The Voices Beyond: (Oland Quartet Series 4)

by Johan Theorin

  The Homecomer recognized the man after all the years that had passed, and he remembered the open grave.

  He shivered, even though it was still warm down by the sea. He could feel the dead reaching out, clutching at him with invisible hands.

  Terrifying noises echoed inside his head.

  The sound of knocking from inside a coffin.

  He had never been back to that churchyard, not in seventy years.

  He felt alone. He was alone. Pecka and Wall were dead. Rita had left the island. He missed his wife and his child, but of course there was no way he could see them.

  The road was dark and deserted.

  The Homecomer didn’t have a telephone of his own, so he was standing in a kiosk. He had called Directory Enquiries to ask for Gerlof Davidsson’s number. He picked up the receiver and keyed it in.

  The New Country, November 1936

  The Trotskyites are standing in a line, silent and frozen. The wind is bitterly cold, but they are wearing only their dirty underclothes, so that none of them can hide any kind of weapon. Spindly legs, trembling arms. They are not only undressed, their hands are bound with wire. Sometimes a metre-long rope binds two prisoners together, so that when one of them falls his or her neighbour is almost pulled down, too. But not quite.

  Vlad has noticed that, when an enemy falls forward, the man or woman attached by the rope always struggles to remain upright, standing with their feet wide apart and fighting to keep their balance. Often, they take a step to one side, as if the enemy who is still alive wants to get as far away as possible from the one who is already dead.

  It is strange, Vlad thinks as he lowers the Winchester, that an enemy wants to live as long as possible. Even if it is only for a few extra seconds on the edge of a newly dug grave, where death is already clutching at them.

  A deserted gravel pit – this is where the prisoners are transported to from the camp, in a steady stream of trucks. This is where they are lined up and shot, in a forest south of the camp, north of Lake Onega.

  The end of the world.

  Vlad is happy to get out of the camp, but the battle against the Trotskyites is no easier out here than it is in there. Arctic winds blow across the sand, and the young NKVD guards accompanying him just want to get the day’s work done and go back to the barracks.

  Vlad is wearing two freshly laundered linen shirts, a well-worn but warm army greatcoat and sturdy new boots. He is protected from the wind, and the job he has to do makes him even warmer. He raises the rifle, takes aim, fires and lowers it, over and over again.

  The guards are standing three paces away, with their guns trained on the prisoners. The most effective method would be to walk right up to each one and place the barrel of the gun against the back of the neck, of course, but operating from a short distance away means that the person firing the shot does not get dirty.

  In Vlad’s opinion, it ought to be impossible to miss even from three paces away, if you hold the gun steady. But a guard will move the gun surprisingly often, so that the enemy is hit in the back, or the shoulder, or not at all. The prisoner jerks, but remains standing.

  This is bad. Vlad never misses. He is in charge here, which means he is the one who has to step forward and fire a second shot.

  On these cold autumn days, many of the prisoners seem to be foreigners, immigrants from the west who came to seek their fortune in the new country: Polacks, Germans, Canadians. A few Americans, some Norwegians and an endless stream of Finns. Sometimes, as Vlad raises his gun, he sees a prisoner turn his head. In spite of the fact that all hope is gone, someone starts pleading for their life, offering love or money, or simply begging for mercy.

  Occasionally, he hears muttered prayers in Swedish or Finland-Swedish. Aron would like to stop and listen.

  But Vlad does not listen to the enemy; he simply takes aim and silences the flow of words.

  The guards have brought white cabbage, tinned meat and vodka to the gravel pit, and while a team of prisoners is busy shovelling sand over the bodies Vlad and his men can sit down and eat. After his time in the labour camp, he has built himself up with regular, decent food, but he still doesn’t drink alcohol. He gives away his ration to his colleagues. This makes him popular, but it also means that the aim of some guards is even worse after their break.

  At the end of this particular day, a black car sweeps into the gravel pit. Commandant Fajgin steps out, accompanied by two other men. One is short, the other tall.

