The Voices Beyond: (Oland Quartet Series 4) (48 page)

‘You’re a Kloss, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘And Veronica is your mother?’

Urban nodded.

‘Good.’ The man pointed along the shore. ‘Off you go. There are houses a few kilometres down the coast. Run to one of them and call home. Call your mother and tell her where you’ve been. Tell her to come here as soon as possible. To Einar Wall’s boathouse. Alone.’

Urban looked at Jonas and Casper and opened his mouth. ‘I just want to say—’

‘Shut up,’ the man said. He pointed the gun at Urban with a hand that wasn’t quite steady. ‘Do you want a bullet in the back of your neck?’

‘No, but—’

‘Clear off, then.’

Urban glanced anxiously at Jonas and Casper once more – then he ran, loping across the grass by the shore.

The cairn ghost watched him go.

‘Good.’ He nodded to the two boys. ‘Now it’s just the three of us.’

Jonas didn’t dare say anything, but he suddenly realized that the man was sick. He was swaying slightly, and from time to time he pressed his hand against his stomach, as if he was in pain. His face was shiny with sweat, even though the heat of summer had passed.

The man might be sick, but he still moved like a soldier, with focus and determination.

He placed a piece of paper on the floor of the boathouse. Jonas caught a glimpse of five words written in pencil, in capital letters:

THE OLD MILL,
STENVIK.
ALONE.

The man closed the door.

‘Let’s go.’

He gave Jonas a push in the direction of the car. Jonas walked obediently in front of the man with the gun, as prisoners must always do.

Gerlof and John were out in the car the following morning. It was almost eight thirty, but it wasn’t particularly light; dark clouds hung over the island.

John had woken Gerlof at seven, without even bothering to say good morning.

‘It’s the cairn,’ he said. ‘They’ve blown it up.’

‘The cairn?’

‘Not yours. The one Kloss built.’

Gerlof heard what he said, but he couldn’t quite believe it. He had heard the explosion – but the cairn?

Then he thought about it, and said, ‘Aron Fredh.’

John didn’t answer, but then it wasn’t a question; it had to be Aron.

‘We’d better get over there,’ Gerlof said.

John helped him to the car. They drove the short distance down to the coast road and turned off by the mailboxes. Past the campsite and over to the southern tip of the inlet, where the ridge rose above the water.

John drove slowly, and Gerlof had plenty of time to take everything in. First of all, he saw a small group of campers and holiday-home owners, then the police cars and an ambulance in front of a blue-and-white police cordon and, finally, the scene of the tragedy.

He realized that it must have been an enormous explosion as soon as he saw the cairn.

Or what was left of it. By now it was more of a crater, containing only earth and gravel. A few stones lay on the edge of the ridge – the rest had been spread inland in a great shower, right across the coast road. Many of them had landed on Villa Kloss, which was the only property within reach.

Aron might be a war-damaged lunatic, Gerlof thought, but his aim had been excellent. The explosion had destroyed only property belonging to his own family. Kent’s house was closest, and looked as if a bomb had hit it; the roof had collapsed and the decking was smashed to pieces. Every single panoramic window was shattered.

Gerlof gazed at the devastation and thought about Jonas Kloss.

He searched among the faces of the people standing around. Most of them were strangers as far as Gerlof was concerned, and he couldn’t see any members of the Kloss family. Then he recognized a middle-aged man in a pale-blue dressing gown, his spiky hair standing on end. He had forgotten the man’s name, but he came from Stockholm and lived next door to Villa Kloss.

John stopped the car and Gerlof wound down the window. He didn’t need to ask what had happened.

‘Anyone hurt?’ he said.

The neighbour shook his head. ‘I’m not sure. Our garden is a bit further away, so the stones didn’t hit us, but … well, what can you say?’

He nodded in the direction of Villa Kloss. ‘Was anyone there last night?’

‘One of the brothers was sleeping in a room at the back … Niklas Kloss. He’s OK, apparently.’

‘And the other brother, Kent? And the boys?’

The neighbour shook his head. ‘No idea.’

John and Gerlof sat in the car for a little while longer, staring at the wreckage, then John seemed to have had enough. He started the engine and put the car in reverse.

‘Wait, John,’ Gerlof said suddenly.

