The Quarry

by Johan Theorin

  ‘Something like that.’

  She sat down on the grass with her back resting against the stone. Per hesitated, then sat down beside her.

  They rested for a while with their legs outstretched, watching as the setting sun stained the clouds dark red.

  ‘Have you told your husband you’re out here?’ Per asked.

  Vendela didn’t answer at first. How much should she tell him?

  ‘Max isn’t at home,’ she said eventually. ‘He’s taken our dog back to the city so the vet can check him over. And … we’ve had a row as well. I stood up to him, and he’s not used to that. He gets frustrated.’

  Per didn’t say anything.

  ‘But he’ll soon come bouncing back, like a rubber ball … Max needs me.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I help him with his books.’

  ‘How? You mean you …’

  ‘I make sure he finishes them.’

  Per looked at her. ‘Do you write his books?’

  ‘Sometimes.’ Vendela sighed. ‘We work together. But Max thinks it’s better and simpler if he’s the one in the limelight, with his name on the cover as the author.’

  ‘Better for him, anyway,’ said Per. ‘What do they call it when you lend your name to someone else who wants to remain anonymous?’

  ‘I don’t know … but then again, Max has nothing against being well known,’ said Vendela. ‘I prefer to remain invisible.’

  She had always found it difficult to talk about her husband; it felt like a betrayal, but she went on, ‘Max likes to be in the centre of things, and he has tremendous self-confidence. He’s written a cookery book this spring, in spite of the fact that he can hardly even boil water … I wish I had just a fraction of that confidence in myself.’ She closed her eyes. ‘I was in therapy for a while, seeing a psychologist. That’s how I met Max.’

  ‘He was your therapist?’

  Vendela nodded. ‘I fell in love with him and we got together, but he was given a warning by the psychology association. Therapists aren’t allowed to seduce their patients – it’s unethical.’ She added, ‘So Max got angry and decided to become a writer instead; he regarded it as his revenge on the association when his books became popular.’

  They sat in silence for a little while.

  ‘Why were you in therapy?’ asked Per.

  ‘I don’t know … So that I could move on from a difficult childhood, isn’t that usually the case?’

  ‘Did you have a difficult childhood?’

  ‘It wasn’t great. My mother died when I was very young, and my father was in a dream world most of the time … And I had a brother, an older brother called Jan-Erik. We lived in the same house, but he didn’t want to see me. His door was always closed. So I thought we had some kind of monster living upstairs.’

  ‘But you got to know him eventually?’

  ‘Yes, but he frightened me at first. He was mentally handicapped … retarded, as we said in those days. And he looked horrible.’

  ‘Horrible?’

  ‘Jan-Erik had allergies, just like me … but his were much worse. I think he had a mixture of different allergies, as well as asthma and sensitive skin. He had long nails that were hardly ever cut; they tore his skin when he scratched himself, and that led to infections.’

  ‘It sounds horrendous,’ said Per.

  ‘It was, but there was no attempt to help a person like that back in the fifties. They were just hidden away.’ She closed her eyes. ‘And then he was convicted of setting fire to our barn, and the authorities decided to send Jan-Erik to a mental hospital on the mainland … Which meant he would end up among psychopaths and those who’d committed sex crimes. It was out of the question.’

  ‘Out of the question?’

  ‘I helped him to run away.’

  She didn’t say any more. They sat in silence again.

  The setting sun had begun to nudge the trees over by the shore. Before long it would be pitch dark out here.

  Per was lost in his own thoughts. After a while he looked over at the red clouds and said, ‘There’s no love or consideration in this world, only egotism … He taught me that at an early age. But when I grew up I tried to prove to him that it wasn’t true.’

  Vendela turned to look at him. ‘Who are you talking about?’

  ‘My father.’

  Vendela reached out her hand and he took it. His hand was cold and almost as slender and bony as her own. ‘And now Jerry’s gone. And I’m frightened of what he’s left me.’

  ‘What has he left you?’ asked Vendela.

