The Voices Beyond: (Oland Quartet Series 4)

by Johan Theorin

  He turned his attention back to the reason he was here, and the story he wanted to tell. ‘It happened somewhere around here. I can’t say exactly where, but I know we were standing fairly close to the wall.’

  Bengt took a few more pictures of Gerlof pointing dramatically at the graves with his stick. Then he lowered the camera. ‘So which grave was it?’

  ‘I don’t remember. I dug quite a lot of graves that summer. But it was in this area …’

  He was lying, of course, but he didn’t want to name the Kloss family in the newspaper. He didn’t think Kent Kloss would appreciate that.

  ‘But I remember what I heard,’ he went on. ‘Three sharp knocks, then three more … And that was when we stopped filling in the grave. We brought the coffin back up and called Dr Blom. He turned up on his bike, but there was nothing he could do.’

  ‘He was dead?’ the journalist asked. ‘The man in the coffin?’

  ‘As dead as a doornail.’

  Gerlof looked around again. It was just as warm and sunny today as it had been all those years ago; it was a strange feeling. As if a whole lifetime hadn’t passed at all. He remembered exactly where they had stood, the priest, the doctor, the Kloss brothers, and Bengtsson the gravedigger slightly behind the others. And Aron Fredh, further away.

  Nyberg took one more picture and jotted something down in his notepad. He seemed satisfied, and looked up at Gerlof. ‘Well, that’s certainly a hair-raising story … A summer mystery.’

  ‘So are you going to write about it?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll put something together. It won’t be very long, but we’ll have a picture and a short article. Material like this is very useful when it comes to filling an empty column.’

  ‘And when will it be in the paper?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Nyberg said. ‘Tomorrow, with a bit of luck, although we’re not exactly short of news this month, even though it is holiday time.’

  Gerlof assumed he was talking about the deaths of Einar Wall and Peter Mayer the previous week. He leaned forward. ‘You’re welcome to say that I’d like to hear from any witnesses.’

  ‘Witnesses?’

  ‘Yes, anyone else who remembers the knocking. Anyone who was in the churchyard that day. They can get in touch with me.’

  Bengt Nyberg nodded, without asking who Gerlof thought these witnesses might be, after some seventy years.

  They parted company at the church gate, after Nyberg had revealed what the headline was likely to be. It was less than subtle:

  GERLOF STILL HAUNTED BY KNOCKING FROM THE GRAVE

  You could call it sensationalism, but Gerlof was still pleased when he opened the paper two days later. The article was in a prominent position, and he thought plenty of people would read it. He knew that everyone else who had heard the sound of knocking on that day was long dead.

  Everyone except himself, and possibly Aron Fredh.

  Lisa

  A settled stomach was what everyone needed. Lisa felt pretty good this morning; the sun was shining and life felt better. She should have known it wouldn’t last long.

  About an hour after she had woken up, she went down to the shore. The rocks were warm beneath her feet. She carried on out on to the jetty, right to the very end, and jumped in without hesitating. The sandy seabed was soft and the water was warm, over twenty degrees, and she stretched out with a sigh of pleasure. Closed her eyes, floated along, chilled out. No worries.

  She swam back and forth not far from the jetty until a large group of children arrived for their swimming lesson and started splashing around. She got out and went back to the campsite.

  When she saw her caravan, she realized something was wrong.

  It was moving. The door was ajar, and it was rocking slightly.

  Lisa slowed down but kept on walking. She remembered an old saying: Don’t go knocking if the trailer is a-rocking.

  But if a caravan was rocking when it ought to be empty, surely you should check it out?

  Lisa didn’t knock, she simply opened the door.

  ‘Hello?’ she said quietly.

  It was dark inside, and she couldn’t see properly after being out in the sunshine, but she clearly heard a voice: ‘Hello, Summertime.’

  It was a male voice. It sounded calm, but Lisa’s stomach turned to ice. Something was wrong. She didn’t climb the steps into the caravan but leaned forward and stuck her head around the door so that she could see as far as the bedroom area.