When the car had stopped, he got out and took a few steps on to the ruined property, using his stick for support. He had spotted a man walking across the grass, picking his way between the huge stones. Niklas Kloss.

Kloss was wearing brown shorts, with a grey coat hanging open on his upper body. It was an odd combination, but at least he looked unhurt. Gerlof raised his hand and Niklas Kloss came over to him; his eyes were empty, his movements stiff. He seemed to recognize Gerlof, but didn’t say hello.

‘Kent and the boys are gone,’ he said instead. ‘And Paulina.’

‘Gone?’

‘Veronica’s spent half the night looking for them … So have I.’

Gerlof looked at the two houses. ‘So the boys weren’t at home last night? And nor was Kent?’

‘I don’t know,’ Niklas said quietly. ‘They never tell me anything … Kent and Veronica never tell me anything.’

‘What is it you think they should be telling you?’ Gerlof asked.

Niklas didn’t answer; he turned away.

The door of the other house opened and Veronica Kloss stepped out on to her decking. She was better dressed than her brother, in jeans and a blouse, and the decking was undamaged. She looked over at the two men and came towards them.

Before she reached them Gerlof leaned over to Niklas and asked a brief question; it was something he had been wondering about for several weeks.

‘Were you involved in the smuggling, Niklas?’

Niklas looked at him blankly. ‘Smuggling?’

‘Spirits and tobacco.’

Veronica was almost upon them.

‘It wasn’t me,’ Niklas replied. ‘It was all down to my brother.’

Veronica’s expression was anything but blank, Gerlof saw; it was sharp and focused.

‘Niklas,’ she said quietly.

But her brother carried on talking, as if he hadn’t heard her. ‘Kent brought in spirits and cigarettes by boat and car every summer. But he’s the boss of the Ölandic Resort, and the boss can’t go to prison. So I took the fall.’ He looked at Veronica and added, ‘It was my sister’s idea.’

‘I expect she was thinking of the business,’ Gerlof said.

Veronica ignored him; her gaze was fixed on her brother. ‘Niklas, go indoors and call my husband in Stockholm. He should be in the office by now. Tell him to call my mobile, and keep calling until I answer.’ Then she turned to face Villa Kloss. ‘I have to go,’ she said.

‘What’s happened?’ Gerlof asked.

Veronica didn’t look at him, but she did reply. ‘He’s taken the boys.’

‘Who?’

Veronica Kloss didn’t say any more; she just hurried towards her car.

But Gerlof didn’t need an answer, of course – it could only be Aron Fredh.

Niklas was still standing there. Gerlof realized that he was in shock.

‘Niklas, have you seen a doctor?’

‘Not this year.’

Gerlof placed a hand on his shoulder and pointed to the ambulance. ‘Go over there and ask the paramedics to have a look at you … We’ll take care of things.’

Niklas nodded obediently. ‘You’ll find the boys?’

What could Gerlof say? After all, he and John were just two old seamen.

‘We will,’ he promised eventually.

He watched as Niklas slowly made his way over to the ambulance, then he got back in the car and sighed.

‘We’d better drive around, see if we can find the boys. I don’t really know where to look, but …’

‘That’s fine,’ John said. ‘I’ve got plenty of petrol. But can we just stop off at the shop?’

‘Do you have to work?’

‘No, Anders is working, if there are any customers … But I just need to make sure we have enough milk for the weekend.’

‘Of course,’ Gerlof said.

So John turned off, stopped in the car park outside the little shop in Stenvik and got out of the car. Gerlof stayed where he was, until John turned around. ‘Would you like a coffee before we set off?’

They drank their coffee among the boxes in the storeroom.

‘So Aron blew up the cairn,’ John said, ‘and abducted the Kloss children.’

‘It looks that way. And Veronica Kloss went after him.’

‘Yes.’

They sat in silence, listening to the ticking of the clock. Gerlof sipped his coffee. Where was Aron now? Where had he hidden himself? In a cottage somewhere?

All of a sudden, an image came into his head of Aron Fredh on that summer’s day when Gerlof had seen him in the churchyard, before they heard the knocking from inside the coffin. Aron, twelve years old, had appeared by the shed that served as a mortuary like a little ghost. He had reminded Gerlof of a ghost because …

‘He was white,’ Gerlof said out loud.

‘White?’ John said.