  ‘Bad memories. And a whole lot of problems.’

  They sat there by the stone, still holding hands. The sun had disappeared and the sky was growing dark, but they carried on talking. Eventually they got to their feet.

  They didn’t say much on the way home, but Vendela stopped outside Per’s cottage. She looked at him in the darkness. He opened his mouth, but didn’t seem to know what to say or do. And Vendela didn’t know either.

  ‘This is where I live,’ he said eventually, turning away.

  Vendela stayed where she was for a minute or two, wondering whether to go with him. What would he do then? What would she do? A range of possibilities extended before her like meandering rivers.

  ‘Sleep well, Per.’

  Vendela set off again – home to her own dark stone fortress.

  54

  Per was sitting at the kitchen table with the telephone in front of him, peering out of the window. There was no sign of any strange cars on the coast road. And there had been no anonymous phone calls over the past twenty-four hours. But he was still unable to relax this morning.

  He had intended to work, but he just couldn’t summon up any enthusiasm for making up yet more opinions on soap. Instead he made some other calls.

  First of all he contacted Jerry’s bank in Kristianstad to get an idea of the situation regarding his father’s finances. The question was, would there be any money left for Per?

  Apparently not. Twenty-two thousand kronor, that was what he managed to track down in Jerry’s bank accounts. Plus a few shares in Volvo – which was ironic, as Jerry had always refused to drive Swedish cars. But there were no valuable works of art stashed away, no expensive wines or luxury cars.

  Everything had gone. Morner Art was an empty company.

  ‘Your father wasn’t completely wiped out, but near enough,’ said the bank manager who was dealing with Jerry’s estate.

  ‘But he did have money at one stage, didn’t he?’

  ‘Oh yes, there was money in the company. But your father made a number of significant withdrawals in recent years. Of course, there’s the property outside Ryd as well, but that’s an insurance matter now … The estate will just about cover the funeral expenses, in my view.’

  Well, at least that means we can bury him, thought Per.

  He had suspected that he was unlikely to inherit very much from his father – nothing of value, anyway. He had certainly inherited other things.

  ‘These withdrawals from the company … Was he paying himself a salary?’

  ‘No,’ said the bank manager. He seemed to be checking something on the computer. ‘They were salary and pension payments to an employee … Hans Bremer.’

  After the conversation, Per sat by the telephone thinking. Mostly about Hans Bremer. Why had Jerry given him so much money? And where had the money gone, in that case? Bremer’s sister hadn’t seen any sign of it, after all.

  He suddenly remembered the little note he had found in Bremer’s apartment. A note with four names on it.

  His trousers were in the laundry basket, but the note was still in his pocket. He put in on the kitchen table in front of him and stared at the names: Ingrid, Cash, Fountain and Danielle, each followed by a telephone number.

  Ingrid was Bremer’s sister, so he didn’t need to ring her, but he had no idea who the other three were. He chose the first one, the person Bremer called Cash. It looked like a mobile
number.

  Shouldn’t he just let all this go?

  Perhaps, but the alternative was to sit here thinking about tumours. He picked up the receiver.

  The phone rang three times, then a man’s voice answered decisively: ‘Fall.’

  ‘Good morning,’ said Per. ‘My name is Per Mörner.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m ringing with regard to a person I think you might know.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘His name is Hans Bremer. Do you know him?’

  There was silence at the other end of the phone for a few seconds, and Per could hear the faint sound of voices in the background, as if there were some kind of conference going on, before eventually the man answered. ‘Bremer is dead.’

  ‘I know that,’ said Per. ‘I’m just trying to find out more about him …’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘My father Jerry worked with him for a number of years, and I’d really like to know who he was. So you did know him then?’

  He heard the background noise again for a few seconds, then the answer came: ‘Yes.’

  ‘And your name is Fall?’

  ‘Yes … Thomas Fall.’ The man still sounded hesitant. ‘So how did you get hold of my number?’

  Per explained, and when he mentioned the note he had found in Bremer’s kitchen, Thomas Fall seemed to relax slightly.