  A tall figure was sitting in the middle of her narrow bed.

  Kent Kloss, wearing white shorts and a red top. He nodded to her, and she realized that he had opened her bag.

  Her DJ bag. Kloss was slowly going through her vinyl LPs. He hadn’t got very far yet, but he was making steady progress.

  ‘Come on in!’ he said with a smile. ‘Make yourself at home!’

  Lisa stepped inside, but this certainly didn’t feel like home. The caravan was hot and cramped and seemed to be quivering around her. She dropped her beach bag and gave him a quick smile in return.

  ‘Hi, Kent … How did you get in?’

  He was still smiling. ‘I have a spare key. We own this caravan – don’t you remember? We allow you to live here, as our employee.’

  The last sentence sounded slightly threatening. Lisa didn’t quite know what to do, so she nodded.

  ‘I wanted to see if everything was OK,’ Kent went on. ‘So I came in, and I was curious. I love old dance music, so I thought I’d have a look at what you’ve got.’

  ‘Fine by me,’ Lisa said. ‘Those are the LPs I play over at the club … I’ve got nothing to hide.’

  His response was instant. ‘Haven’t you?’

  She shook her head, moved a step closer.

  Kent carried on flicking through the records, then suddenly jerked his head towards the bed beside him. ‘And what about all this?’

  Lisa looked down and saw a small pile at the foot of the bed. Wallets and purses, which of course she recognized. And the mobile phones next to them.

  Her entire haul from the May Lai Bar was lying on the bed for all to see. Kloss had already found it.

  ‘They were among the records,’ Kent said. ‘I presume you were hiding them?’

  Lisa didn’t say a word.

  I can explain – that was probably what you were supposed to say under the circumstances.

  She knew she looked guilty. She didn’t have a chance, but she made an attempt to sound both honest and bored. ‘Oh, those … I found them in the bar. People lose all kinds of stuff in there. I asked if anyone owned them, but no one came forward. So I brought them back here … but maybe someone saw me in the club and misunderstood.’

  Kent Kloss stared at her. ‘You’re right, someone did see you. It was Emanuel, one of our security guards. He saw you pick up a mobile phone from a table on Tuesday night.’

  Lisa took another step towards him. ‘I found that one, too.’

  ‘I’m sure you did. And now I’ve found you.’

  Kent Kloss got to his feet. Perhaps he was just irritated; he moved closer to her.

  ‘I’ve met all sorts over the years,’ he said. ‘Campsite security guards who steal from chalets, bartenders who help themselves out of the till, light-fingered cleaners in hotel rooms … I know the score.’

  Lisa was aware of a strong smell emanating from him, but it wasn’t aftershave. Kent stank of booze, and there was a menacing glint in his eye.

  ‘Are you working for him?’ he said quietly.

  ‘For who?’

  The slap came without warning, striking her hard and fast across the nose and cheek, and she staggered backwards. She stumbled over her beach bag and ended up on the floor. The caravan was rocking like a ship on stormy seas.

  Kloss didn’t wait for her to recover. ‘Is that what you’re doing? Are you spying on us?’

  Lisa blinked, felt her nose. ‘Who would I be spying for?’ she said, trying to get up.

  ‘Don’t move!’

&nb
sp; Kloss took a deep breath, gathered his strength and kicked her hard in the thigh. The pain was horrendous; Lisa whimpered, but didn’t move. She could hear her own shallow breathing in the silence that followed. She reached up to her nose and felt drops of warm blood.

  ‘I don’t know who … who you’re talking about.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ he sneered.

  Lisa released Lady Summertime, who snapped, ‘You and your family steal from the guests, too.’

  ‘Do we?’

  She nodded. ‘Fourteen hundred for a bottle of champagne, Kent. Sparkling wine that’s probably smuggled in for fifty kronor a bottle … Isn’t that daylight robbery?’

  ‘Don’t change the subject. One of us has a problem here, and it’s not me.’

  Summertime braced herself for another blow, but went on: ‘Call the cops, then.’

  Kloss looked down at her. ‘Not yet.’

