‘But not you,’ said Per. ‘You’re staying here. You’ll be all right here, won’t you?’
He was trying to be firm, but it wasn’t working. He looked around the dirty kitchen, unable to decide what to do with his father.
Go home, he thought, looking at his reflection in the kitchen window. He wouldn’t have bothered with you if you were old and sick.
But Per couldn’t do it. It wasn’t just his promise to his mother, or the fact that Jerry didn’t eat properly or look after himself, and needed help – there was this business of the spare keys as well. This business of arson and a possible break-in.
If Jerry was going to stay here, Per would have to get the police to keep an eye on his apartment, and until then it didn’t feel safe.
If Hans Bremer had had a key to the apartment, and if someone had stolen it from him and got in over Easter to steal something, then there was nothing to stop that person from coming back.
In the end Per took Jerry back to Öland with him, in spite of everything. He packed a case with clean clothes and locked the front door carefully, then father and son got back in the car and set off towards the Baltic.
Per kept his promise to stop in Kalmar and visit Nilla, but found her fast asleep. Her slumber seemed peaceful and deep. He sat for a while in silence beside her bed, watching her pale face and struggling with an urge to split himself into two parts: one that would stay here and keep watch over her around the clock; and one that would prefer to run away and never come back. Per loved his daughter, but to see her like this in a hospital room was unbearable. All he wanted was to get back in the car.
He could tell himself that helping Jerry was of more use. But the truth was that Per wasn’t really being helpful, he was just a coward who couldn’t face his daughter’s suffering.
Afterwards, Per and Jerry continued to Öland. At least there were no grandchildren to take into account at the cottage this time. And hardly any neighbours, either. They got back to the quarry at about three o’clock, and Per could see that the Kurdin house was all closed up.
It looked as if the other neighbours, the Larssons, were still there. He remembered promising to go for a run with Vendela this evening, and realized he was actually looking forward to it.
As he helped Jerry into the cottage, Per asked, ‘So what happens to Morner Art now – the company you and Bremer ran together?’
‘Bremer,’ said Jerry, shaking his head.
Per thought he understood. ‘That’s right, Hans Bremer is gone … so I expect you’ll wind the company up now, once and for all?’
His father nodded.
‘Was that what Markus Lukas wanted when he got in touch with you?’ asked Per. ‘Did he want you to stop making films?’
Jerry looked confused, and didn’t reply.
‘I can help you wind up Morner Art,’ said Per. ‘I can take care of the practicalities – contact the authorities, the bank and so on.’
Jerry still said nothing, but Per thought his chin made a small movement of assent. And he hoped – he really did hope – that this would be the end of Jerry’s business.
No more magazines, no more films.
No more trips into the forest.
36
Once Max had set off on his short promotional tour, Vendela was alone in the house for the first time, and suddenly it seemed even bigger than before. Too big – the living room with its high ceiling and thick beams reminded her of Henry’s barn. Her steps echoed emptily when she walked across the stone floor. But she had hung old Gerlof’s Turk’s head mat on the kitchen door, and smiled to herself each time she looked at it.
Aloysius was still there, of course, and was good company. And he was so well! It was just fantastic. When Max had gone, Ally got out of his basket and walked around the ground floor several times, without bumping into a single piece of furniture. And Vendela thought he was looking at her all the time now, without her needing to call him. She wasn’t really surprised, because that was exactly what she had wished for.
And now she was going for a run up the coast with Per Mörner.
‘Hi,’ said Per when she opened the door.
‘Hi,’ said Vendela.
‘Are you ready?’
‘Absolutely.’
They set off from the quarry side by side, and soon fell into rhythm with one another, breathing together as they ran, keeping abreast of the setting sun.
A chill moved in from the sea, up across the shore and the rocks. The sun stained the sky dark red. They picked up speed as they reached the gravel track, and Vendela felt strong, keeping up the same fast pace as Per. She could hear his deep, steady breathing, and the proximity of his tall body gave her fresh energy; she felt as if she could run all the way to the neighbouring village of Långvik.
But after three or four kilometres Per turned and asked, ‘Shall we head back?’
She could see that he was tired. ‘Sure. We’ve come far enough.’
They stopped and rested up above the shore for a minute or so, looking out across the dark-blue sound, with not a boat in sight. They didn’t speak, but took a deep breath at almost the same moment. Then they set off towards the south, keeping up a steady pace.
They didn’t start talking until they were back at the quarry.
‘There’s something I wanted to ask you,’ said Per, getting his breath back. ‘That business with the stone … my daughter’s lucky stone from Iceland. How did you do it?’
‘Me?’ said Vendela, letting out a long breath. ‘I didn’t do anything.’
‘But you knew where it was … on her bed.’
Vendela nodded. ‘Sometimes you just get a feeling about things.’ She wanted to change the subject, and asked, ‘So has your family gone now?’
‘My father’s still here. My children have gone to Kalmar.’
‘Me too … well, my husband. My little dog Aloysius and I are still here. He stayed out of the way during the party on Wednesday, but he’s around now. Would you like to meet him?’
‘Sure.’