  ‘He’d written “Cash” next to your number,’ Per went on. ‘Any idea why he did that?’

  Fall didn’t speak for a few seconds, then he laughed. ‘That’s what he called me sometimes. I used to listen to a lot of Johnny Cash when I got to know him. The Man in Black.’

  ‘Were you related to Bremer?’

  ‘No,’ said Fall. ‘He was my photography tutor in Malmö. I did an evening course in the mid-seventies because I wanted to get into advertising, and Bremer was teaching at the college. He left the following year … Or perhaps I should just come straight out with it: he got the sack.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  There was a short silence.

  ‘He was a bit different. He was good with the students, but his teaching was a bit disorganized … and he was drinking a fair amount, even then.’

  ‘Did you know he was involved in porn as well?’ said Per. ‘That he made porn films every spring and summer?’

  Another pause at the other end of the line.

  ‘Yes, I did know that,’ Fall said eventually. ‘He didn’t exactly talk about it, but I found out after a while.’

  ‘But you kept in touch with him?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fall, ‘but only to the extent that I rang occasionally to see how things were, and helped him out with the odd freelance job. I think Bremer was pretty lonely … he had no family of his own, just a sister.’

  ‘Did he ever mention a man called Markus Lukas?’

  Silence once more.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Fall said after a while. ‘Not that I remember.’

  Per was just wondering what else to ask when Fall went on, ‘But he gave me a briefcase … I think I’ve still got it.’

  ‘Bremer gave you a briefcase?’

  ‘Yes, he left it here last year. He called round and he was pretty drunk; he asked me to look after it. I’m not really sure where it is now.’

  ‘Have you got time to look?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll check in the loft.’

  ‘Can I ring you back?’ said Per.

  ‘Sure,’ said Fall, and added, ‘I can take your number as well.’

  Per gave him both his mobile number and the landline number for the cottage, and thanked him for his help before hanging up.

  I think Bremer was pretty lonely, Thomas Fall had said. Per thought so too.

  He stretched his back, then rang the third number on Bremer’s list, the one with ‘Fountain’ next to it. This time it took even longer for someone to answer; the phone rang eleven or twelve times before the receiver was picked up.

  ‘Hello?’

  It was a tired male voice. Canned laughter from a TV programme could be heard in the background.

  ‘Hello,’ said Per, ‘is that Fountain?’

  ‘Yes – who wants to know?’

  ‘Excellent!’ said Per. The laughter from the TV was so loud and the man was speaking so quietly that he almost found himself shouting. ‘I got your number from Hans Bremer.’

  ‘Right,’ said the man. ‘What do you need?’

  ‘What do I need?’ said Per, trying to think. ‘Well … what have you got?’

  ‘Not all that much at the moment,’ said the man. ‘I’ve got some ten-litre packs of Swedish schnapps and a couple of Polish vodka. Will that be enough?’

  Per finally got it – Fountain supplied cheap, home-distilled illicit spirits.

  ‘That’s not really what I had in mind,’ he said, and was about to hang up when the man said, ‘Bremer was supposed to be settling up – do you know anything about that?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Per, as the canned laughter grew even more hysterical.

  ‘He said he was going to pay off his debts before the summer.’

  ‘How much are we talking about?’

  ‘Twenty thousand. Are you going to sort it out?’

  ‘No,’ said Per. ‘And I shouldn’t think Bremer will be sorting it out either.’

  He hung up and called the last number on the list, which apparently belonged to someone called Danielle. It was a mobile number, but an automated message immediately cut in, informing him that the number was no longer in use. No other number was given.

  That was it, then. He sat at the table thinking about Jerry’s dead colleague.

  Hans Bremer had led a double life. He seemed to have put all his energy into making porn films at the weekends, then had gone back home to Malmö to live a miserable, debt-ridden existence fuelled by booze.

  Per picked up the phone again and rang the undertaker to discuss Jerry’s funeral.

