‘Has Mum been here all the time?’
‘She’s here during the day, but not when she’s sleeping.’ She looked at him. ‘I’ll be going home soon. Won’t I?’
Per nodded. ‘I’ll come and pick you up on Wednesday,’ he said. ‘Then we can celebrate Easter on Öland with loads of eggs. Boiled eggs and chocolate eggs.’
Nilla looked pleased. ‘Chocolate eggs would be good.’
Per went over and gave her a hug, rubbing his cheek on her forehead. It was cool. ‘See you soon.’
As he left the room he realized how stiff his smile had been.
Marika was standing down the corridor a little way off as he gently closed the door. She crossed her arms as he walked towards her, and he stopped three steps away.
‘She seems to be feeling pretty good,’ he said.
Marika nodded. ‘Is Jesper still on Öland?’
‘Yes.’
Per had no intention of going into what had happened during the day, or of mentioning that he had gone to help his father and had brought him back with him. Particularly the latter; Marika wasn’t fond of her ex-father-in-law.
‘I’ll be back on Wednesday,’ was all he said. ‘When’s the doctor due?’
‘I don’t know … Before lunch, I think.’
‘I’ll be here then.’
‘Georg is coming too,’ said Marika quietly. ‘Is that OK?’
‘Of course,’ said Per, adding a lie: ‘That’ll be nice, I like Georg.’
Jerry had got out of the car when Per reached the car park. He was standing with his briefcase under his arm and a cigarette in his right hand. How could he smoke tonight?
‘Don’t light that,’ said Per, ‘we’re going now.’
He opened the car door and got in. All Jerry could do was put the cigarette away and get in beside him. He was coughing.
Jerry didn’t breathe, he wheezed. Since the fire it was worse than ever, but he had always coughed and wheezed. Wrecked lungs and too many cigarettes made him sound more and more like a leaking balloon.
His father had abused his body all his life, thought Per as he drove away from the hospital. But it was Nilla who got sick.
Per pulled up in front of the cottage at half past eleven on Monday night. Casa Mörner was in almost complete darkness; Jesper had switched on only a couple of lights in the hallway and the kitchen.
‘Home?’ said Jerry, looking around.
‘Yes, this is home now,’ said Per, looking over at the cottage. ‘This is where Anita and I used to come in the summer, Jerry, after you left her. Mum couldn’t afford to take us on a proper holiday for a good few years after that. You must know that, surely?’
Jerry shook his head, but his eyes had narrowed. Per knew he had recognized his ex-wife’s name, at least.
He turned off the engine and sighed to himself in the silence. He was very tired, but there was one last meeting to get through this evening. He carried Jerry’s old briefcase into the cottage, and his father followed slowly behind.
‘Hello?’ Per shouted as he walked into the hallway. ‘Jesper?’
The door to his son’s room was open; Jesper was sitting up in bed, absorbed in his Gameboy.
‘What?’
‘Turn that off now. Come and say hello to your grandfather.’
Per sniffed the air. Did his clothes still smell of smoke?
Jesper showed no sign of noticing. He simply got out of bed and walked slowly into the hallway. Per could understand his hesitation; Jerry hadn’t seen his grandchildren for almost ten years. He had never shown any interest in meeting them, and Per hadn’t gone out of his way to arrange it.
‘Hi, Granddad,’ said Jesper, holding out his hand.
Jerry seemed slightly hesitant, then he shook the boy’s hand. ‘Jesper,’ he said quietly. He let go of his grandson’s hand and looked around.
‘Would you like a drink?’ said Per.
Jerry nodded quickly, so Per went into the kitchen and poured him a glass of milk.
When he had settled Jerry in an armchair in front of the television, he went outside to get a last dose of clean air into his lungs. He went over to the edge of the quarry – and stopped dead.
A half-moon was shining over the sound and the quarry was full of shadows, but Per could still see that the flight of steps he and Jesper had built didn’t look right. The blocks of stone near the top had gone.
