Echoes From the Dead (44 page)

“You’re interested, Gunnar,” Gerlof had to remind him.

“Otherwise we wouldn’t be here, you and I.”

“I can’t have a load of old farts running around mouthing

off about things,” said Ljunger wearily. “You do understand that, don’t you? It’s not just current projects … We’ve got important plans for Langvik that are with the building authorities at the moment.

We’re talking about major investments here. Sixty new plots

to the east of the village are going to be sold within the next six monthshow much do you think that’s going to be worth?”

Gerlof understood.

“But I’m the only one who knows,” he said. “Nobody else.

Not John, or my daughter.”

Ljunger smiled at him, amused. “It’s very noble of you to take all the credit, Gerlof,” he said. “And I believe you.”

“Did you kill Vera Kant too, Gunnar?”

“No, no. She fell and broke her neck on the stairs, so I’ve

heard. I’ve never killed anyone.”

“You killed Ernst Adolfsson.”

“No,” said Ljunger. “We had a discussion, Ernst and I. It

turned into a minor quarrel.”

“He threw one of his sculptures down into the quarry during

the quarrel, didn’t he?”

“He did, yes. And then I gave him a little push and he fell and pulled one of the big stone sculptures down with him. It was an accident, just as the police assumed.”

“You killed Nils Kant,” said Gerlof.

“No.”

“Then Martin did,” said Gerlof. “And Jens? Which of you

killed my poor Jens?”

Ljunger wasn’t smiling any longer. He looked at his watch.

“Did Jens bump into you out on the alvar?” Gerlof went on

in a louder voice. “Why didn’t you let my grandson live? He was five years old … he was no threat to you.”

“Let’s leave this depressing topic, Gerlof. I have to go now, anyway:”

And it was no doubt trueGunnar Ljunger had a packed

schedule. Killing Gerlof was just one item on his agenda for the day.

Gerlof closed his eyes against the cold and the rain. He

wouldn’t be able to stay on his feet much longer. But he had no intention of falling to his knees in front of Gunnar Ljunger, that was beneath his dignity.

“I know where the gemstones are,” he said.

He took one step back toward the car, leaning on his cane. If he got close enough, he might be able to whack it with his cane and put a serious dent in the shiny bodywork.

“The gemstones?”

Ljunger was staring sharply at him, his hand resting on the

door handle.

“The soldiers’ spoils of war. I’ve got them and I’ve hidden

them. Help me into the car and we’ll go and get them.”

Ljunger merely shook his head, smiling once more.

“Thanks for the offer,” he said. “I asked Nils about them

several times, but actually it was mainly Martin who wanted the stones, not me. There isn’t even any guarantee they’re worth anything. For me, Vera’s land was enough … One mustn’t be too greedy.”

And with that he quickly opened the door and got in.

The car engine didn’t even roar, it simply hummed into life, expensive and perfectly tuned.

Ljunger put the Jaguar into reverse and the car glided slowly backward along the gravel track, just as Gerlof managed to take the final step forward and raise his cane.

Too late. Christ!

Gerlof stood there alone on the meadow, helpless. He slowly

lowered his cane and watched the car, and with it his overcoat, disappear out of reach.

Ljunger was sitting comfortably at the wheel, not even looking at Gerlof; he’d twisted his head so that he could reverse rapidly along the track. Up by the ridge where the railway line had been, he swung the car around and headed off.

Still further away, almost at the main road, the Jaguar stopped briefly. Gerlof narrowed his eyes against the icy rain and saw Ljunger open the door and hurl out his briefcase, then his overcoat.

Then he closed the door and drove off. The sound of the

engine died away.

Gerlof remained where he was, with his back to the rain. The bitter wind whistled in his ears.

He was thoroughly soaked and frozen, and would never

be able to make it back up to the main road, or to Marnas. And Ljunger knew that perfectly well.

He lifted one foot and moved his unsteady body in a semicircle, turning himself around with small, wobbly steps. The shoreline was gray and desolate.

