Håkan Nesser - The Living and the Dead in Winsford

Before leaving, he naturally made sure that there was a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits on my table. And that Castor had a bowl of water and a handful of treats that his missus could give him as she considered appropriate. I thanked him for his kindness, and when he had left I sat absolutely still with my eyes closed for half a minute before opening our mailboxes.

Mine first, that already seemed to be the routine.

Just one message. I couldn’t pin down the precise reaction I felt. Relief or disappointment? It was Katarina Wunsch again, in any case. In three lines she apologized for upsetting me with her doppelgänger story, and hoped that I would enjoy a pleasant winter down in Morocco. I wrote an equally brief reply, closed the box and feeling somewhat uneasy I turned my attention to Martin’s e-mails.

Ten new messages: I could ignore seven of them straight away. The remaining three were from that student about that incorrectly marked essay again, from Bergman and from the person calling himself G. After a little thought I decided to ignore the student as well, and instead looked to see what Eugen Bergman had on his mind.

He said thank you for my (i.e. Martin’s) previous message, wished me all the best with regard to the work and the time down there in general, and he had a question. A journalist from the Swedish magazine Svensk Bokhandel was on a journey through north Africa and would very much like to call on me for an interview. Bergman didn’t think Martin would be interested, but had promised to ask. I wrote a response in which I (Martin) confirmed that we were totally uninterested in any kind of contact with journalists, and that work was going according to plan. Then I drew a deep breath and opened the message from G.

Your last e-mail made me more than confused. Did you have a stroke or are you just trying to avoid the issue? I’m coming down. What is your address? G

I just sat there for a minute or more, trying to absorb the implications. My last message had obviously not calmed G down at all. He was more than confused. Trying to avoid the issue? But what was the issue that Martin was trying to avoid? What was so important that he needed to meet Martin?

And who was he?

I realized of course that Martin must have told G about our plans for spending six months in Morocco, and presumably also that the purpose was to write something involving Hyatt and Herold. Something to do with the years before her suicide. And that this had disturbed G so much that he felt he must put a stop to it. Isn’t that the case? I asked myself. Surely that’s the way the land must lie?

Unfortunately I was unable to dig out the message Martin must presumably have sent him, and as I nibbled away at my biscuits and sipped my tea I wondered how hard it would be to sort out something like that. My knowledge of computers and IT had always been as limited as my interest in such matters, but I could see that it shouldn’t be too difficult for anybody with a bit of competence in the field.

But I was also only too aware of the fact that I would never be able to bring myself to take that step. It was not certain that Martin’s old message would in fact throw any light on the matter, and in any case it was distinctly possible that I would find the key anyway. Surely it must be somewhere in the remainder of the material from Samos and Morocco, the two-hundred-and-fifty pages or however much it was that I hadn’t yet got round to reading. If there was something as important as G was alleging, it could hardly escape my notice, provided that I could raise enough strength to sit down and read the stuff. It seemed highly likely that G himself would feature in the material, but if he wasn’t in fact the Russian Gusov, I didn’t think I had come across him yet. Where I got that feeling from was not something I could answer for.

On the other hand, wasn’t it possible that there would be no risk involved in simply ignoring G? I had already tried to give him a reassuring reply, which had obviously not worked, and if I now simply ignored him, what might the consequences be? Why should he be so important? What was it that shouldn’t see the light of day? In any case, so long as he didn’t have our address in Morocco he couldn’t very well go there looking for us. What other possibilities were open to him? Contact Bergman? That couldn’t be excluded, of course, but I needn’t worry about such an eventuality as in that case Bergman would certainly be in touch with me.

Wouldn’t he? I sat there for quite a while, trying to think up various strategies and assess their validity, and in the end I chose a sort of middle way. I wrote a brief reply to G, thinking that it ought to calm him down a bit at least temporarily — there is nothing that annoys hot-tempered individuals as much as not receiving replies to their questions, that was something all my years at the Monkeyhouse had taught me. Any reply at all was better than no reply, and my impression of this unknown G was that without doubt he was an impatient devil.

My dear friend. When I tell you not to worry I mean it.

There is absolutely no reason for us to meet. Best, M

That would have to do. I sent it off, closed Martin’s mailbox and spent a few minutes glancing through the Swedish news. There was nothing of interest, and nowhere did I find any reports of a missing professor or the discovery of a dead body on the Polish Baltic coast. With a sigh of relief I switched off the computer and left the centre.

We went for a short walk through the village, and as we walked through the thin drizzle, stopping every ten metres or so for Castor to give himself a good shake, it occurred to me that I hadn’t read a single e-mail from Morocco. Wasn’t that a bit odd? I wondered. Martin had said that he had contacts down there, and it was these contacts that would help him to arrange our accommodation for the winter. Hadn’t he made any preliminary arrangements before we left Sweden? Hadn’t he contacted anybody at all, somebody who by now ought to be wondering why we hadn’t turned up and hence been in touch with a question or two? This was surely very odd, and perhaps something that ought to have occurred to me some time ago? Despite the fact that I had so much more to be thinking about.

But so what? I thought when we had both installed ourselves in the car next to the war memorial. So much the better if there wasn’t a Moroccan complication to keep an eye on and take into account.

Apart from that old one, that is — that Taza business which it seemed was lurking inside a suitcase in a wardrobe in Darne Lodge, and which by now had been lying there undisturbed for over a week. I started the car and began the now familiar drive up the road to Winsford Hill. There seemed to be enough daylight left for us to undertake a fairly substantial walk, but I was well aware that afterwards, during the long evening hours when darkness held sway over the moor, I would have to sit down once again with those confounded notes.

Those summers that had long since disappeared from a life that didn’t concern me, and never had.

It took me nearly seven hours to go through the rest of the handwritten material from Samos. The week that still remained from 1978, and the whole of the summer of 1979.

It was turned one by the time I was finished, and when I snuggled down into bed with Castor, exhausted and with my eyes aching, I said a silent prayer hoping that I would remember enough to write a summary the next morning.

My prayer was answered. After Monday’s morning walk (plus six degrees, quite a strong northerly wind, a greyish-white sky and only thin streaks of mist) I sat down in the rocking chair remembering and noting down what I considered to be the most significant things. As I did so I had a distinct feeling of being watched. That I was performing some sort of task that I had been instructed to carry out, and that the instigator — whether it was Martin or somebody else: Eugen Bergman perhaps, or the elusive G, or why not the two dead main characters, Herold and Hyatt? — was sitting like a raven, or even more than one, on my shoulders, making sure that nothing was overlooked.