Per walked up to the house with her. She opened the door and took a last look around, east towards the alvar and west towards the shore.
‘We live between the trolls and the elves,’ she said.
‘Do we?’ said Per.
‘My father always told me the trolls lived down in the quarry, and the elves lived out on the alvar. And when they met, they would fight until the blood flowed.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, there are still traces of their battles down in the quarry. Traces of blood.’
‘The place of blood, you mean?’ said Per. ‘Do you believe in that?’
He looked at her quizzically, and she laughed out loud. ‘Maybe … but not in trolls.’
He was smiling now, as if they were sharing a joke. ‘And what about elves?’
‘Yes,’ said Vendela; her smile suddenly disappeared. ‘Perhaps they do exist. But they’re friendly creatures – they help us.’
‘Do they?’
‘Yes.’ And she went on without thinking, ‘They were the ones who helped to find your daughter’s lucky stone.’
‘Really?’ said Per.
‘I asked them about it, and they showed me an image of where it would be.’
Per said nothing, but Vendela could see he was looking sideways at her. She shouldn’t have babbled about the elves, but it was done now.
The silence was getting a little too long and awkward, so she turned around. ‘Ally!’
After a few seconds she heard the sound of pattering feet as the greyish white poodle made his way cautiously towards the door.
‘Hello,’ said Per.
Ally raised his head, but was unable to focus his gaze on their guest. So that Per wouldn’t notice anything, Vendela bent down and scratched the back of Ally’s neck.
‘Thanks for your company,’ said Per behind her.
She turned to face him. ‘Thank you. Shall we do it again tomorrow?’
A straight, direct ques
tion, and she hadn’t even laughed nervously as she asked him.
Per looked slightly hesitant, then nodded.
* * *
When Vendela had closed the door behind Per, the telephone in the kitchen started to ring. She stayed in the hall with Ally; she had an idea of who it would be, and wasn’t sure if she wanted to answer.
The piercing tone rang out twice, three times, four – and by the fifth ring she was over by the worktop picking up the receiver.
‘Hello?’
‘Where have you been?’ said a male voice. ‘I’ve called three times.’
It was Max, of course.
‘Nowhere,’ Vendela said quickly. ‘Out on the alvar.’
‘Out for a run?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Alone? Weren’t you going to go for a run with our neighbour?’
Vendela didn’t even remember mentioning it, but Max had remembered, and of course he had to bring it up. She couldn’t understand his need to be in control. She waited a few seconds, then came up with a less than truthful response: ‘I went on my own.’
‘Is there anybody else left in the village?’
‘I don’t know … a few people, I expect. I’ve been indoors most of the time.’
‘OK … well, I rang anyway.’
Silence. She heard the sound of pattering feet, and Ally came into the kitchen. Vendela clicked her fingers and the poodle listened hard in order to find his way over to her.
‘How’s the tour going?’ she asked.
‘Not bad.’
‘Many people?’
‘Some. But they’re not buying many books.’
‘I’m sure it’ll improve,’ she said.
‘Anything else?’ he said quietly.
‘Like what?’
‘Have you taken any tablets today?’
‘Only two,’ said Vendela. ‘One this morning and one after lunch.’
‘Good,’ said Max. ‘I have to go now; I’m having dinner with the organizers.’
‘OK. Sleep well.’
After she had put the phone down, Vendela wondered why she kept on lying about the tablets. She hadn’t taken a single one for several days. Her running was much more important now.
37
After Easter, everything went back to normal in Gerlof’s little garden, once his children and grandchildren had gone home.
The last of the dead leaves had fallen off the hazel bushes around the garden, and Gerlof could see small, busy shadows hopping about among the branches. They were bullfinches, newly arrived migrants who would either remain in the village for the whole summer, or just rest for a few days before continuing across the Baltic to Finland and Russia. He could hear them too – the chorus of the finches sounded like tinkling bells.
The temperature had risen by a few degrees; there was only a gentle breeze, and Gerlof could work on his model ships out on the lawn. John Hagman had given him an old, well-dried piece of mahogany that he was intending to use to build a full-rigged ship. They had had their glory days on the world’s oceans long before he himself became a sea captain, but he had always loved them.
He could also carry on reading Ella’s diaries in secret. From time to time he had found a note about her visitor.
5th August 1957
Plenty of fish this week. Last Thursday we had fried pike steaks from a fish Gerlof caught with a spear between the rocks on the shore, and this morning Andersson the carpenter gave me a perch.
And we had a crayfish party last Saturday night. But Gerlof was down in Borgholm at a meeting, so the girls and I had a party on our own.
The changeling seems to know when there’s no one around. He’s stayed away for a couple of weeks, but today he was standing by the stone wall when I came out, and I fetched him some milk and biscuits. He came over and I could smell him; the stench was worse than ever, I expect it’s the heat. He needs a bath, I thought, why can’t he have a bath? But the changeling just smiled and I pretended everything was all right.
As usual he didn’t say a word, just munched away at the biscuits and drank his milk. And then he headed off towards the north again, without so much as a thank-you.
