The Voices Beyond: (Oland Quartet Series 4)

by Johan Theorin

  Paulina started the car and they continued northwards, heading for the last outpost: the harbour in Nabbelund and the ferry to Gotland.

  ‘What did you do with the guns?’ she asked.

  Aron jerked his head towards a bag on the back seat. It had been filled with sticks of dynamite earlier on, but now it was almost empty.

  ‘They’re in there,’ he said. ‘I’ll drop them over the side once we’re far enough out.’

  The Grankulla Bay inlet was surrounded by spits of land and low islets covered in dense forest, almost like a lagoon. Laange Erik, the tall white lighthouse, warned ships of shallow waters off the northern tip of the island.

  Fortunately, the ferry to Gotland had made its way safely to the quayside and was ready for departure. Aron and Paulina left the old Ford in the car park and walked along the jetty. Aron felt the wind coming off the Baltic on his face. They went aboard; Paulina had booked their tickets all the way home. The ferry would take them to Visby; from there, it was a short flight to Stockholm, then on to Moscow.

  Going home.

  But of course this wasn’t how Aron had expected it to end; he had intended to die on Öland, in the croft by the shore.

  There was a cafeteria on the ferry, a small shop and a passenger lounge equipped with tables and chairs. They chose seats over in a corner, where no one could hear them.

  Aron sat down carefully; his stomach was hurting. He looked out of the window to the south, as if he could see Stenvik and all the damage he had caused there.

  Then he sighed and said to his daughter, ‘I am a cleanser.’

  Paulina was silent for a moment, then she said, quietly but firmly, ‘Not any more. You’ve finished with all that, Papa.’

  Aron looked at his hands. ‘Cleansing and purging, that’s all I was good at. It was the only thing I was praised for when I was young, so that’s what I’ve done all my life. Apart from meeting your mother and taking care of you.’

  ‘That was enough, Papa.’ Paulina reached across and stroked his cheek. ‘We’re going home now; we can rest and eat good food. We’re done with this country.’

  She was efficient, as usual, focused, just as she had been when she had applied for the post with Kent Kloss – but Aron sensed a calmness in her after a stressful summer, and a kind of forgiveness, too.

  He tried to relax. The quayside was empty now; everyone had either boarded the ferry or gone home. The Ford stood there abandoned; he had left it unlocked, with the keys in the ignition, so that anyone could take it if they felt like it.

  Slowly, he got to his feet.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ he lied. ‘Can I get you something?’

  Paulina shook her head. He patted her cheek, allowing his hand to linger a fraction longer. Then he walked out of the lounge.

  One minute to departure.

  It was time to decide; Aron made up his mind. He went over to the locker and took out his bag, then made a beeline for the gangplank. He jumped ashore only seconds before it was removed.

  A young sailor was standing on the quay, holding the last hawser. He looked at Aron in surprise.

  ‘Changed your mind?’

  Aron nodded. His stomach wasn’t hurting quite so much now that he no longer needed to hide the pain. The sun was beginning to warm the air, and he was hardly shivering at all.

  The sailor threw the rope on board, and the ferry began to pull away. The stretch of open water between the ship and the quayside quickly grew; soon it was too late to jump on to the deck, even if Aron had been young and fit.

  He caught a last glimpse of Paulina’s dark hair through the window. Her head was bowed, and she didn’t see him.

  The pain he was feeling now was the pain at the thought of never seeing his daughter again. But in her bag was the money Aron had taken from the safe on the Ophelia – over half a million kronor. She would have a good life without him.

  Cumulus clouds were beginning to gather above the horizon in the west, grey and hammer-shaped, a forewarning of the bad weather to come in the autumn. A storm was on its way.

  He turned his back on the water. There was plenty of time now. His daughter would be stuck on the ferry from Öland to Gotland for several hours.

  Taking short steps, he made his way back to the car; he got in and let out a long breath. He threw his bag on the back seat and heard the guns inside clink together. As he thought about them he saw Veronica’s face before him, with that cool expression. He saw her walking around the sunlit lawns at the Ölandic Resort, just as composed and triumphant as Lenin’s widow.

