‘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 Marklund 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.
‘Look,’ he said, pointing. ‘Jesper and I are building a flight of steps … we can use them now, if we’re careful.’
He held Jerry’s arm firmly as they moved down the narrow ramp; there was just enough room for them to walk side by side, although some of the stones felt alarmingly wobbly beneath their feet. But the blocks remained in place.
‘Not bad, eh?’ said Per as they reached the bottom.
Jerry’s only response was a cough. He looked around the wide gravelled space. ‘Empty,’ he said.
Per kept an eye on him, but started working on the steps again. The wheelbarrow was still there, and he filled it with gravel and pushed it over to the rock face so that he could unload it and start building up the ramp with his spade to make it more stable.
When he had emptied out five loads of gravel, he turned and looked at his father. ‘What are you doing, Jerry?’
Jerry had gone to stand over by the nearest pile of gravel, with his back to Per. He was just standing there, his head bowed, and at first Per didn’t realize what he was doing – until he noticed that Jerry was fiddling with his flies.
‘No, Jerry!’ he shouted.
His father turned his head. ‘What?’
‘You can’t do that down here … You need to go back up to the house!’
But it was too late. He could only stand and watch until Jerry had finished and done up his zip.
The trolls don’t like it if you spill liquid, thought Per. He went over and took his father by the arm. ‘There’s a toilet in the house, Jerry. Use it next time, please.’
Jerry looked at him uncomprehendingly, then suddenly he stiffened, looking past Per and out towards the sea. He blinked. ‘Bremer’s car,’ he said.
‘What?’
Jerry raised his good arm and pointed over towards the coast road, winding its way between the quarry and the sea.
Per turned and saw that a car had stopped. A dark-red car had driven far enough to allow a clear view across the whole of the quarry. He hadn’t seen it arrive, but he was fairly sure the coast road had been empty when he and Jerry had walked down the steps.
He squinted at the car, which was almost directly in the path of the sun. ‘Why do you think … what makes you think it’s Bremer’s car?’
Jerry didn’t answer, but kept on staring at the car.
‘OK. I’ll go and have a word,’ said Per.
He strode across the huge expanse of gravel. The car was still there, and as he drew closer he could see a man hunched over the wheel, looking down at him. A motionless figure that seemed to be wearing some sort of cap.
When he was about a hundred metres away from the coast road, the engine sprang into life.
‘Hello!’ Per shouted and waved, without any idea of who he was waving to, and increased his speed. ‘Wait!’ he shouted.
But the dark-red car began to move. It reversed, swung around and shot away to the south, and it was still too far away for him to be able to make out a number plate, or even what make of car it was.
The sound of the engine died away, and Per had to turn back. He was out of breath when he reached the eastern end of the quarry.
Jerry looked enquiringly at him. ‘Bremer?’
‘No.’
‘Markus Lukas?’
Per shook his head, gasping for breath. No one from Jerry’s world was allowed to come here. Per lived here, and so did Jesper and Nilla.
‘I expect it was a tourist,’ he said. ‘Shall we try out the steps, then?’
Lars Marklund rang Per again at about three o’clock, when they were back in the cottage.
‘I’ve had a look at my diary,’ he said, ‘and
I was thinking that perhaps we could meet halfway … Could you and your father come to the police station in Kalmar at the end of this week?’
‘OK.’
‘So we could meet on Friday at two o’clock, for example?’
‘Sure. But things are a bit up in the air at the moment, so I don’t know … I might have to go to the hospital.’
‘Is your father seriously ill at the moment, then?’
‘No, it’s not my father. It’s my daughter.’
‘I see. But could we say Friday anyway, and you can ring me if there’s a problem?’
‘Of course,’ said Per. ‘But can’t you tell me why you want us to come in? Have you found something in the house?’
‘One or two things.’
‘Was the person upstairs Hans Bremer?’
Marklund hesitated. ‘The bodies have been identified.’