He’s so timid and he jumps at the slightest sound, so I don’t think he’s supposed to be here. He wants to come and go without anyone seeing him. That’s why I don’t mention him, not to anyone.
Gerlof stopped reading. He looked over towards the village road in the north and thought about the fact that Ella’s visitor had always come from that direction.
What lay to the north? In the fifties there had been a few farms and boathouses up there; apart from that, there was nothing but grass and bushes. And the quarry, of course. That was the closest, on the other side of the road.
He was going to start reading again, but the bell on the gate heralded the arrival of a visitor; not the care service this time, but Per Mörner. He waved, and Gerlof waved back. They hadn’t seen each other since the previous week, at the party.
‘I’m back,’ said Per, walking across the lawn.
‘I didn’t even know you’d been away,’ said Gerlof. ‘Did you take your father back to the mainland?’
‘That was the idea,’ Per said quietly, ‘but one or two things got in the way … He’s still here, I’m looking after him.’
He lowered his eyes as he spoke.
‘Well, that’s good,’ said Gerlof. ‘You’ll be able to spend some time together.’
‘Yes,’ said Per, not looking particularly pleased at the prospect.
There was a short silence, then he suddenly asked, ‘By the way, do you know anything about the blood over in the quarry?’
‘Traces of blood?’ said Gerlof. ‘I’ve never seen any.’
‘Not traces of blood,’ said Per. ‘It’s more like a red layer that you can see in the rock … Ernst used to talk about the place of blood.’
‘Oh, that?’ Gerlof laughed. ‘Yes, that’s what the quarry workers used to call it. But it’s not blood, it’s iron oxide. It was formed when Öland lay beneath the water, and the quarry was part of the sea bed. The sun shone down through the waters of the Baltic and the sea bed oxidized. Then the island rose from the waves and the iron oxide solidified and formed a layer of rock … It was before my time, of course, but that’s what I’ve read.’
‘But did the quarry workers believe it was blood?’
‘No, no, but they had lots of names for the different strata within the rock.’ Gerlof raised a hand and counted on his fingers: ‘There was the hard layer on the top; that was full of cracks, and they just broke it off and shovelled it away. Then there was the sticky layer that was solid and difficult to quarry. After that they reached the good layer, where they found the best, finest limestone, and that was what they dug out and sold. And underneath that, in certain parts, was the place of blood.’
‘Was the stone good down there?’
‘No, quite the opposite,’ said Gerlof. ‘When they reached the place of blood they’d gone too far.’
Per nodded and said, ‘So now I know. There’s always a simple explanation.’
Gerlof glanced at Ella’s diary, lying on the table. ‘Well, usually.’
38
Per started working again on Tuesday.
‘Good morning, my name is Per Mörner and I’m calling from Intereko, a company involved in market research. I wonder if you have time to answer a few questions?’
Even while he was reeling off the questions he was thinking about other things. He gave some thought to Vendela Larsson and her talk of trolls and elves. She was a bit strange, but he couldn’t get her out of his mind.
The telephone on the kitchen table rang at about ten o’clock, when he had just finished his twelfth conversation about soap. The memory of the strange anonymous call after Easter made him hesitate, his hand hovering above the receiver, but in the end he picked it up.
A firm male voice spoke. ‘Per Mörner?’
‘Speaking.’
‘This is Lars Ma
rklund from the Växjö police. We’ve spoken before …’
‘I remember.’
‘Good; it’s about the house fire in Ryd, of course. We’d really like to expand on the interview from that first evening.’
‘You want to talk to me?’
‘And your father.’ It sounded as if Marklund was shuffling through some papers. ‘Gerhard Mörner. When would be a convenient time for you?’
‘I’m afraid there’s not much to be gained from speaking to my father,’ said Per.
‘Is he ill?’
‘He had a stroke last year. It’s affected his speech; he can only remember odd words.’
‘We’d still like to ask him a few questions. Is he at his home address?’
‘No, he’s here on Öland.’
‘OK … we’ll be in touch.’
‘But what’s it about?’ asked Per. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘We just have a few more questions … The fire investigators have finished now.’ He paused and added, ‘And the post-mortems have been carried out.’
‘So what have you found out?’ said Per.
But Marklund had already hung up.
Jerry was still asleep, or at least he was still in bed. Per managed to get him up and persuaded him to get dressed. It seemed to take longer and longer every day; Jerry had no strength whatsoever in his left arm, and Per had to help him into his shirt.
‘Breakfast time,’ he said.
‘Tired,’ said Jerry.
Per left him at the kitchen table with coffee and sandwiches and went out into the sunshine and the clear, cold air to take another look at Ernst’s workshop.
He opened the doors wide so that the light fell on the sculptures inside. It was a strange group – like a big troll family, or whatever it was supposed to be. And all around them, lining the walls, were Ernst’s tools: chisels, hammers, axes and drills. A whole arsenal of tools.
If Jerry had had other interests earlier in life, sleep was his only interest now. He stayed in bed in the mornings, and after his late breakfast he wanted to go straight back there. But Per was having none of it; he made his father put on his coat and shoes, and took him over to the edge of the quarry.
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