Håkan Nesser - The Living and the Dead in Winsford

No, it was a mistake to go to Hawkridge.

The thirteenth of December, a Thursday. St Lucia’s Day, the day when Swedes burn candles to celebrate the light in the middle of winter. It continued raining all night, growing less heavy during the next morning but not ceasing altogether. The usual westerly wind, the morning walk up to Wambarrows and the same route back. Six degrees. It’s getting muddier and muddier for each day that passes, and you need to be careful not to get stuck. In the afternoon we drive to Watersmeet, walk up towards Brendon and are back in Darne Lodge by early dusk soon after four o’clock. No previously unexplored paths, no strolls along steep roads used by the Devil.

Generally speaking, I feel more on edge. With a fear lurking in the background that I would prefer not to look more closely into. I’m grateful that we are going to have dinner at Mark Britton’s place tomorrow evening. Extremely grateful. I only wish it were this evening.

I play sixteen games of patience, but only solve three of them; I read a little but find it hard to concentrate. When it has become midnight in Sweden, albeit only eleven o’clock in this country, I try three new passwords: Grass, Soblewski and Gusov . They work just as badly as yesterday’s Herold, Hyatt and Megal . Perhaps I shall have to think along different lines.

But what lines? I ask myself. I have no idea. In any case I have noted down the names I’ve already used, so that I don’t risk repeating the same mistake twice. Names? It occurs to me that there’s no reason why the password should be a name. It could just be a word, any word at all. Doubt. Bunker. Raven .

It doesn’t even need to be a word in any language: a combination of letters or letters and numbers would be sufficient. How on earth could I possibly hit upon the correct combination? How could I imagine that I knew my husband so well that I could work out what password he would choose from hundreds of thousands of possibilities?

Presumptuous.

Presumptuous and stupid.

But I must open that document — it seems more of a burning necessity with every hour that passes. I don’t know why. Or do I? At Dawn .

Is there a short-cut? How would a Lisbeth Salander approach the problem?

A silly question. Lisbeth Salander would already have solved it. For an ordinary person it’s a question of finding a Salander.

Or somebody of her calibre, at least. Or half of it. A tiny fraction of it.

Alfred Biggs?

Margaret Allen?

Mark Britton. That thought feels like a lump of ice in my throat. No, not Mark Britton, as. . as Mark Britton has no part to play in this business. I’m not at all sure where he does have a part to play, whatever I mean by that, but in any case I don’t want to involve him in Greece or Morocco.

On the other hand — during today’s walk alongside the East Lyn River, a pleasant and quite dry route that I could walk five times a week — I have started to toy with another thought involving Mr Britton. So far it is no more than an undeveloped foetus, maybe I shan’t develop it any further, but it’s that experience in Hawkridge that lies at the bottom of it.

Hawkridge together with the other things. The hire car and the pheasants. But as I said, I don’t want to spell it out yet, nor even to think about it. We go to bed instead, my dog and I; we switch off the light and lie there under the covers, listening to the wind and another sound that comes whining over the moor. I don’t know what it is, it’s the first time I’ve heard it: a metallic, almost mournful noise; I can’t decide if it’s coming from an animal or from something else.

Something else? What might that be? It’s two miles down to the village. One to Halse Farm.

The curtains are not quite tightly closed, as usual. I roll over onto my side, with my back towards the moor. Place the pillow over my head so that all sounds are eliminated. I think about Synn. About Gunvald. About Christa and about Gudrun Ewerts.

About Martin.

Rolf.

Gunsan.

People I have met during my life. One more week, and it’s the shortest day of the year.

*

We wake up late on Friday. I feel sluggish and listless. If I didn’t have a dog to think about I would presumably stay in bed all day.

No, that’s not true. If I didn’t have a dog I would kill myself. I would become the third case of suicide in Darne Lodge — perhaps Mr Tawking could turn the place into a tourist attraction on that account. Our names on a plate on the wall; but I have forgotten the names of my predecessors. Selwyn something, and the man with the Belgian name. Maybe he could include Elizabeth Williford Barrett on the other side of the road, I remember her name because we pass her grave nearly every day. It occurs to me that I still haven’t found out who she was, and why she is lying where she is. Maybe I can ask about that at the computer centre: I remind myself to pay a visit there later today. Perhaps I can ask about the password as well, if there is some way of getting round it. In principle, that is: I could make it seem that it’s one of my own documents and I’ve simply forgotten what the password is because it’s so long since I thought it up. .

As I lie there in bed it also occurs to me that I haven’t heard a squeak from Mr Tawking since we sorted out the rental contract and I received the keys to Darne Lodge. That was some six weeks ago. Shouldn’t he have been in touch to ask how things were going? Or at least to check that I hadn’t burnt down his house?

All the thoughts and questions have gradually scraped the sluggishness out of my body, and I get up. It’s a quarter past ten. Eight degrees and patches of blue sky here and there. I haul Castor out of bed and tell him he’d better get a grip — a missus shouldn’t need to wake up her dog.

He doesn’t understand what I’m talking about, but a quarter of an hour later we are out on the moor in the sunshine. And so the unhealthy pallor of those worrying thoughts is transformed into the healthy tan of decisiveness.

Two e-mail messages of a certain importance. Or at least, they need an answer. The first is from Bergman to Martin:

Hi! I had dinner with Ronald Scoltock from Faber amp; Faber yesterday evening. We got round to talking about you, and he seemed to be very interested. He would like to get in touch with you, and perhaps even pay you a visit. As I understand it he has a house in Marrakesh. Is it okay if I give him your e-mail address? Keep your nose to the grindstone, I hope all is going as it should. Greetings to your wonderful wife, of course. Eugen

I think it over for a while before replying that we would prefer not to have any visits at the moment, that I (Martin) am in the middle of a spell of very intensive work, and that perhaps it would be best if we were to make contact with Scoltock after the New Year.

The other message is from Violetta di Parma:

Dear Maria, I’m feeling very much at home in your house. It really does feel like a privilege to be able to live here. I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch sooner, but everything has been working as it should, so there has been no reason to contact you. I’m extremely busy as well, but that is stimulating and so I’m not complaining. The only thing I wonder is whether I ought to forward post to you. There has been quite a lot, in fact, and perhaps you ought to take a look at it, to be on the safe side. But I don’t have your address. If you let me know what it is I can send you everything without delay.

A Merry Christmas! There is no snow yet here in Stockholm, but it seems to be in the air. It’s very cold and windy in any case. I hope all is well with you — no doubt it’s much warmer down there where you are!