Юхан Теорин - The Voices Beyond

‘Is Dad behaving himself?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you homesick?’

‘A bit.’

‘I miss you and Mats.’

Jonas had realized by now that Peter Mayer was dead, but Uncle Kent had been just the same as usual at breakfast, chatting and joking with Mats and their cousins.

Niklas had been less talkative, but then he was always quieter than Kent.

‘Only four weeks to go, then you’ll be back in Huskvarna,’ his mum said.

Jonas was trying not to think about Huskvarna. Four weeks. A whole month.

The line was crackly and his mother’s voice sounded a little tinny, so Jonas asked, ‘Are you at home?’

‘No, I’m in Spain, in Malaga. I told you I was coming here after midsummer — don’t you remember?’

Jonas didn’t remember that at all, but now he knew that he couldn’t go home even if he wanted to. The house was empty; he was stuck here at Villa Kloss.

‘When will you be back?’

‘In a week. I’m going to do some travelling first.’

Jonas heard the answer, but he was barely listening; he had been looking out of the window and had noticed a movement over by the cairn.

The grey-haired man was standing there next to the stones, his hand resting on the cairn. Jonas peered through the glass, but the reflection of the sun on the water in the Sound made the man look dark and blurred.

‘Jonas? Are you still there?’

‘Yes... Yes, I’m here.’

He blinked. And saw the man begin to make his way down. It almost looked as if he were sinking into the ground behind the cairn.

‘Guess what I bought today, Jonas!’

‘Dunno.’

‘A Spanish present. But I’m not telling you what it is...’

Mum went on and on, but suddenly she decided the call was getting too expensive. She would phone again soon. And she loved him.

Jonas wondered if she was alone in Spain, but he didn’t want to ask.

‘See you soon!’

‘OK.’

Slowly, he put the phone down. The ridge was deserted now.

He wouldn’t think about any of it. Not about Mum in Spain, or what had happened in Marnäs, or the cairn ghost.

He would just get on with his work.

Fifteen minutes later he was back on the decking, already hot and pouring with sweat. He could hear the sound of splashing and cheerful voices from the jetty, while he was on his knees working hard to clean each plank. Sometimes it was easy, sometimes it was hopeless. The far end in the northern corner was mouldy and dark grey after years of neglect, and he couldn’t bring back the pale colour, however hard he tried.

He paused and looked over at the ridge. The grey-haired man hadn’t reappeared, but he saw a boat moving around out in the Sound. It was Uncle Kent’s launch, circling in the sun beyond the gill nets.

Urban, Mats and Casper were jumping and diving from the stern. They looked like dark shadows against the sparkling water, but the biggest shadow, Kent, was standing by the gunwale hauling in the line. Someone had just been water-skiing.

Kent had asked Jonas at breakfast if he wanted to join them, but he had said no.

He just wanted to carry on sanding, and to stop himself thinking. Stop himself remembering. But when he closed his eyes he could see Peter Mayer glancing over his shoulder in terror at Uncle Kent before he fled into the darkness. Into the forest and out on to the road.

Jonas wiped the sweat from his brow. Waved a fly away from his ear.

The waters of the Sound sparkled, the launch continued to zoom around in circles.

By the time he had sanded twenty planks, Jonas felt as if he were going to faint; he had to go and cool down.

The pool looked inviting, but he grabbed his trunks and went down to the shore. He took a detour via the cairn to check it out, but no more rocks had fallen down. There was no one in sight. The cairn ghost had gone.

He ran down the stone steps, past the dip and on to the shore. The summer sun was so bright here among the rocks that it could easily blind you. Jonas kept his eyes lowered so that his baseball cap shaded his face.

‘Hi, Jonas!’

Aunt Veronica was waving to him, treading water about ten metres out. She was a good swimmer and would forge along with powerful strokes, her legs kicking strongly.

‘Hi.’

‘How was the fair last night?’

‘Good.’

‘Lots of people?’

‘Yes... quite a lot.’

Jonas didn’t want to think about the fair, or the pursuit in the darkness and the screech of tyres. He slipped off his shoes and stepped out on to the rocks, but almost let out a scream — they were red-hot.

‘Put on some flip-flops, Jonas!’ Veronica shouted.

Jonas didn’t reply; he just gritted his teeth and made himself keep going.

He waited until Veronica had started swimming again, then he changed into his trunks and went and stood by the water’s edge. The air was hot and still, but occasionally a cool breeze blew in off the Sound. Öland was a windy place. Sometimes the winds were as hot as in some far-flung desert, sometimes they were bitterly cold. The surface of the water was also constantly moving, and right now it was full of the foaming backwash from Uncle Kent’s shiny launch. The boat was still whizzing around beyond the gill nets. No one was water-skiing at the moment, but the three boys were sitting in the stern in their trunks. And Kent was at the wheel, straight-backed and in control.

Jonas saw him turn and say something to Mats and their cousins, and they all laughed. Then he caught sight of Jonas, and waved.

‘Hi there, JK!’

He was smiling, as if nothing had happened last night.

‘Why don’t you go out with the boys?’ Veronica called. ‘Have some fun!’

Jonas gazed at the shadowy figures in the boat. At Kent, who had chased Peter Mayer out on to the road, and at Mats and their cousins, who hardly ever told Jonas what they were going to do.

He shook his head. ‘I’d rather stay here.’

‘I heard about the death,’ Gerlof said.

‘Which one?’ Tilda asked.

‘The hit and run. The young man.’

Tilda didn’t say anything, and after a moment he went on, ‘Has there been another death here on the island?’

After a moment, she said, ‘There has, yes.’

‘Oh?’

‘Do you know Einar Wall?’

‘I know who he is,’ Gerlof said. ‘An old fisherman who lives on the east coast, just like you, but to the north of Marnäs.’

‘Tell me more.’

‘I don’t know much more... I should think he must be a pensioner. He’s always been a fisherman and a hunter, but he’s done plenty of other things that were considerably less respectable. He’s the kind of man people whisper about.’

‘So he was a bit of a dodgy character, in other words?’

‘The fish he sold was probably more popular than Einar himself. But I’ve never done any business with him. He’s a good bit younger than me — between sixty and seventy, I’d say.’

‘He was ,’ Tilda said.

‘Is he dead?’

‘We had an anonymous tip-off on Friday evening to say that he was lying dead outside his cottage. And he was. We think it happened that day, or the previous night.’

‘How did he die?’

‘I can’t tell you that.’

Gerlof knew that he shouldn’t ask any more questions, so he simply said, ‘And the hit and run?’

‘Wall’s nephew. He was hit by a car on the main road... Peter Mayer.’

Gerlof gave a start. ‘What did you say?’

‘Peter Mayer. He was twenty-four years old; he ran out in front of a car the night before Einar Wall died. He was Wall’s nephew; apparently they were very close. So we’re looking into the connection, wondering if one death perhaps led to the other... That’s why I was curious to find out what you knew about Wall.’