointed to the fourth man.

  ‘I recognize him – that’s Peter Mayer. He was the one who suddenly appeared, the one with the axe.’

  ‘So you know his name? Have you seen him elsewhere?’

  Jonas nodded. ‘At the cinema in Marnäs,’ he said at once. ‘When I was little … He was selling the tickets.’

  Cecilia Sander made a note. ‘And is that the only time?’

  Jonas glanced over at his uncle, who stared back. Then he looked at Cecilia Sander and nodded.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘In that case, I have just one final picture, Jonas. Have you ever seen this person?’

  It was an enlarged and slightly blurred photograph of an elderly man with a grey beard; he was wearing a black jacket and staring straight into the camera. Gerlof could see part of a wooden sign behind the man; he recognized it as the name of the unit on the first floor at the residential home in Marnäs, just below Gerlof’s unit.

  Eventually, he rec
ognized the man, too: it was Einar Wall, fisherman and suspected arms smuggler. But Wall had lived in a cottage on the coast, not in the home, so why had the picture been taken there? Did he have a relative in Marnäs?

  Jonas shook his head. ‘No.’

  There was a brief silence as Cecilia Sander finished making notes, then she looked up at Jonas.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘We’ve finished then. You’ll receive a printed copy of this interview so that we’re all in agreement on what was said here today … And if there’s anything else, I’ll be in touch. Thank you very much, Jonas.’

  Jonas gave a brief nod and got to his feet. He almost ran to the glass door leading out on to the veranda; Gerlof could see he was glad it was all over.

  The Homecomer

  It was late on Friday evening, and the Homecomer wiped the sweat from his brow in the cramped kitchen as he tightened the last water pipe. The plastic bucket Rita had brought from the farm was standing beside him; it was empty now.

  He and Rita had driven into the Ölandic Resort with the bucket and the high-pressure pump, and no one had stopped them. Presumably they looked like campers – an elderly father and his daughter, or possibly granddaughter.

  Unscrewing the pipe work had taken quite a while, giving the two of them time to have a chat. Rita had talked about her family. She had no contact with her parents, and her brother worked in the far north of Norway, so she had come to Öland the previous autumn to try to find a new life. And because of Pecka; they had met at a music festival.

  ‘What about you?’ she said. ‘Do you have family in the USA?’

  ‘I never said I was in the USA,’ the Homecomer replied. ‘I was in the Soviet Union.’

  ‘Which no longer exists,’ Rita said. She didn’t ask any more questions.

  At last, everything was done.

  ‘Here we go,’ Rita said, switching on the pump.

  The Homecomer took a step back and listened to the low hum. This was the beginning of the nightmare for the Kloss family.

  Everything was heading towards its conclusion now. That was how it felt. Pecka and Wall were dead. His wife was dead, too – and he might not have long left either.