Johan Theorin - The Darkest Room

“Are you going to have summer visitors staying?” said Ingrid.

“Maybe,” said Joakim. “We need more people at Eel Point.”

Afterward they exchanged Christmas presents in Ingrid’s little living room. Joakim handed her a large, long package.

“Happy Christmas, Mom,” said Joakim. “Mirja Rambe wanted you to have this.”

The package was almost three feet long and was wrapped in brown paper. Ingrid opened it and looked inquiringly at him. It was one of the drainpipes Ragnar Davidsson had hidden in the lighthouse.

“Look inside,” said Joakim.

Ingrid turned one end of the pipe to face her. She peered inside, then reached in and pulled out a rolled-up canvas. She opened it out carefully and held it up in front of her. The oil painting was large and dark, and showed a foggy winter landscape.

“What’s this?” said Ingrid.

“It’s a blizzard painting,” said Joakim. “By Torun Rambe.”

“But… is it for me?”

Joakim nodded. “There are lots more… almost fifty of them,” he said. “A fisherman stole the canvases and hid them inside one of the lighthouses at Eel Point. And that’s where they’ve been for more than thirty years.”

Ingrid gazed at the big painting in silence.

“I wonder what it’s worth?” she said finally.

“That doesn’t matter,” said Joakim.

In the evening Livia and Gabriel went outside to make snow lanterns with their grandmother.

Joakim went upstairs. He went past the closed door of the room that had been Ethel’s many years ago and into the room that had been his own bedroom when he was a teenager.

All the posters and most of the furniture had gone, but there was a bed and a bedside table and an old tape player. The black plastic casing was cracked from falling on the floor during some party, but it still worked. It was possible to open the slot.

Joakim inserted a cassette. It had arrived at Eel Point in the mail a couple of days earlier. It was from Gerlof Davidsson.

He settled down on his old bed and pressed Play so that he could hear what Gerlof had to say.

At about three o’clock on New Year’s Eve, Joakim took the subway to Bromma to wish his dead sister a happy New Year, and to try to talk to her murderer.

He stopped to buy a small bunch of roses in a flower store by the station. Then he set off along the street, following the route past the wooden houses above the water. They looked like forts, he thought. The sun had just gone down and the lights were glowing in many windows.

After a few hundred yards he reached the street where the Apple House sat, and went up to the closed gate. He gazed at his former home. It looked empty but there was a light on in the hallway, possibly to deter burglars.

Joakim bent down and propped the bunch of flowers against the electrical service box by the fence. He stood there for a few moments thinking of Ethel and Katrine, then turned away.

The neighboring house further along the street had the

lights on in most of the rooms. It was the Hesslins’ huge house-the pride of the neighborhood.

Joakim remembered Michael Hesslin had mentioned on the telephone that the family would be home for New Year’s. He went up to the gate, along the garden path, and rang the doorbell.

Lisa Hesslin opened the door. She looked pleased when she saw who it was.

“Come in, Joakim,” she said. “And happy New Year!”

“Same to you.”

He walked in, onto the thick carpet in the hallway.

“Would you like some coffee? Or a glass of champagne, perhaps?”

“That won’t be necessary,” he said. “Is Michael home?”

“Not at the moment… but he’s only gone over to the gas station with the boys to buy some more fireworks.” Lisa smiled. “They let off all the ones we had between Christmas and New Year’s. I’m sure he’ll be back soon, if you can wait.”

“Sure.”

Joakim moved into the main room, which had a view of the bare trees and the ice on the bay down below the house.

“Would you like to read something?” he asked Lisa.

“What?”

“This note.”

Joakim reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a copy of the note he had found in Ethel’s denim jacket in the hayloft.

He handed it over to Lisa. She took it and read:

“‘Make sure the junkie-’”

She stopped abruptly and looked inquiringly at Joakim.

“Carry on,” he said. “Wasn’t it you who wrote it and gave it to Katrine?”

She shook her head.

“Then it must have been Michael.”

“I… I can’t imagine that.”

Lisa handed back the note. Joakim took it and stood up.

“Can I put your stereo on?” he said. “I’ve got something I’d like you to listen to.”

“Of course… is it music?”

Joakim went over and inserted the cassette. “No,” he said, “it’s just talking, actually.”

When the cassette started, he took a couple of steps backwards and sat down on the sofa directly opposite Lisa. There was a rattling noise from the speakers, then Gerlof Davidsson’s tinny, slightly grumpy voice came through:

“Right, let’s see… I’ve borrowed a tape recorder from Tilda, and I think it’s running now. I’ve been thinking a great deal about the death of your wife, Joakim. If you don’t want to be reminded of it, you should stop listening now… but as I said, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

Lisa looked dubiously at Joakim, but Gerlof’s voice went on:

“I think someone killed Katrine: a person who left no traces of themselves on the sandy shore, and therefore must have come from the sea. I can’t tell you the name of Katrine’s murderer, but I believe he’s a powerfully built, middle-aged man. He lives or has a house in southern Gotland, and there he keeps a big boat with an inboard motor. The boat must have been big and fast to be able to cover a day trip between the islands, but at the same time light enough to be able to come into the jetty at Eel Point, where the water is no more than three feet deep. He must have-”

“Joakim, who’s actually talking here?” said Lisa.

“Just listen,” said Joakim.

“… and aiming for the twin lighthouses as you approach Öland isn’t particularly difficult,” Gerlof went on. “But how did the murderer know your wife was going to be home alone that day? I think Katrine knew him. When she heard the sound of the engine approaching across the water, she went down to the shore. The murderer was standing in the prow holding the murder weapon in his hand when she came out onto the jetty. But your wife wasn’t suspicious, because he

was holding something almost everyone uses when they moor a boat.”

Gerlof coughed quietly and continued:

“The murder weapon was a wooden boat hook… long and heavy and with a big iron hook on one end. I’ve seen them used in fights at sea. It’s easy to grab the opponent’s clothing with the hook. Then you pull, and the victim loses balance and falls into the water. If you want to drown someone, then of course all you have to do is hold the hook beneath the surface of the water. There are no fingerprints, no major injuries. All that is visible afterward is the odd small tear in the clothing. There are holes like that in your wife’s clothes.”

Gerlof stopped again, before finishing off his recording:

“Well, that’s what I think happened, Joakim. This won’t make things any easier for you in your grief, I know that… but we all feel better when questions have been answered. You’re welcome to come over for coffee again sometime. Now I’m going to switch this off…”

The crackling voice on the tape fell silent, and all that could be heard from the speakers was a faint hissing sound.