He fetched a torch and shone it down over the steps.
He was right – the wide blocks had collapsed. A couple had crashed into one another in the fall, and were smashed to pieces.
But the steps had felt perfectly stable yesterday. Who had destroyed them?
18
On the Tuesday of Easter week Gerlof had two new visitors – a father and son who didn’t appear to like each other.
After warming up his lunch and eating it, he settled down in his chair out in the garden to read the newspaper and listen to the birds, waiting peacefully for the evening.
Then he caught sight of a grey-haired man in a crumpled coat, walking along the road with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. A young man, at least compared with Gerlof, though he might have been in his seventies; he didn’t look all that well.
The man appeared to be lost. First of all he stood by the gate for a little while, smoking his cigarette and looking around, then he opened it and walked in. He stood on the lawn looking around, as if he couldn’t remember where he was or how he had got there. His left arm was dangling straight down from the shoulder; it looked paralysed.
Gerlof stayed where he was, without saying anything. He wasn’t particularly keen on having any visitors apart from the home-care service today.
However, the man eventually walked up to the lawn in front of the house. He carried on staring around him in a slightly odd way, before suffering a violent coughing fit and stubbing the cigarette out on the grass. Then he stared straight at Gerlof and said, ‘Jerry Morner.’
His voice was hoarse and rough, and he had a Skåne accent. It sounded hardened and experienced.
‘I see,’ said Gerlof.
The man took two steps closer and sat down heavily on the other chair.
‘Jerry,’ he repeated.
‘In that case, we have similar names. I’m Gerlof.’
Jerry took out a fresh cigarette, but merely held it in his hand, staring at it. Gerlof noticed that oddly enough the man had two watches on his left wrist, one gold and one stainless steel. Only one of them was showing Swedish time.
‘Is everything all right?’ asked Gerlof.
The man looked at him open-mouthed, as if the question was too complicated.
‘Jerry,’ he said eventually.
‘I understand.’
Gerlof realized that the man in front of him was lost in more ways than one, and asked no more questions. Silence fell in the garden, but Jerry seemed happy in his chair.
‘Do you have a job?’ asked Gerlof.
There was no reply, so he went on: ‘I’m a pensioner myself. I’ve done my bit.’
‘Jerry and Bremer,’ said Jerry.
Gerlof had no idea what he was talking about, but Jerry smiled contentedly and lit his cigarette with a lighter adorned with the American flag.
‘Jerry and Bremer?’ said Gerlof.
The man coughed again, without answering Gerlof’s question. ‘Pelle,’ he said.
‘Pelle?’
Jerry nodded.
‘I see,’ said Gerlof.
Silence.
‘Jerry!’
They heard a shout from the road. A youngish man was standing there; he owned one of the houses over by the quarry.
Was this the son? He opened Gerlof’s garden gate and walked in. ‘Jerry … I’ve been looking for you.’
Jerry didn’t move at first, as if he didn’t recognize the man who had shouted to him. Then he straightened his back. ‘Pelle,’ he said again.
‘You need to tell me where you’re going, Jerry,’ said
the younger man.
‘Bremer,’ said Jerry, getting to his feet. He looked anxious. ‘Bremer and Markus Lukas …’
He set off towards the gate. The younger man lingered and nodded to Gerlof, who suddenly realized he had met him before, many years ago.
‘You’re related to Ernst Adolfsson, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘Per …?’
‘Per Mörner.’
‘That’s it, I remember now,’ said Gerlof. ‘You used to stay with Ernst sometimes when you were little.’
‘Me and my mother,’ said the man. ‘We stayed with him quite often. Were you and he friends?’
‘We certainly were. My name is Gerlof.’ He nodded towards Jerry. ‘Is that your father?’
‘Jerry? That’s right.’
‘He doesn’t talk much.’
‘No, he finds speech difficult. He had a stroke last year.’
‘I see. And why does he wear two watches on one arm?’