‘A man and a woman, according to the papers,’ said Per. ‘And the fire was started deliberately, wasn’t it?’ There was no response from Marklund, so he went on. ‘You don’t have to say anything – I saw a leaking petrol can down in the studio. And the whole place stank of petrol.’
The silence continued, but eventually Marklund spoke. ‘As I said, we would like to ask your father a few more questions about what he saw when he arrived at the house … and what you saw inside.’
‘Are we suspected of anything?’
‘No. Not you, at any rate. You didn’t have time to set the fire.’
‘So you suspect my father? Or Bremer?’
Marklund was silent again, and then he sighed. ‘We don’t suspect Bremer. He can’t have attacked your father, or started the fire.’
‘Why not?’
Marklund hesitated again, then said, ‘Because Bremer’s hands were tied behind his back when he died. And so were the woman’s.’
39
‘Bye Ally, won’t be long!’
Vendela closed the door and walked across the gravel. She reached up towards the sky, stretching her body as she tried to grab the wispy clouds floating high above. Then she jogged over to the Mörners’ cottage and saw Per’s father sitting out on the patio, slumped in a sun lounger.
She knocked on the door. After a minute or so Per opened it a fraction, as if he was unsure who the caller might be. She thought he looked a bit uneasy, perhaps even afraid.
‘Ready?’ she said.
He looked at her. ‘Were we supposed to be going for a run today as well?’
Vendela nodded quickly. ‘That’s what we said yesterday. Have you changed your mind?’
Their arrangement seemed to have come back to him now. ‘No, I’m coming. I just need five minutes to get Jerry inside.’
It sounded as if he were talking about a pet, Vendela thought.
Ten minutes later, Per had woken his father and got him settled on the sofa indoors. Vendela could see that Jerry was still half asleep; his son placed a blanket over him and let him nod off again.
When Per had changed into his tracksuit and running shoes, they set off.
‘Same route?’
‘Fine by me,’ said Vendela.
They didn’t run as fast today, and the steadier tempo made it easier to talk.
‘Didn’t you want your father to be outside today?’ asked Vendela.
‘Yes, but not when I’m out,’ said Per. ‘I need to keep an eye on Jerry … he has a tendency to wander off.’
They carried on running, striding out and breathing evenly. It felt just as good as the last time. When they had left the buildings behind, Vendela turned to him and said, ‘You never use the word “Dad”.’
Per laughed, or he might have been panting. ‘No. We did away with all that.’ He took a deep breath and asked, ‘What about you … did you always say “Dad”?’
‘To Henry? Yes, but sometimes I said “Father” as well.’
‘But you loved him?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Vendela, looking over towards the quarry. ‘He came down here every morning and came home every evening. I think he was much happier here than he was on the farm … he enjoyed quarrying and working with the reddest limestone of all.’
‘You mean the stone from the place of blood?’ said Per. ‘I know what it is now.’
‘What it is?’
‘I know how it was formed.’ He took a deep breath and went on, ‘I was talking to Gerlof Davidsson, and he said it was a geological—’
Vendela interrupted him. ‘I don’t want to know.’
‘Why not?’
‘It takes something away … it takes away the magic.’
They didn’t speak for a while; the only sounds were the crunch of their shoes on the ground and Per’s deep breathing.
Vendela suddenly veered off to the east on impulse, on to one of the smaller gravel tracks leading up to the main road.
Per followed her. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I want to show you something,’ she said, running on ahead.
She led him along the track leading to her childhood home, and stopped by the gate. It had been a week since her last visit. The grass had grown greener and more lush, but the house was empty. There was no Volvo parked outside. The happy family who lived there had gone home to the city.
Per had also stopped; he was taking deep breaths and looking around. ‘What is this place?’
Vendela opened the gate and said, ‘You can hear my childhood sighing in the trees here.’
‘Oh?’
‘This is where I grew up,’ said Vendela, walking into the garden.
