Echoes From the Dead (28 page)

on Oland, big and different. Rows of derricks for loading and unloading cargo are silhouetted against the sky like great black prehistoric creatures, and tugboats churn out thick gray smoke as they move between the great white Atlantic steamers out in the channel. In the port of Gothenburg, sails and masts have more or less disappeared; now ranks of propellerdriven cargo ships line up at the quays.

Nils has walked by the waterside, studied the long hulls, and thought about the bananas in South America.

He spends as little time as possible in the scruffy room at the boardinghouse for single men; he comes home late and gets up early. He doesn’t miss the bitterly cold nights lying on moss and twigs in the forest, but when he is lying in bed the walls around him feel like a cell, and he is listening for the heavy tread of the police on the stairs the whole time.

One night the door of his room opened, and the substantial

figure of District Superintendent Henriksson walked into the room in full uniform. His clothes were soaked in blood. He stretched out his hand, dripping red with blood, toward the bed.

You murdered me, Nils. And now I’ve found you.

Nils shot out of bed, his teeth clenched. The room was

empty.

He has sent just one postcard to Vera during his time in

Gothenburg. A blackandwhite card with a picture of Vinga lighthouse on the front. Nils sent it all the way across the country to Stenvik, without putting his name on it, or even writing a message.

He daren’t let his mother know anything more than the fact that he’s still free and somewhere on the west coast, but he thinks that’s enough.

A young man has come into the park now. He’s about the

same age as Nils, and his name is Max.

The first time Nils saw him was three days earlier at a little cafe by the docks; Max was sitting in a corner a couple of tables away from Nils. It was easy to spot him, as he was smoking cigarettes from a gold case and talking loudly in a broad Gothenburg accent, to the waitresses, to the smiling owner of the cafe, and to other customers. Everybody called him Max. Sometimes visitors came in off the street and sat down at his table, young and elderly men who spoke quietly. Then Max lowered his voice as well, and the conversation was conducted with gestures and a rapid exchange of sentences.

Max was selling something, that much was obvious, and since

he never handed anything over to those who visited his table, Nils guessed that he was selling information and good advice. So after an hour or so Nils got up and went over to the corner table himself.

Closer, he could see that Max was even younger than he was,

with greasy hair and a spotty face. But his expression was alert as he listened to Nils.

It felt strange to sit and talk to a stranger after such a long time alone, but it was all right. Just as quietly as the others who had sat at the table, without giving his name, he asked for some particularly good advice. And he wanted Max to do something for himsomething important. Max listened and nodded.

“Two days,” he said.

That was the time he needed to carry out the important task.

“I’ll give you twentyfive kronor,” said Nils.

“Thirtyfive would be better,” the young man said quickly.

Nils thought about it. “Thirty, then.”

Max nodded and leaned forward. “We won’t meet here again,”

he said, even more quietly. “We’ll meet in a park … a good park I often use.”

He told Nils where to find it, then got up and quickly left the cafe.

And now Nils is standing in the park, waiting. He’s been here for half an hour, walked round and checked that the park is completely empty, and found two different escape routes in case something should go wrong. He never told his new acquaintance his name, but he’s sure Max quickly realized that Nils is wanted by the police.

The young man comes straight up to him without glancing

around or signaling to any unseen observers.

This doesn’t make Nils relax, but he doesn’t run away either.

He stares at Max, who has stopped a yard or so in front of him.

” Celeste Horizon,” he says. “That’s your ship.”

Nils nods.

“She’s English.” Max sits down on a rock among the trees and takes out a cigarette. “But the captain is Danish, his name’s Petri.

He wasn’t particularly interested in who was coming aboard, he just wanted to know about the money.”

“We can talk about that,” says Nils.

“They’re loading timber at the moment, and she sails in three days,” says Max, blowing out smoke.

“Where to?”

“East London. They’ll unload the timber there, then go on

to Durban to pick up coal, then on to Santos. You can go ashore there.”

