Johan Theorin - The Quarry

They look at him in surprise as he goes on. ‘That’s not it. I had nothing to do with the fire. Anybody could have poured paraffin around. I was indoors all evening, until the fire started. My daughter here can confirm that, she’ll give you her word of honour.’

Suddenly the men are looking at Vendela. Her whole body goes cold.

‘That’s right,’ she says eventually, and begins to lie for all she is worth. ‘Dad was indoors... He sleeps in the room next door to mine and I always hear when he goes outside, but he didn’t go anywhere.’

Henry points at the boot on the kitchen table. ‘And that’s not mine.’

‘It was in your porch,’ says the first policeman. ‘So who else would it belong to?’

Henry says nothing for a few seconds, then he goes over to the stairs. ‘Come upstairs with me,’ he says. ‘I’d like to show you something.’

Gerlof did his best to collect empty bottles into which his little ships could sail — he had a glass of wine with his meal every night. But he had barely touched his model-making since Easter; he hadn’t even started the full-rigged ship. Almost all his time was spent sleeping, sitting in the sun on the grass — and reading Ella’s diaries.

He read them regularly, one page at a time, and then he sat and thought about them.

18 thSeptember 1957

I’m quite ashamed of myself — I haven’t got round to writing much lately, but today’s the day! A lot has happened; we went to Oskar Svensson’s funeral in Kalmar, and I’ve had a birthday — I’m 42 now!

Last Sunday we were at my nephew Birger’s confirmation in the church at Gärdslösa; it was very solemn, and Pastor Ek asked some difficult questions.

Gerlof caught the train down to his ship yesterday and set sail for Stockholm this morning; the girls have gone off to Långvik on their bikes, so I’m all alone in the cottage, which can be nice sometimes.

It’s cloudy today and a stiff autumn breeze blew up over the Baltic this morning. I know that Gerlof can ride out a storm, but I pray to God that he will be safe. He will be on the ship for at least two months now.

I’m sitting out on the veranda as I write this. When the girls had gone I came out here and found something strange on the bottom step: there was a piece of jewellery lying on the stone. A brooch shaped like a rose; it looked like silver, but it can’t be silver, can it? It’s probably from the little changeling; I don’t know what to do with it, it just doesn’t feel right.

When Gerlof had finished reading, he thought for a while. Then he got up and went indoors.

He had kept Ella’s yellow jewellery box all these years; it was in the chest of drawers in his room, under his old, faded ensign. He took it out, lifted the lid and stared down at a pile of bracelets, rings and earrings. And some brooches that needed cleaning. One of them was shaped like a rose, with a little red stone in the centre.

Gerlof picked it up carefully.

Had he ever seen Ella wearing it? He didn’t think so.

Jerry and Marika were standing motionless in the hospital corridor, staring at one another.

Per was standing beside them, but he really wanted to be somewhere else. On the other side of the sound, perhaps, out for a long run with Vendela Larsson. But now he was here.

He and Jerry had stepped out of the lift five minutes earlier, and his ex-wife had been waiting.

‘Hello, Jerry,’ Marika said quietly. ‘How are you?’

Marika had met Jerry only once before, but that was a long time ago, the year before the twins were born. She had met Per’s mother Anita several times by that stage and things had gone very well, and she insisted on meeting his father as well. So one weekend when they weren’t far from Kristianstad, Per had driven into the centre and rung the doorbell of Jerry’s apartment.

He had been hoping that no one would be at home.

But Jerry had opened the door dressed in a dark-blue silk dressing gown and leopard-print underpants, and had invited them in for lunch: toast with whitefish roe. Plenty of sparkling wine as well, of course. When they left he had given them the latest issues of Babylon and Gomorrah as a present — just to destroy the romance.

After that, Marika hadn’t wanted to see Jerry again.

And now, fourteen years later, they were standing here face to face. Per wasn’t sure if Jerry actually recognized his ex-wife. He was just staring at Marika, but then that was what he did with everybody these days.

‘Jerry doesn’t say much any more,’ said Per. ‘But apart from that he’s doing pretty well. Aren’t you, Jerry?’

His father merely nodded, still staring at Marika.

‘Have you been in to see Nilla?’ Per asked.

‘Yes... she’s feeling quite cheerful today. I have to go — the doctor wants to see me. Will you come with me?’

Per shook his head. He was frightened of hearing any news about Nilla. ‘Not today.’

‘It might be important,’ said Marika.

‘Every meeting about Nilla is important,’ Per said quickly. ‘I’ll be back soon, but there’s something Jerry and I have to do right now. That’s important, too.’

‘Can’t you put it off?’

‘No... We’ve got to go to a meeting.’

He didn’t want to say it involved the police. Marika nodded, but she didn’t look pleased.

‘See you later,’ said Per, heading into the ward.

Nilla was sitting cross-legged on her bed, drinking something out of a glass; she was dressed in her pyjamas, and her back was straight. She nodded at her father as he came in, but carried on drinking. Per looked at the strange, orange liquid in the glass and asked her, ‘What are you drinking?’

‘Carrot juice.’

‘Did you buy it yourself?’

She took another swig and shook her head. ‘Emil gave it to me... His mum makes it for him, and she adds all kinds of vitamins that are supposed to make him better. But he doesn’t like it.’

‘But you do?’

‘It’s OK... and at least it means he doesn’t have to drink it.’

From outside they heard the sharp tone of a nurse as she asked a patient what he was doing in the corridor. The response was a barely audible mumble.

‘I see. In that case we’ll try a bed-pan,’ said the nurse, and her footsteps tapped away down the corridor.

‘Are you staying?’ asked Nilla. ‘Mum will be back soon, she’s just gone to a meeting.’

He shook his head. ‘I can’t, Granddad’s waiting for me.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘We’re... we’re just going for a bit of a drive around Kalmar.’

He was lying to his daughter, just as he had lied to Marika.

Marika had gone when Per got back to the lifts. Jerry was sitting on a chair with his mobile to his ear. He ended the call before Per reached him.

‘Who were you talking to?’ Per asked on the way down in the lift. ‘Did somebody ring you?’

Jerry peered out of the window. ‘Bremer,’ he said.

‘He’s dead, Jerry.’

‘Bremer wanted to talk.’

‘Did he?’

Per twisted Jerry’s phone around and looked at the display: NUMBER WITHHELD again.

They went back to the car; Per sat down next to his father and started the engine. ‘Do me a favour, Jerry,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell the police Hans Bremer rang you. They might get the wrong idea about you.’

Jerry didn’t reply. He remained silent for a little while as they drove through Kalmar, but as they were passing a little games shop with the windows painted over, he followed it with his eyes. Then he opened his mouth and said two words Per didn’t quite catch.

‘What? What did you say, Jerry?’

‘Moleng Noar.’