‘You might well ask,’ said Per, looking away. ‘One shows American time … Jerry’s always been fond of the USA.’
‘So who are Bremer and Markus Lukas, then?’
‘Has he been talking about them?’ Per glanced over at his father and went on, ‘Hans Bremer was his work partner. And Markus Lukas … I don’t really know.’ He stopped. ‘I’d better get him home.’
He set off, but stopped when Gerlof asked, ‘So will you be living here now?’
Per nodded. ‘Well, I will anyway … along with my children. I inherited Ernst’s cottage last year.’
‘Good. Look after it.’
Per nodded again and caught up with his father, who had stopped by the gate. ‘Come on, Jerry.’
Gerlof watched them disappear behind the stone wall, a father and his son who were definitely a little bit tired of each other.
It was strange, this business of people and their children. They were close to each other, but the relationship was often strained.
The older man reminded Gerlof of some of the more senile residents in the home at Marnäs; it was just as impossible to conduct a conversation with them over coffee as it would be with someone who was roaring drunk. They lived mostly within their own memories, making only brief visits to the real world. But from time to time they came out with unexpected things. Ideas, stories, sometimes shameless confessions.
Two expensive watches on one arm … He wondered how Jerry Morner had made his money.
19
When Per was little he had enjoyed watching the sun go down over Kalmar Sound, and on Tuesday evening he stood by the window for a while. He had settled Jerry in front of the TV, and shortly he would ring Nilla to arrange a time to pick her up, but first he wanted to see the sunset.
It was just after eight. The sun had lost its heat much earlier in the evening, but it was still dazzling as it hovered just above the water line in the west, bright and golden. It was only when it had slipped halfway below the horizon that it lost its glow, staining the clouds dotted over the mainland dark red, like blood-filled arteries.
Then all of a sudden it was gone. The sky in the west continued to glow, as if a fierce fire were burning beneath it, but the darkness quickly moved in across the shore and the quarry.
Per leaned closer to the window and studied the compact shadows down there. He thought about the steps that had been destroyed. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought some of the shadows might be creeping and crawling around the piles of reject stone.
The police had not been in touch since the initial interview, and Per hadn’t called them. On Wednesday morning he drove into Kalmar to collect Nilla. In the hospital cafeteria he came across an evening paper from the previous day. He flicked through it quickly, and found a short news item:
MAN MISSING AFTER HOUSE FIRE
A man is missing after a devastating fire which started on Sunday evening in a large house in the forest outside the village of Ryd, sixty kilometres south of Växjö.
When the police and fire brigade were called to the scene at approximately 18.00, the wooden house was already burning fiercely, and the fire-fighters concentrated on ensuring that the fire did not spread. The damping-down operation continued until midnight.
The house was completely destroyed, and as we went to press it was unclear whether anyone had lost their life in the blaze. The owner of the property managed to escape and has been questioned by the police, but was unable to shed any light on the cause of the fire.
A witness has stated that at least one person was seen inside the burning house. An employee of the owner, who used the house as an office and for overnight accommodation, is still missing, and the police fear that he could have perished in the blaze.
Forensic technicians will be examining the remains of the property as soon as possible in order to clarify whether anyone could have been inside, and to establish the cause of the fire.
Per closed the paper. ‘The owner of the property’, that was his father, and ‘the missing employee’ must have been Hans Bremer. Per himself was only ‘a witness’, which made him feel better. If and when the press found out that it was Jerry Morner who owned the house, they might well write more.
There were no answers yet, but they would no doubt come in time.
He headed for the lift.
Nilla had put on her outdoor clothes and was waiting for him in the day room. She had brushed her hair and was smiling at him, but she looked even thinner than before. Her shoulders felt narrow and bony when he gave her a hug.
‘Did it go OK?’
She nodded. ‘They said they’ve finished now. Mum went to talk to the doctor this morning, before she left.’