  ‘Do you know how many people will be coming?’ asked the funeral director. ‘Approximately?’

  ‘No. But probably not very many.’

  He couldn’t actually think of anybody who ought to be invited to the funeral. Jerry’s relatives had broken off all contact with him long ago – or perhaps it was the other way round. All in all, he had probably been just as lonely as Bremer.

  Then Per looked around and realized that he was sitting here in an empty house. His family wasn’t here, and how many friends did he have? How many people would come to his funeral?

  That wasn’t something he ought to be thinking about right now.

  Quarter of an hour later he drove away from the quarry, and couldn’t help glancing over at Vendela’s house. Lights were shining from the tall windows. He wondered what she was doing and whether her husband had come home yet, but didn’t stop to find out.

  Randhult wasn’t a village like Stenvik; it was just a few farms scattered around in an agricultural landscape, half an hour by car along the motorway to the south of Kalmar. Ulrica Ternman had said she lived in the only brick-built house in the village, and it was easy to find. Per parked on the drive.

  He heard a clattering noise as he was getting out of the car and saw a boy of about twelve trying out a radio-controlled jeep on the gravel. The boy looked up when he saw Per, but quickly turned his attention back to the car.

  Per went up the steps and rang the bell, and a woman of about thirty-five opened the door. She was no blonde bimbo; she had short brown hair and was dressed in faded jeans and a black cotton top.

  Per remembered what his father had said about Regina during the Easter weekend: Got old, I suppose. No doubt that was how Jerry had divided women up – into hot girls and old bags.

  ‘Hi,’ said Per, and introduced himself.

  Ulrica Ternman nodded. ‘Come in.’

  She turned away and Per followed her into the hallway.

  ‘Is that your son outside?’

  ‘Yes, that’s Hugo,’ she said. ‘We also have a daugh
ter called Hanna … My husband has taken her into town to her gymnastics class this evening. It’s probably best if they’re not at home.’

  ‘Does he know you …’

  Per was searching for the right words, and Ulrica Ternman looked tired.

  ‘That I was a slag, you mean?’

  ‘No, I mean …’

  ‘I haven’t mentioned the modelling,’ she broke in. ‘But Ulf knows I did plenty of stupid things when I was young, and so did he. Before he grew up.’

  Per took off his jacket. ‘And you remember Jerry, my father?’

  She nodded. ‘He was a bit different, a mixture of a teddy bear and a dirty old man … I never quite worked him out.’

  ‘I don’t think anybody did,’ said Per.

  She led him into a neat little kitchen and put some coffee on.

  ‘So Jerry Morner is dead?’

  ‘He died a few days ago.’

  ‘And you want to know more about him?’

  ‘Yes … but I think I really want to know more about the people he worked with,’ said Per. ‘He had a colleague called Hans Bremer …’

  ‘Bremer, that’s right,’ said Ulrica. ‘He was the younger one, he organized everything. And took the pictures.’

  She didn’t say any more; she just looked serious and seemed lost in thought, so Per asked, ‘How did you end up working with my father?’

  Ulrica gave a mirthless laugh. ‘I don’t really know,’ she said. ‘I didn’t really do much thinking. You don’t when you’re nineteen, do you? You decide in a split second and just go for it … A boyfriend had dumped me that summer and gone off with another girl; I was angry and upset and furious with him, so this was meant to be some kind of revenge. I was going to send him a copy of the magazine, but I never got round to it, in fact I never even got the magazine … Although I did get paid, of course, in cash.’

  ‘Did you get a lot of money?’

  ‘Fifteen hundred, I think. That was a lot of money when you were nineteen … I would have had to work at least a week in a nursing home to earn that much.’

  ‘So how did you hear about the job?’

  ‘There was a small ad asking for photographic models in one of the evening papers. Lisa Wegner had seen it, and mentioned it to me and Petra Blomberg. It was obvious what it was all about … You had to send in nude pictures, so we took a few photos of each other and sent them off to Malmö. And a couple of weeks later I got a call from someone who said his name was Hans.’