  Fajgin stands swaying by the car for a moment. He is the camp commandant now; Polynov was dismissed because of his drinking, but Fajgin has not learned from this. He has started to work his way through his predecessor’s stock of vodka. Right now, he is talking and gesticulating, but his two companions appear to be treating him like thin air. They step forward to watch the last prisoners fall.

  Vlad recognizes the shorter man: Grigorenko, a local Party secretary. The tall man is younger, thirty-five or forty, and is wearing a neatly pressed NKVD uniform with four stripes on the collar tab. A major.

  Eventually, the trio begins to move towards the grave and the guards.

  ‘Attention!’ Fajgin bellows.

  So this is an inspection of men and weapons. Perhaps the major has been instrumental in sending prisoners to their final destination and wants to see how they are dealt with.

  But, in fact, he wants more than that.

  Vlad realizes later that Fajgin must have boasted about his being a crack shot, because he jerks his head in Vlad’s direction. The major stops in front of Vlad. He has a dark-blue scar running across his forehead, possibly from a blow with a sabre during the civil war. He looks Vlad and the old army greatcoat up and down with a critical expression, then turns his attention to the battered rifle, still warm in Vlad’s hands.

  ‘You never hesitate, Comrade?’

  ‘No, Major.’

  ‘You are always on your guard against the enemies of our country?’

  ‘Yes, Major.’

  ‘You work hard and sleep well?’

  ‘Always, Major.’

  The officer nods. He reaches out a black-gloved hand and draws Vlad to one side, away from the others. ‘Are you happy here in the north, Comrade Jegerov, in the cold and the wind?’

  Vlad understands that he can be honest on this occasion, so he shakes his head.

  ‘The People’s Commissariat needs more people in Leningrad,’ the major says. He makes a point of turning his back on Fajgin, and adds, ‘We need people with a steady hand, people who can do their job. People who are sober.’

  ‘I drink nothing but water,’ Vlad says.

  ‘Comrade Jegerov,’ the major says, leaning closer, ‘do you know what chernaya rabota is?’

  ‘No, Major.’

  ‘It is secret work in Leningrad. Black work. Hard work with long hours, often at night, in the fight against the enemy.’

  Vlad stands up very straight.

  Leningrad. The big city. And the gateway to Aron’s homeland.

  He is ready.

  Gerlof

  It was Saturday evening, and Gerlof was in his cottage, after spending another oppressively hot day in the garden. His head and body felt stupefied by all the long, sunny days. They sucked all the energy out of both him and nature.

  He was just about to go to bed when the phone rang, which was unusual at this late hour. The boys were in their rooms, so Gerlof picked up the receiver and answered quietly, ‘Davidsson.’

  His hearing aid was still switched on, but there was only silence in his ear. No voices, just a faint rushing sound in the background.

  ‘Hello?’

  Silence.

  Who would call at this time of night and not introduce themselves? It was unlikely to be John, or either of his daughters. Gerlof began to suspect who was on the other end of the line.

  ‘Aron?’ he said.

  There was no reply, but he was still convinced.

  ‘Aron,’ he said again, more firmly this time. ‘Talk to me.�
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  After a few long seconds, a male voice spoke in his ear. ‘So you remember the knocking.’

  Gerlof swallowed in the darkness; his mouth was suddenly dry. It was an old man’s voice on the phone, but it was as hard as granite. The voice of a battle-scarred soldier.

  He took a deep breath. ‘Yes. And so do you.’

  ‘I do.’

  Gerlof waited, then went on. ‘You were frightened that day, when you and I were standing in the grave on the lid of the coffin. We were both frightened, weren’t we?’

  Another silence, then the voice spoke again. ‘Kloss was knocking because of me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Gerlof said.

  ‘He wanted to scare me away.’

  ‘Why?’

  There was no reply, but he heard something else in the background, a faint buzzing sound. Some kind of electrical machine had been switched on near the phone, and the buzzing was accompanied by a muted metallic whinnying.