  Aron was dying. He didn’t know how many hours he had left – but Veronica Kloss was going to live on.

  Was she?

  No, Vlad said inside his head. No, she wasn’t.

  He started the car and glanced over his shoulder at the bag containing the guns. Then he swung the car around and drove south.

  Jonas

  For the second time that summer, Jonas woke up in a boathouse, confused and blinking. But this place had thick stone walls, and he wasn’t in a bed. He was lying on a pile of nets, fishing nets that were soft with age and stank of tar. The wind was howling around the boathouse, and he could hear the muted cry of gulls outside.

  He realized that he wasn’t alone. Casper and Urban were over by the wall, wearing pyjamas; when he looked down, he saw that he was in his pyjamas, too.

  His cousins seemed as drowsy as he was, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness.

  Jonas knew he had fallen asleep in the chalet, but he had vague memories of the night: a white angel by his bedside, a sweetish smell filling his nostrils. Then rough hands in the darkness.

  He closed his eyes, dozed, waited. Someone had left bottles of water on a stool by the wall, and all three boys had a drink. A thin strip of light was visible through a narrow gap under the door, and eventually Urban got up. He pushed the wooden door with both hands, harder and harder, but it was sturdy and impossible to move. It must be secured from the outside somehow. Urban gave up and went back to his pile of nets.

  The three of them sat in silence. Jonas had lots of questions, but no one had any answers. As the light outside grew stronger, Urban and Casper started talking to him.

  They both had a headache. So did Jonas.

  ‘It must have been some kind of drug,’ Urban said quietly. ‘They knocked us out while we were asleep.’

  ‘I remember someone carrying me,’ Casper chipped in. ‘It was a man … an old man. But he was strong.’

  The cairn ghost, Jonas thought.

  They sat there in the semi-darkness for a long time. None of them had a watch. All they could do was wait. Jonas leaned against the wall with his eyes closed, listening to the wind and the birds.

  Then he heard something else: the sound of a car engine nearby. He raised his head. ‘Can you hear something?’

  Casper and Urban listened, looking worried.

  ‘Is it him?’ Casper whispered.

  ‘Dunno.’

  The car drove right up to the boathouse, then the engine was switched off. They heard slow, heavy footsteps approaching through the grass.

  The rattle of a padlock, the sound of an iron bar being removed. The door opened.

  An old man stood there looking at them, his expression forbidding. Jonas recognized him; it was the man he had seen by the cairn.

  Ten metres behind the man he could see a blue Ford.

  The man had a black gun in his hand, pointing at the floor, but from the easy way he was holding it Jonas could tell he was used to it. The gun was a tool. He would take aim in a second if it became necessary.

  ‘Out you come,’ he said.

  Jonas and Casper stood up and stepped out through the low doorway. The light was very bright outside; it felt like afternoon. Urban came out last, but the cairn ghost stopped him with his free hand, looking closely at him.

  ‘You’re a Kloss, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘And Veronica is your mother?’

  Urban nodded.

  �
�Good.’ The man pointed along the shore. ‘Off you go. There are houses a few kilometres down the coast. Run to one of them and call home. Call your mother and tell her where you’ve been. Tell her to come here as soon as possible. To Einar Wall’s boathouse. Alone.’

  Urban looked at Jonas and Casper and opened his mouth. ‘I just want to say—’

  ‘Shut up,’ the man said. He pointed the gun at Urban with a hand that wasn’t quite steady. ‘Do you want a bullet in the back of your neck?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘Clear off, then.’

  Urban glanced anxiously at Jonas and Casper once more – then he ran, loping across the grass by the shore.

  The cairn ghost watched him go.

  ‘Good.’ He nodded to the two boys. ‘Now it’s just the three of us.’

  Jonas didn’t dare say anything, but he suddenly realized that the man was sick. He was swaying slightly, and from time to time he pressed his hand against his stomach, as if he was in pain. His face was shiny with sweat, even though the heat of summer had passed.

  The man might be sick, but he still moved like a soldier, with focus and determination.