‘Good, I’ll give her a ring. Shall we make a move, then? Jesper is waiting for you at the cottage, and Jerry’s there too.’
‘Jerry?’
‘Yes, Jerry … your grandfather.’
Nilla blinked. ‘Why?’
‘He’s going to celebrate Easter with us.’
Nilla nodded, and didn’t ask any more questions. ‘I need to bring that with me,’ she said. ‘Have we got room?’ A folded wheelchair was leaning against the wall further down the corridor.
Per looked at it. The wheelchair made him go cold – why did Nilla need it right now? He wanted to ask someone, but there was no sign of a doctor.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’m sure we can fit it in the boot.’
They reached the quarry about an hour later.
‘Do you remember the cottage?’ said Per as he pulled up.
Nilla nodded. ‘You said you were going to paint it last summer … Have you done it?’
‘I didn’t get round to it.’
‘And what about the repairs?’
‘When I get time,’ Per said quickly. ‘And we’re going to build a flight of stone steps too. But tonight we’re going to a party.’
‘What kind of party?’
‘A get-together with the neighbours.’
Per got out of the car to avoid further questions. Then he helped Nilla out on to the gravel, and over to the door.
‘I can walk by myself,’ she said, but she clung to his arm as they moved into the hallway and then on to a small bedroom.
‘This is your room,’ he said. ‘It’s nice and clean, and I’ve aired it for you.’
Nilla sat down cautiously on the bed, and Per went to fetch her luggage and the wheelchair.
* * *
Jesper was on the computer in his room, but Per couldn’t find Jerry.
He went out on to the patio in the sunshine. His father was slumped in one of the chairs, with a sunhat tipped down over his forehead and his eyes closed. His briefcase was lying at his feet like an old brown dog.
‘Hi Jerry.’ Per sat down in front of him and placed the newspaper on his knee. ‘Read this.’
But Jerry wasn’t looking down at the paper, he was looking at something over Per’s shoulder.
Per turned and saw Nilla standing in the doorway. Her arms were dangling wearily by her sides, but s
he was smiling at Jerry. ‘Hi Granddad,’ she said. ‘How are you?’
Jerry just nodded. He raised a hand slowly in her direction, and cleared his throat. ‘Hi,’ he said.
Per was holding his breath. His first instinct was to protect his daughter from Jerry in some way, but that was hardly necessary.
‘Granddad doesn’t say much,’ he said to Nilla. ‘I’ll be in soon … we’ll have something to eat.’
Nilla nodded and went back inside.
Per leaned forward and pointed to the newspaper article. ‘Jerry, it seems as if Hans Bremer was in the house. He’s still missing, according to the police.’
His father was listening, but there was no reaction. ‘Bremer,’ was all he said. Then he pulled up his shirt to reveal the large plaster on his stomach.
Per didn’t need to look, he just shook his head. ‘Jerry, why would Bremer want to harm you?’
Jerry’s mouth worked as he struggled to find the word, and at last it came. ‘Frightened.’
Per nodded. He didn’t want to leave his father, but he was wondering if it was a good idea to take him over to the neighbours’ party.
20
Party time. Other people might have neighbourhood disputes, but the families around the quarry were going to have a neighbourhood party, thanks to Vendela Larsson. There was no need to thank her, but without her it wouldn’t be happening.
At six o’clock she was out on the veranda setting the long festive table with wine glasses and plates. Over in the west, above Kalmar Sound, the sun glowed in shades of red and gold, like a dying fire. In a couple of hours it would be gone. Vendela knew it would be a chilly evening on the veranda, and decided to bring out some thick blankets so that everybody could wrap up warm. And of course they could always turn on the halogen heating.
Max had emerged from his study at the end of his working day, wearing his dressing gown and heading for the sauna. He crossed the stone floor in the main living room quickly on his bare feet, but stopped in the doorway.
‘How did it go?’ she asked.
‘Pretty well,’ said Max. ‘I’ve almost finished the beginning … you can have a look at it soon.’
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