The old garden Ljunger had pointed out was perhaps fifty

yards away. He might just be able to make it that far, and then the stone wall would give him at least some protection from the wind.

“Go on, then, do it,” he muttered to himself.

Gerlof began to move. One step at a time, with the cane as a trusty support each time his own legs betrayed him. He held his free arm across his wet shirtfront, as a feeble shield against the wind.

The gravel track beneath his feet was hard and firm, built

from crushed limestone many years ago. Gunnar Ljunger’s car

had left no trace on it, and if there were tire tracks further back in the muddy puddles on the road, the rain would soon obliterate them. It was as if Ljunger had never been there, as if Gerlof had come here under his own steam.

“The police do not suspect any crime.” That’s what it would no doubt say at the end of the item in OlandsPosten when they found him frozen to death out here.

The sky above him darkened.

One step at a time. Gerlof raised a trembling hand and wiped cold drops of rain from his forehead.

As he slowly got closer to the shore, he could hear the waves more and more clearly, splashing rhythmically onto a narrow strip of sand below the meadow. Further out, above the open water, a solitary seagull hovered in the wind. It wasn’t the only sign of life, because several nautical miles out to sea Gerlof could make out the blurred gray silhouette of a big cargo ship on its way north.

But he could have waved and yelled at the ship for all he was worthnobody would have seen or heard him.

He’d never been to this little meadow by the shore before, at least not that he remembered. Gerlof longed suddenly for Stenvik’s steep coastline, barren and beautiful. Here on the east coast of Oland, the landscape was too flat and overgrown for him.

The gravel track suddenly came to an end, and a narrow path

continued through the grass. Nobody had walked there for quite some time, because the grass was tall and difficult to move through, at least for Gerlof, who could hardly lift his feet. From time to time a particularly strong gust of wind slammed in off the sea, making him stagger and almost fall. But he kept on going, one step at a time, and at long last he reached the apple tree. That distance of just a few yards had taken almost all his strength.

It was a miserable tree, spindly and twisted by the harsh

winds from the sea. The branches didn’t have a single leaf left on them, and offered no protection, but Gerlof could at least lean back against the rough trunk and catch his breath for a while.

He felt in his right trouser pocket. There was something hard in there, and he took it out.

It was Gunnar Ljunger’s black cell phone.

Gerlof remembered. He’d picked up the little phone from the

space between the seats when Ljunger had got out and was walking around the car. Just before Ljunger dragged him out of the car, he’d managed to slip it into his pocket.

But stealing the phone was no help, because Gerlof had absolutely no idea of how to make a call. He tried keying in some numbersJohn Hagman’s numberbut nothing happened. The

cell phone was dead.

Slowly he put it back in his pocket.

Should he be grateful for the fact that Gunnar Ljunger had

allowed him to keep his shoes? Without them he wouldn’t have been able to move at all.

No, he wasn’t grateful. He hated Ljunger.

Land and moneythat was what this whole thing was about.

Martin Malm had got money for new ships. And Gunnar Ljunger

had got lots of land around Langvik to rape and exploit.

Vera Kant had been lied to for years and years, just like Nils.

And so had Gerlof, of course.

Gerlof now knew more or less everything about what had

happened; that had been his goal all along, but it was no longer enough. He wanted to tell other people, to tell John and the police.

Most of all, he wanted to tell Julia.

All this time he had wanted to stand in front of all those involved in the drama, to explain exactly what had happened, then point out who had done it, who had killed Nils Kant and little Jens.

Great excitement, murmuring voices throughout the room. The

murderer would break down and confess; everyone else would be amazed at the truth. Applause.

“You just want to feel important,” Julia had once said to

him. And she was probably right. That’s probably what all this was about, feeling important. Not old and forgotten and half dead.

But he was almost dead now. Life was light and warmth, and

now that the sun had gone down, the warmth was dwindling away.

Gerlof’s feet were like blocks of ice in his shoes; his fingers had lost all feeling. The cold was crippling, but also strangely relaxing almost pleasant.