  He placed a piece of paper on the floor of the boathouse. Jonas caught a glimpse of five words written in pencil, in capital letters:

  THE OLD MILL,

  STENVIK.

  ALONE.

  The man closed the door.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  He gave Jonas a push in the direction of the car. Jonas walked obediently in front of the man with the gun, as prisoners must always do.

  Gerlof

  Gerlof and John were out in the car the following morning. It was almost eight thirty, but it wasn’t particularly light; dark clouds hung over the island.

  John had woken Gerlof at seven, without even bothering to say good morning.

  ‘It’s the cairn,’ he said. ‘They’ve blown it up.’

  ‘The cairn?’

  ‘Not yours. The one Kloss built.’

  Gerlof heard what he said, but he couldn’t quite believe it. He had heard the explosion – but the cairn?

  Then he thought about it, and said, ‘Aron Fredh.’

  John didn’t answer, but then it wasn’t a question; it had to be Aron.

  ‘We’d better get over there,’ Gerlof said.

  John helped him to the car. They drove the short distance down to the coast road and turned off by the mailboxes. Past the campsite and over to the southern tip of the inlet, where the ridge rose above the water.

  John drove slowly, and Gerlof had plenty of time to take everything in. First of all, he saw a small group of campers and holiday-home owners, then the police cars and an ambulance in front of a blue-and-white police cordon and, finally, the scene of the tragedy.

  He realized that it must have been an enormous explosion as soon as he saw the cairn.

  Or what was left of it. By now it was more of a crater, containing only earth and gravel. A few stones lay on the edge of the ridge – the rest had been spread inland in a great shower, right across the coast road. Many of them had landed on Villa Kloss, which was the only property within reach.

  Aron might be a war-damaged lunatic, Gerlof thought, but his aim had been excellent. The explosion had destroyed only property belonging to his own family. Kent’s house was closest, and looked as if a bomb had hit it; the roof had collapsed and the decking was smashed to pieces. Every single panoramic window was shattered.

  Gerlof gazed at the devastation and thought about Jonas Kloss.

  He searched among the faces of the people standing around. Most of them were strangers as far as Gerlof was concerned, and he couldn’t see any members of the Kloss family. Then he recognized a middle-aged man in a pale-blue dressing gown, his spiky hair standing on end. He had forgotten the man’s name, but he came from Stockholm and lived next door to Villa Kloss.

  John stopped the car and Gerlof wound down the window. He didn’t need to ask what had happened.

  ‘Anyone hurt?’ he said.

  The neighbour shook his head. ‘I’m not sure. Our garden is a bit further away, so the stones didn’t hit us, but … well, what can you say?’

  He nodded in the direction of Villa Kloss. ‘Was anyone there last night?’

  ‘One of the brothers was sleeping in a room at the back … Niklas Kloss. He’s OK, apparently.’

  ‘And the other brother, Kent? And the boys?’

  The neighbour shook his head. ‘No idea.’

  John and Gerlof sat in the car for a little while longer, staring at the wreckage, then John seemed to have had enough. He started the engine and put the car in reverse.

  ‘Wait, John,’ Gerlof said suddenly.

  When the car had stopped, he got out and took a few steps on to the ruined property, using his stick for support. He had spotted a man walking across the grass, picking his way between the huge stones. Niklas Kloss.

  Kloss was wearing brown shorts, with a grey coat hanging open on his upper body. It was an odd combination, but at least he looked unhurt. Gerlof raised his hand and Niklas Kloss came over to him; his eyes were empty, his movements stiff. He seemed to recognize Gerlof, but didn’t say hello.

  ‘Kent and the boys are gone,’ he said instead. ‘And Paulina.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘Veronica’s spent half the night looking for them … So have I.’

  Gerlof looked at the two houses. ‘So the boys weren’t at home last night? And nor was Kent?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Niklas said quietly. ‘They never tell me anything … Kent and Veronica never tell me anything.’

  ‘What is it you think they should be telling you?’ Gerlof asked.

  Niklas didn’t answer; he turned away.