  Gerlof continued, ‘Edvard Kloss died when a barn wall came down on top of him. I’ve always wondered if it fell over by itself, or if someone gave it a helping hand …’

  He paused, but there was still no response.

  ‘According to the gossip, it was one of his brothers. Either Sigfrid or Gilbert had loosened the props that were holding the wall up, and gave it a push when Edvard was standing in the right place … But, of course, it could have been someone else. Some disgruntled worker.’

  The rushing sound and the strange buzzing were still going on.

  ‘I found out recently that your stepfather, Sven Fredh, used to work for the Kloss brothers, and that he moved the old cairn for them. But that didn’t go too well, did it?’

  ‘It fell down,’ the voice said. ‘The brothers were on Sven’s back all the time; they really got to him, and he couldn’t work out how to arrange the stones. They started rolling towards his legs, and he ended up with a limp for the rest of his life.’

  ‘And Sven wanted compensation from Edvard Kloss?’

  ‘Yes, but of course Kloss insisted it was Sven’s fault.’

  ‘You were injured, too, Aron … I remember the day we met up in the churchyard – you had a long scratch on your forehead. How did you get that, Aron?’

  Silence.

  ‘It’s so long ago,’ Gerlof said. ‘I think you can tell me now.’

  For the first time, the voice at the other end of the line sounded stressed. ‘It was after the barn wall had come down. When I crawled in underneath it.’

  ‘So you were there that night?’

  ‘Yes. But I didn’t bring the wall down on top of Edvard Kloss.’

  ‘In that case, it was Sven,’ Gerlof said. ‘He brought the wall down, then he sent you in to get Edvard’s wallet. Is that what happened?’

  ‘Yes. Edvard had to pay.’

  ‘Pay what, Aron?’

  ‘What he owed Sven for his crushed foot … and for my mother.’

  Gerlof listened, trying to think. ‘So he had harmed Astrid in some way?’

  ‘Harmed?’ the voice said quietly. ‘You could say that.’

  Gerlof didn’t ask any more questions. He had already suspected who Aron Fredh’s father was; it wasn’t the first time a serving girl had ended up pregnant by the master of the house.

  ‘So Edvard Kloss was your father. Was he your sister Greta’s father, too?’

  ‘Everyone knew,’ the voice said. ‘But he always denied it.’

  Gerlof sighed. ‘I know you feel bitter towards him, Aron. But Edvard’s grandchildren have nothing to do with these old grievances. You do realize that, don’t you?’

  Once again, there was a long silence before Aron spoke. ‘Those grandchildren took the croft away from me. They took everything I had here.’

  Now it was Gerlof’s turn to keep quiet. What could he say?

  ‘And you took a ship from them,’ he said eventually, ‘and the crew suffocated in the hold … How could you do that?’

  When the voice eventually spoke, there was no trace of regret.

  ‘The crew were criminals. And they weren’t supposed to be on board; I had to move them below deck. But it was Kloss’s ship, with plenty of cash, and that was what mattered. So we took the money and sank the ship.’

  ‘Where is she?’ Gerlof asked.

  ‘Far out in the Sound. Five nautical miles north-west of Stenvik.’ Gerlof sighed again, even more heavily this time. ‘Don’t make any more trouble, Aron.’

  The voice didn’t speak for a while, but when it did reply it was every bit as hard as before. ‘I’m doing what I’ve learned to do. I had to make my way out into the world and learn how things are done … I became a soldier.’

  ‘In Russia,’ Gerlof said.

  ‘In the Soviet Union. I was a soldier in the new country.’

  ‘But the war is over now, Aron. There’s plenty of help available; you don’t have to keep on making mistakes. Otherwise, you’ll be hearing that knocking sound for the rest of your life.’

  ‘I don’t need any help. I haven’t got long left.’ Aron sounded worryingly sure of himself.

  ‘What are you going to do now, Aron?’ Gerlof said eventually.

  The only reply was a click.

  Gerlof slowly put down the phone; his hand was shaking. He reached out to open the veranda window, to let in some cool, fresh air.