“I want to go to America,” says Nils quickly. “To the USA.”

Max shrugs his shoulders. “Santos is in Brazil, south of Rio,”

he says. “Get another ship from there.”

Nils thinks about it. Santos is in South America? That might be a good starting point for more travels, before he comes back to Europe.

He nods. “Fine.”

Max gets up quickly. He reaches out his hand.

Nils places five heavy twokrona pieces on his palm. “I want

to meet this Petri first,” he says. “You’ll get the rest later. You can show me where to find him.”

Max smiles. “You’re going ‘on the lump,’ as they say.”

Nils stares uncomprehendingly at him, and Max goes on:

“Men looking for work come to the docks early in the morning and wait for the day’s jobs. Some get work, some have to go back home. You’re to go down and stand with them early tomorrow morning … then you’ll be picked to join the Celeste Horizon”

Nils nods again.

The young man quickly stuffs the coins in his pocket.

‘ “My name’s Max Reimer,” he says. “What’s yours?”

Nils says nothing. Hasn’t he paid to avoid questions? The

pulse in his neck begins to throb a little faster as his anger slowly stirs to life.

Max smiles pleasantly at him; he doesn’t appear to feel threatened.

think you’re from Smaland,” he says, crushing his cigarette

under his heel. “That’s what it sounds like when you talk.”

Nils still doesn’t say anything. He knows he can flatten Max Max is smaller than him, and it would be easy. Knock him down and give him a good kicking. Use a heavy stone to finish him off, then hide the body in the park.

It would be very easy.

But what about afterward? Max might come back at night,

just like the dead district superintendent.

“Don’t ask too many questions,” he says to Max, and starts

walking away through the park, toward the docks. “You might not get your money.”

Lennart didn’t call.

Julia sat there waiting in the summer cottage for several hours.

It got to eightthirty on Tuesday evening, then nine o’clock, but he never rang.

By this time Julia had finished off the bottle of red wine; it wasn’t difficult. And the temptation to go inside Vera Kant’s house had become so obsessive that it didn’t actually matter whether Lennart turned up or not.

She thought about phoning Gerlof and telling him what she

was intending to do, but decided against it. She couldn’t do any more packing or cleaning to make the time pass. She was restless and curious.

Darkness and silence pressed against the walls of the cottage.

At a quarter to ten Julia finally stood up, slightly tipsy, but more determined than drunk.

She put an extra sweater on under her coat, and thick socks.

There was an old brown woolly hat in the wardrobe by the front door; she tucked her hair inside it and glanced at herself in the hall mirror. Had the furrows of anxiety etched on her forehead smoothed out slightly since her conversation with Lennart?

Maybeor then again, it could be the wine.

She put her cell phone in her pocket, picked up the old paraffin lamp, and switched off the light in the cottage. She was ready.

Just a quick look.

The evening had turned clear and cold, with only a faint

breeze in the trees. When she came out onto the village road, the darkness closed around her instantly, but she could see glimmering points of light on the mainland.

She stopped after a few moments, listening for noises among

the shadows: rustling leaves or creaking branches. But there wasn’t a soundnothing was moving.

Stenvik was deserted. The gravel crunched faintly beneath

her feet as she made her way down to Vera Kant’s house.

There she stopped again. The gate glowed pale and white in

the moonlight, and it was closed as usual. Julia slowly reached out and touched the cold iron latch. It was rough with rust, and was stuck fast.

She pushed. The gate groaned slightly, but didn’t open.

Perhaps the hinges had rusted up.

Julia put the paraffin lamp on the gravel, stood close to the gate with both hands on the top, and lifted it up and inward. It moved a few inches before sticking again. But now she could squeeze through the opening.

The intoxication from the wine was holding her fear of the

dark at bay, but only just.