Per seemed to hesitate before following her. ‘So what was it like, living here?’ he said. ‘Was it a good childhood?’
Vendela didn’t answer for a moment; she didn’t want to say too much. And she didn’t want to think about the cows.
‘It was a bit lonely,’ she said eventually. ‘I didn’t have any friends nearby, they lived up in Marnäs. I had my father for company, and then I had …’
She fell silent and stopped in front of the overgrown foundations that showed where the little barn had stood.
Then she looked up at the house, at the middle window upstairs, and for a moment she expected to see two staring eyes up there. A face behind the glass, a raised hand and a low laugh.
Come up and see me, Vendela.
But the room behind the glass was dark and empty.
Öland 1958
When the elves have made fru Jansson so ill that she is unable to work for the remainder of the school year, the supply teacher, fröken Ernstam, is allowed to stay with the class. Vendela likes her very much, and so do the rest of the pupils. She comes from Kalmar and has new ideas about teaching. She seems young and modern; sometimes she leaves her desk and walks around the classroom, and she refuses to play the pedal organ.
A week after she has taken over the class, fröken Ernstam tells the class that they will be going on a spring trip to Borgholm next Friday; they will be visiting the harbour and the castle, but they will also have the opportunity to spend some time in the shops around the square. The trip will be a kind of encouragement, a treat before they begin preparing for the important end-of-year exams.
A buzz of anticipation runs through the classroom, but Vendela remains silent.
She can’t go, of course. The cows have to be taken care of, and besides, everyone has to take two kronor for their train fare. It’s not exactly a fortune, but she hasn’t got it, and she has no intention of asking her father for extra money. She knows he hasn’t got any, he’s said so several times.
But within a week the issue of money for the trip is sorted out; on Tuesday she is able to borrow two fifty-öre pieces from her best friend Dagmar, and on Thursday – yet another miracle – she is walking home past Marnäs church when she suddenly spots a shiny two-kronor coin that someone has dropped on the gravel. So now she has enough money for the trip, and some to spare.
There is only one more problem: Rosa, Rosa and Rosa.
With the coins in her hand,
she stops by the elf stone. She stands there, looking at the hollows in the stone.
They are empty, of course.
Vendela places a fifty-öre coin in one of the hollows and wishes that she might be spared the job of leading the cows home and milking them the next day. One day off a year – that’s not too much to ask, surely?
She stays by the stone for a little while, gazing at the coin. Afterwards she can’t remember what she was thinking about – maybe she wished for something else.
A better life, perhaps? Did she wish that she could get away from the farm, away from her father and the Invalid upstairs, away from the island? That she could escape to another world where she would have no duties, and where money wouldn’t be a problem?
Vendela can’t remember. She leaves the coin in the hollow and sets off across the grass without looking back.
She goes out to the meadow when she gets home, and the cows lift their heads when they see her. Rosa, Rosa and Rosa form a line and begin lumbering towards the gate, and Vendela lifts her stick. But she doesn’t hit them today; her head is full of thoughts. She walks behind the cows, wondering how her wish will be granted.
That night she is woken by the sound of the cows bellowing in the darkness. They sound terrified, and a strange crackling noise is mingled with their cries.
Vendela sits up in bed; she can smell smoke. Through the blind she can see a flickering glow outside. A yellow light around the barn that just keeps on growing, making the rest of the yard melt into one with the dark forest. She hears feet thundering up the stairs, and a shout: ‘The barn’s on fire!’
It’s Henry’s voice. She hears his steps crossing the floor, then the door is flung open. ‘It’s on fire! Get out!’
Vendela gets out of bed, and Henry pulls and drags and carries her down the stairs and out into the cold night air. She ends up on the wet grass, looking around in confusion; that is when she sees that the barn is ablaze. The flames are forcing their way out through the walls, sending sparks whirling up into the night sky. The fire has already begun to lick at the gables.
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