  Out there in the darkness, he could hear the bush crickets chirruping, but he couldn’t see any shadows moving around. The trees, the grass and the plants were resting now, after another trying day in the sun.

  Gerlof knew that the plantlife on Öland was tougher than any soldier. Nature would always have the upper hand. If the earth and the plants were in good shape, there would be food. If not, people would starve.

  Most things were sparse and tough on the island. There were no plentiful resources to be extracted, and no one had ever discovered oil or a goldmine. Tourism was no more than a moderate success; there were no plans to open enormous hotels or casinos with the aim of creating a Swedish Las Vegas.

  It was hard to make a fast buck here and, as a consequence, Öland had escaped the invasions of fortune hunters or armies which had destroyed so much in other defenceless places around the world. There was plenty of sunshine and stone and there were many hardy plants on the island, but not much else.

  For which Gerlof was very grateful.

  He was also glad that a strong leader hadn’t suddenly appeared, demanding that everyone should report on their neighbour for their own good. Gerlof and his fellow islanders had therefore managed to avoid the difficult decisions which others had been forced to make in uncertain times.

  There were a number of guns here, of course, but, fortunately, not many. Nor was the population divided into different sects or tribes, each believing they had a right to more power and higher status than others, and therefore any disputes had been restricted to local village issues. People had argued about land, but those quarrels had never gone beyond harsh words or court judgements.

  The island had been lucky, on the whole.

  But now there was a problem.

  Gerlof closed the window before any mosquitoes found their way in, and picked up the phone again. He felt sleepy but wanted to make one call.

  John answered almost right away, and Gerlof got straight to the point. ‘Aron Fredh rang me.’

  ‘Did he now? Where was he?’

  ‘He didn’t say … but it sounded as if he was outdoors, in a phone box.’

  ‘Well, there aren’t many of those around.’

  ‘No,’ Gerlof said. ‘And the interesting thing was that I could hear something in the background … a kind of humming. Or maybe rattling, with a faint whinny from time to time. I couldn’t work it out, but I’ve been giving it some thought, and I think it might be an electric horse.’

  ‘An electric horse?’

  ‘You know, one of those rides for children – you put money in and it moves around for a while.

  John was qu
iet for a moment. ‘There’s a phone box by the shop down at the resort … I think they’ve got some rides there, too.’

  ‘You mean Aron is staying at the Ölandic? Well, they do say you should keep your friends close and your enemies closer …’

  ‘Did he sound sorry?’ John wanted to know.

  ‘Not in the slightest. But at least we talked; we’ll just have to hope that he calls again, even if I am moving back to the home on Monday.’

  ‘I’ll give you a lift.’

  ‘Thanks, John. Goodnight.’

  Gerlof put the phone down, then went and sat on his bed to think things over.

  An old soldier had come home to the island, hell-bent on revenge, spreading fear all around him. No one knew who he was, and no one knew where he was either. As long as it was high season, as long as Öland was packed with summer visitors, he could move around freely. Who could stop him?

  The Kloss family?

  Gerlof?

  Lisa

  Lisa didn’t have a gig on this hot Sunday, but of course she had a different kind of job to do for Kent Kloss. She was supposed to snoop around the Ölandic Resort, looking for a particular man.

  A man who was old but apparently dangerous.

  At around two o’clock, she parked her car by the hotel and walked over to the top campsite. She was wearing shorts and a yellow T-shirt, just like an ordinary holidaymaker. A white baseball cap pulled well down over her eyes and a pair of oversized sunnies meant that she could carry out her task without anyone noticing. She hoped.

  The first time she had seen the Ölandic Resort, towards the end of June, the expanse of grass that made up the campsite had been fresh and green, but since then the sun had blazed down almost non-stop. Now the grass was dry and yellow, almost brown in places, and the short blades crunched underfoot as she moved among the caravans.

  The campsite felt a bit like a burning desert, quivering in the heat. But following the previous week’s outbreak of gastroenteritis there were plenty of empty spaces, and Lisa could see several families packing up and getting ready to leave. She wasn’t interested in them, of course, but in the guests who were staying.