The garden was surrounded by tall trees and was full of black shadows. Julia stood still, allowing her eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. Slowly she began to discover details in this new darkness: a winding path made of limestone slabs that led further into the garden like a silent invitation, a round well lid beside the path, covered in leaves and patches of black mold, and overgrown grass everywhere. On the far side of the well stood a rectangular woodshed, the roof of which seemed to be on the very edge of collapse, like a badly erected tent.

Julia took a tentative step into the dark garden. And another.

She listened, then took a third step. It was getting more and more difficult to move forward.

Her cell phone suddenly started bleeping; the ringtone made

her heart jump. She hastily pulled the phone out of her coat pocket, as if it might disturb someone or something in the darkness, and pressed the reply button.

“Hello?”

“Hello . . Julia?

It was Lennart’s calm voice on the other end.

“Hi,” she said, making an effort to sound sober. “Where

are you?”

“I’m still in the meeting. And we’re not quite finished yet… it went on a bit. But I was thinking of going straight home afterward.”

“Okay,”

she said, taking a couple more steps along the path.

Now she could see one corner of Vera Kant’s house. “That’s fine.

At least I know …”

“It’s just that it’s the funeral tomorrow, and I have to put in a few hours’ work before that,” Lennart went on. “I don’t really think I can manage to get to Stenvik tonight…”

“No, I understand,” said Julia quickly. “We can do it some

other time.”

“Are you outdoors?” asked Lennart.

There was no hint of suspicion in his voice, but Julia was still tense as she came out with the lie in a relaxed voice: “I’m just out on the ridge. I’m taking a little evening stroll.”

“Oh, right… Will I see you tomorrow? In church?”

“Yes … I’ll be there,” said Julia.

“Fine,” said Lennart. “Good night, then.”

“Good night… sleep well,” said Julia.

Lennart’s voice vanished with a click. Julia was completely

alone once more.

Half a dozen steps in front of her, the path came to an end at the bottom of a flight of broad stone steps, leading up to a white wooden door and a glassedin veranda decorated with ornate carvings that the wind and rain had done their best to splinter and wear away.

The house loomed above Julia. The black windows made her

think of the burntout ruined castle she’d seen that morning in Borgholm.

Are you there, Jens?

Not even the darkness could disguise the state of decay. The panes of glass on either side of the front door were cracked, and the paint was flaking off the window frames.

The veranda inside was pitchblack.

Julia walked slowly to the end of the path. She listened. But who was she actually creeping up on? Why had she almost whispered when she was talking to Lennart on the telephone?

She realized how ridiculous it was to try and be quiet when

nobody could hearbut still she couldn’t relax. She went up the stone steps with stiff legs, her heart pounding.

She tried to reason like Jens, feel as Jens would have if he’d been here the day he disappeared. If he’d gone into Vera Kant’s gardenhad he been brave enough to go up the steps to the front door, and knock? Perhaps.

The iron handle on the door to the veranda was pointing

downward, as if someone were just opening it from the inside.

Julia assumed it was locked and didn’t even bother reaching out for the handleuntil she realized the door was slightly ajar. A piece of wood had been hacked or whittled out of the doorframe so that the barrel of the lock had nothing to click into. All someone had to do was open the door and walk in.

So somebody had broken into Vera Kant’s house.

Burglars, perhaps? They came out to rural areas in the winter so that they could work undisturbed in the empty summer cottages.

An abandoned property that had belonged to one of the

richest women in northern Oland was bound to have been of interest to them.

Or was it someone else?

Julia reached out silently and pulled at the door. It didn’t move, and when she looked down she could see why. A small wooden wedge had been pushed under the door.

Presumably somebody had put it there so that the door

wouldn’t be battered by the wind, with the lock being broken.

Would a burglar be so considerate?

No.

Julia nudged the wedge out with her foot and pulled at the

handle again. The hinges were stiff, but the door opened.

The darkness inside made her feel even more nervous, but

she couldn’t turn back now. Curiosity killed the cat.

But the person who had put the wedge there had done it from