  The door of the other house opened and Veronica Kloss stepped out on to her decking. She was better dressed than her brother, in jeans and a blouse, and the decking was undamaged. She looked over at the two men and came towards them.

  Before she reached them Gerlof leaned over to Niklas and asked a brief question; it was something he had been wondering about for several weeks.

  ‘Were you involved in the smuggling, Niklas?’

  Niklas looked at him blankly. ‘Smuggling?’

  ‘Spirits and tobacco.’

  Veronica was almost upon them.

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ Niklas replied. ‘It was all down to my brother.’

  Veronica’s expression was anything but blank, Gerlof saw; it was sharp and focused.

  ‘Niklas,’ she said quietly.

  But her brother carried on talking, as if he hadn’t heard her. ‘Kent brought in spirits and cigarettes by boat and car every summer. But he’s the boss of the Ölandic Resort, and the boss can’t go to prison. So I took the fall.’ He looked at Veronica and added, ‘It was my sister’s idea.’

  ‘I expect she was thinking of the business,’ Gerlof said.

  Veronica ignored him; her gaze was fixed on her brother. ‘Niklas, go indoors and call my husband in Stockholm. He should be in the office by now. Tell him to call my mobile, and keep calling until I answer.’ Then she turned to face Villa Kloss. ‘I have to go,’ she said.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Gerlof asked.

  Veronica didn’t look at him, but she did reply. ‘He’s taken the boys.’

  ‘Who?’

  Veronica Kloss didn’t say any more; she just hurried towards her car.

  But Gerlof didn’t need an answer, of course – it could only be Aron Fredh.

  Niklas was still standing there. Gerlof realized that he was in shock.

  ‘Niklas, have you seen a doctor?’

  ‘Not this year.’

  Gerlof placed a hand on his shoulder and pointed to the ambulance. ‘Go over there and ask the paramedics to have a look at you … We’ll take care of things.’

  Niklas nodded obediently. ‘You’ll find the boys?’

  What could Gerlof say? After all, he and John were just two old seamen.

  ‘We will,’
he promised eventually.

  He watched as Niklas slowly made his way over to the ambulance, then he got back in the car and sighed.

  ‘We’d better drive around, see if we can find the boys. I don’t really know where to look, but …’

  ‘That’s fine,’ John said. ‘I’ve got plenty of petrol. But can we just stop off at the shop?’

  ‘Do you have to work?’

  ‘No, Anders is working, if there are any customers … But I just need to make sure we have enough milk for the weekend.’

  ‘Of course,’ Gerlof said.

  So John turned off, stopped in the car park outside the little shop in Stenvik and got out of the car. Gerlof stayed where he was, until John turned around. ‘Would you like a coffee before we set off?’

  They drank their coffee among the boxes in the storeroom.

  ‘So Aron blew up the cairn,’ John said, ‘and abducted the Kloss children.’

  ‘It looks that way. And Veronica Kloss went after him.’

  ‘Yes.’

  They sat in silence, listening to the ticking of the clock. Gerlof sipped his coffee. Where was Aron now? Where had he hidden himself? In a cottage somewhere?

  All of a sudden, an image came into his head of Aron Fredh on that summer’s day when Gerlof had seen him in the churchyard, before they heard the knocking from inside the coffin. Aron, twelve years old, had appeared by the shed that served as a mortuary like a little ghost. He had reminded Gerlof of a ghost because …

  ‘He was white,’ Gerlof said out loud.

  ‘White?’ John said.

  ‘He was covered in white powder … The first time I saw Aron in the churchyard, his clothes were covered in flour dust.’

  John nodded. ‘That makes sense – Sven Fredh was a miller’s labourer. Aron had probably been helping him before he came to the churchyard.’

  ‘So Sven worked for different farmers,’ Gerlof said slowly. ‘In the flour mills.’

  ‘The mills …’

  ‘Yes,’ Gerlof said. ‘I think that’s where he’s hiding. In a windmill that’s still standing.’

  John frowned. ‘But which one? There must be thirty-five or forty in this parish alone.’