  A blood vessel was throbbing on his suntanned forehead; he remained motionless for a few seconds, then relaxed. He took at step back and sat down on the bed, legs wide apart, leaving his crotch exposed.

  ‘There’s something you can help me with,’ he said.

  Lady Summertime considered giving him a swift kick, right there in the middle. But Lisa pushed her aside. She got up cautiously, still expecting him to hit her again, but nothing happened. Kent Kloss had vented his anger, and he hadn’t called the police.

  He glanced out of the window, as if to check that no one could see him, his fingers drumming on his thighs. Eventually, he spoke. ‘A man has come over to the island this summer, and he’s … he’s caused some problems. I didn’t know who he was at first, but now I do. His name is Aron Fredh.’

  He was looking closely at Lisa, as if she might react to the name. But she’d never heard of Aron Fredh. Would Kent hit her again if she said the wrong thing?

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Aron Fredh.’

  Kloss looked down at his tanned hands. ‘I don’t know what he looks like; he’s keeping a low profile … but I need to find him. I think you might be able to help me track him down. He’s here somewhere; I think he might be staying over at the resort, on the campsite or in a chalet under a false name. He must be, because he managed to poison our drinking water, and that can only be done from inside the complex.’

  Poison our drinking water. Lisa had extensive experience of the effects of that particular event.

  ‘The Ölandic Resort is enormous,’ she said. ‘How am I supposed to find him?’

  Kent was smiling again now. It was as if the slap and the kick had never happened. ‘You snoop around, of course … After all, that’s what you’re good at.’

  Lisa let out a long breath. ‘So you just want me to find this man, among all the guests, when you haven’t a clue what he looks like?’

  ‘He’s an old man, we know that, but in good shape for his age. And he’s probably alone. That description fits a number of men at the resort; we’ll tell you where they’re staying and, when their caravans or chalets are empty, you go and check them out. Discreetly.’

  ‘When they’re empty?’

  ‘Of course … We don’t want the guests to know what’s going on.’

  ‘And how will I know when it’s safe?’

  ‘The security guards will keep an eye on things. Most caravans and chalets are empty in the middle of the day.’

  Lisa didn’t have much choice. ‘What am I looking for?’

  ‘Anything unusual. Guns, balaclavas, bundles of cash. You’ll know when you see it … This is no ordinary holidaymaker.’

  ‘And then I’m free to leave?’

  Kloss got to his feet.

  ‘We’ll see. You’re not going to be arrested, anyway. And you can carry on gigging for the time being … as long as you keep your fingers to yourself.’

  ‘And what if I get caught snooping around?’

  A victorious smile spread across Kent’s face. ‘You’ve already been caught, Summertime. That’s why you’re going to do this.’

  Gerlof

  There had been a few comments on the newspaper article about the knocking from the grave, and Gerlof was still hoping that it had been read by the right person. It was a bit like a personal ad. If Aron Fredh was still on the island, of course.

  He sat down to wait for visitors. These were his last few days in the cottage; after the weekend, he was going back to his room in the residential home in Marnäs.

  But on Friday he had a visit from a murderer. Not the one he was looking for this summer, but a murderer he himself had tracked down many years earlier.

  Gerlof was in the garden as usual, in the shade of the parasol. It was always open these days; the heat of the sun was merciless.

  His hearing aid was switched on, and suddenly he heard a rustling sound behind him, in the meadow. Footsteps, definitely footsteps. Gerlof turned his head, and a few seconds later the man appeared among the juniper bushes, wearing jeans and a shirt and loafers. He stopped on the other side of the boundary, in the tall grass. Gerlof recognized him.

  This was the man who had killed his grandson.

  The visitor remained where he was, and they looked at each other for a few seconds. Gerlof was glad his daughter Julia wasn’t in the village today.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ the man said quietly.

  ‘Good afternoon.’

  Gerlof wondered if he ought to be afraid, but he wasn’t. Not at all. This murderer didn’t look dangerous, just tired and pale in the sunshine. Much older. And he had nothing in his hands.

  So Gerlof nodded to him. ‘Come and sit down.’