‘He was covered in white powder … The first time I saw Aron in the churchyard, his clothes were covered in flour dust.’

John nodded. ‘That makes sense – Sven Fredh was a miller’s labourer. Aron had probably been helping him before he came to the churchyard.’

‘So Sven worked for different farmers,’ Gerlof said slowly. ‘In the flour mills.’

‘The mills …’

‘Yes,’ Gerlof said. ‘I think that’s where he’s hiding. In a windmill that’s still standing.’

John frowned. ‘But which one? There must be thirty-five or forty in this parish alone.’

‘It can only be an abandoned mill,’ Gerlof said. ‘The kind of place that’s falling down, hidden among the trees and undergrowth somewhere … the kind of place people have forgotten about.’

‘There aren’t so many of those. I should think most of them have fallen down already.’

‘Some are still standing. There must be a mill on or near Kloss family land somewhere … That’s where Aron grew up.’

‘That cuts it down even more,’ John said.

Gerlof nodded. Suddenly, he remembered hearing voices from time to time when he was sitting in his garden. An old man and a younger woman had been talking among the trees, a barely audible conversation. As if they had been sitting in a hiding place, above the ground. In a tree, or some other tall structure …

‘I could be wrong,’ he said to John, ‘but I think it’s in Stenvik. The old mill in the forest, behind my garden.’

It was a grey afternoon on the coast; the storm was almost upon the island. The hundred-year-old mill in the forest was being shaken like a lighthouse by the winds, swaying in time with the trees all around it, but it was still standing.

The interior of the mill consisted of one fairly small square room, with a high ceiling; there was also a loft, and the dusty machinery still stood in the middle of the room. There were no windows, only a number of narrow apertures, so it was dark even in the middle of the day.

After Aron had tied the two boys to old wooden chairs by the wall, he lit some paraffin lamps and stable lanterns he had found, and before long there was a bright light burning in each corner of the mill’s dusty floor, illuminating the wooden walls and the boys’ pale faces. They were keeping very quiet, but he knew they were waiting for Veronica Kloss to come and help them.

Aron was waiting for her, too, his forehead burning and an agonizing pain in his belly. He leaned against the back wall and listened to the wind.

It took time, but eventually Veronica found the right place. He heard the sound of a car engine approaching, then it was switched off. For a moment, there was only the desolate howling of the wind, then footsteps. High heels tapping on the wooden steps leading up to the door. Only one pair of feet. She was alone. Good.

The footsteps approached slowly but resolutely, making the whole of the old mill shudder.

After a brief silence, the door opened, and Veronica Kloss was standing there in jeans and a black jacket, her hair pulled back in a ponytail.

This was the first time Aron had seen her at close quarters. In the glow of the lamps, he noticed that she had dark shadows under her eyes, but her expression was intense. It was full of hatred.

He thought she was ugly. Attractive, perhaps, but still ugly.

‘Are you alone?’

Veronica gave a brief nod.

‘I have something to say first,’ she said. ‘You’re not right in the head. You’ve destroyed everything.’

‘I know that,’ Aron said. ‘With dynamite from the Wall family on the eastern side of the island … Pecka and Einar. The two men your brother killed.’

Veronica didn’t contradict him; she stepped inside the mill.

‘Take off your jacket,’ he said from the other end of the room, ‘and throw it behind you.’

She did as he said. Pulled down the zip and threw the jacket outside. Underneath, she was wearing only a thin white blouse. If she had been carrying some kind of weapon, it was gone now.

Aron was armed with the automatic assault rifle – the largest gun he had bought from Einar Wall. He was standing less than five metres away from her, partly hidden by the central post, and he pointed the barrel straight at Veronica.

‘Come here.’

Veronica went and stood between the two boys, her eyes glittering in the light.

‘Let them go,’ she said.

Aron shook his head. ‘No. Not until we’ve finished talking.’

Veronica nodded in the direction of the slightly older boy on the right. ‘Let my son go, then.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s the most important.’

‘Is he?’

Aron thought for a few seconds, then he reached out and pulled at the rope binding the younger boy’s wrists. Then the one around his ankles. The knots came undone, and the boy was free.

‘You can go,’ Aron said.

The boy stared at him, rubbing his numb hands. He didn’t move until Aron gave his shoulder a gentle push.