He closed his eyes for a few seconds. In his mind’s eye he

could see Gunnar Ljunger driving off in his big car. He had thrown out Gerlof’s coat and briefcase to lay a false trail, Gerlof presumed.

For those who eventually found them, everything would be perfectly clear: a senile old man had got off the bus and lost his way, wandered off in the wrong direction, and in his confused state had taken his outdoor clothes off. In the end he’d frozen to death by the shore when darkness came.

It wasn’t enough for Ljunger to take Gerlof’s life; he had to make him look like an old idiot too.

He inhaled the cold air in short, panting breaths. When did

the body give up and stop working? Wasn’t it when the temperature of the blood dropped below eighty degrees?

He ought to do something, perhaps go down to the shore

and try to scratch a message in the sand before he died: gunnar ljungermurderer, in big letters that the rain wouldn’t be able to obliterate. But he didn’t have the strength.

This was like falling overboard from a ship out at sea, just as cold and wet and lonely. Gerlof had never really learned to swim, and falling into the water far out at sea had always been one of his fears.

He thought about Ella. He’d always believed that he would

somehow sense her presence when he was close to death, but he felt nothing.

Then he thought about Julia. Had she left Borgholm yet?

Perhaps she was driving past at this very moment in Lennart’s police car, up on the main road. He hoped Ljunger would leave her in peace.

never stand when I can sit, and never sit when 1 can lie down. That was a quotation Gerlof had read somewhere, but right now he couldn’t remember where.

His legs gave way. Gerlof began to slip slowly downward, his back scraping painfully against the bark of the tree.

Beneath the leafless crown of the apple tree, he slid down,

his legs buckling, and he knew he would never be able to get up again.

It would be a big mistake to sit down and close his eyes under the apple tree, Gerlof knew that. Once he’d sat down, sooner or later he would want to lie down on the ground and close his eyes and drift into the darkness.

Going to sleep would be an even bigger mistake.

But in the end Gerlof gave up, and slid slowly down onto the grass.

He’d just sit down and close his eyes, just for a little while.

OLAND, SEPTEMBER 1972

Gunnar has two shovels in the trunk of the

Volvo. He lifts out the tools, gives one shovel to Martin, then looks at Nils.

“Okay,” he says. “Where are we going?”

Nils stands there in the cold, looking around him in the fog on the alvar. He picks up the familiar scent of grass and herbs and poor soil, and he sees juniper bushes and rocks and faintly marked pathways, just as it was in his youthbut he doesn’t know where he is. All his landmarks have disappeared in the fog.

“We’re going to the memorial cairn,” he says quietly.

“I know that, you said that last night,” says Gunnar irritably.

“But where exactly is it?”

“Here … somewhere near here.”

Nils looks around again, and begins to walk away from the

Volvo.

Martin, who has hardly said a word all the way here, quickly catches up with him. He had lit a fresh cigarette as soon as he got out of the car, and he’s sucking on it now, his lips thin and tense.

Gunnar joins them and walks alongside him.

Nils slows down, as if he were in no hurry. He wants both

men in front of him, so he can keep an eye on them.

The fog is thicker than Nils can ever remember; actually, all he can recall is constant sunshine on the alvar when he used to go walking out here as a teenager. Now it feels as if he’s walking along the seabed in a pocket of air. He stops. Ten yards away the landscape has already been obliterated, the only color is grayish white, and every sound is muted. He is wearing only a thin sweater, ai dark leather jacket, and jeans, and he’s freezing in the chilly air.

“Are you coming, Nils?”

Gunnar has stopped, too, and turned round. He’s just a big

gray shape ahead of Nils, the outlines blurred like a charcoal drawing.

His expression is difficult to read and impossible to interpret.

“We don’t want to lose you,” Gunnar says, but before Nils has caught up with him, he turns and sets off again, without waiting, striding out across the cowering grass.

Twilight is slowly falling across the alvar. It will be late before Nils gets home to his mother. Does she know he’s coming today?

Nils walks past a flat stone with uneven edges in the grass; it’s almost like a triangle, and all at once he recognizes it. Now he knows where he is.

“It’s more to the left,” he says.