  The man walked slowly across the garden and sat down on the opposite side of the table.

  ‘So you’re out,’ Gerlof went on.

  The man shook his head. ‘I haven’t been released. I’m out on parole. My first unsupervised outing, so I wanted to call round and …’ The man fell silent and looked around, over towards the gate and the cottage, then asked, ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘My grandchildren have gone for a swim. My daughters haven’t arrived yet.’

  The man seemed to relax, at least until they heard a loud buzzing and a hornet appeared. Gerlof knew that their sting could be dangerous, but they were less aggressive than their smaller relatives. Perhaps their size made them calmer.

  The hornet zoomed past, and in the silence that followed Gerlof asked, ‘So how long are you out for?’

  ‘Twenty-four hours. The probation service releases prisoners in stages. First of all, for just a few hours, then a little longer … if you behave yourself.’

  ‘And have you behaved yourself? Are you cured?’

  The man looked down at his hands. ‘Cured … How am I supposed to know that?’

  ‘I’m sure you know how you feel,’ Gerlof said. ‘Whether you’re at peace with the rest of the world.’

  ‘I’ve tried,’ his visitor said. ‘I’ve had the opportunity to talk about … about my thoughts.’

  ‘So all that hatred is gone?’

  The man nodded and looked up. ‘Do you hate me, Gerlof?’

  Gerlof looked away. ‘That’s exactly what I’m wondering.’

  He met the visitor’s gaze, searching for anger, but he found none. Only weariness. He changed the subject.

  ‘Niklas Kloss,’ he said. ‘Have you heard of him?’

  The man nodded. ‘He’s one of the wealthy Kloss siblings, isn’t he? The owners of the Ölandic Resort?’

  ‘Yes, but Niklas is the black sheep of the family. He’s been in prison.’

  The man nodded again, as if he recalled the story. ‘Not where I was. I’ve never met him.’

  ‘But you’ve heard of him?’

  ‘There’s always talk … I know why he was inside. Smuggling … on a massive scale. He was caught by customs with a truck full of spirits from Germany, worth millions. Kloss wasn’t driving, but he was the one responsible. So they say.’

  Gerlof picked up on the last three words. ‘You don’t believe it was him?’

>   ‘I think it was more likely to be his older brother, Kent Kloss. But Niklas went down for it; he got a couple of years. That’s all I know.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Gerlof said.

  ‘No. People have always smuggled booze and tobacco across the Baltic, but the quantities are greater now. It’s difficult to understand who’s going to consume the amount that comes in. It will soon be like medieval times, when Swedes drank several litres of beer every day.’

  ‘But I don’t suppose it all stays on the island.’

  ‘No, some of it is probably transported over to the mainland.’

  The man fell silent. Gerlof thought that, for a little while, he had felt as if he were chatting to just anyone, as if the man were an ordinary visitor – but every time there was a silence, the tension was there again.

  ‘It was brave of you to come here,’ he said eventually.

  The man didn’t respond, so Gerlof went on, ‘I hope you can come back … To the island, I mean.’

  ‘That’s my goal,’ the man said. ‘To come home. Prison … that’s not a home.’

  Gerlof had made a decision.

  ‘You asked if I hated you. I think it would be miserable to sit here in the sun, towards the end of my life, hating people.’

  The man nodded; perhaps he was relieved. He got to his feet and gazed around the garden. ‘I’ll go back the same way I came, past the old mill … and the cairn.’

  ‘They’re still there,’ Gerlof said.

  He raised a hand to wave, and his visitor was gone.

  The Homecomer

  It was late in the evening, and the Homecomer was reading the local paper. It was on sale in the shop at the Ölandic Resort, and he had been buying it in order to follow the problems with the drinking water. However, he had found another interesting article in yesterday’s paper. The headline had caught his attention:

  GERLOF STILL HAUNTED BY KNOCKING FROM THE GRAVE

  He looked at the photograph again and saw an old man leaning on his walking stick among the graves in a churchyard. Marnäs churchyard. The man had told the reporter an old story.