Johan Theorin - The Quarry

‘Have you got time to look?’

‘Of course. I’ll check in the loft.’

‘Can I ring you back?’ said Per.

‘Sure,’ said Fall, and added, ‘I can take your number as well.’

Per gave him both his mobile number and the landline number for the cottage, and thanked him for his help before hanging up.

I think Bremer was pretty lonely , Thomas Fall had said. Per thought so too.

He stretched his back, then rang the third number on Bremer’s list, the one with ‘Fountain’ next to it. This time it took even longer for someone to answer; the phone rang eleven or twelve times before the receiver was picked up.

‘Hello?’

It was a tired male voice. Canned laughter from a TV programme could be heard in the background.

‘Hello,’ said Per, ‘is that Fountain?’

‘Yes — who wants to know?’

‘Excellent!’ said Per. The laughter from the TV was so loud and the man was speaking so quietly that he almost found himself shouting. ‘I got your number from Hans Bremer.’

‘Right,’ said the man. ‘What do you need?’

‘What do I need?’ said Per, trying to think. ‘Well... what have you got?’

‘Not all that much at the moment,’ said the man. ‘I’ve got some ten-litre packs of Swedish schnapps and a couple of Polish vodka. Will that be enough?’

Per finally got it — Fountain supplied cheap, home-distilled illicit spirits.

‘That’s not really what I had in mind,’ he said, and was about to hang up when the man said, ‘Bremer was supposed to be settling up — do you know anything about that?’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Per, as the canned laughter grew even more hysterical.

‘He said he was going to pay off his debts before the summer.’

‘How much are we talking about?’

‘Twenty thousand. Are you going to sort it out?’

‘No,’ said Per. ‘And I shouldn’t think Bremer will be sorting it out either.’

He hung up and called the last number on the list, which apparently belonged to someone called Danielle. It was a mobile number, but an automated message immediately cut in, informing him that the number was no longer in use. No other number was given.

That was it, then. He sat at the table thinking about Jerry’s dead colleague.

Hans Bremer had led a double life. He seemed to have put all his energy into making porn films at the weekends, then had gone back home to Malmö to live a miserable, debt-ridden existence fuelled by booze.

Per picked up the phone again and rang the undertaker to discuss Jerry’s funeral.

‘Do you know how many people will be coming?’ asked the funeral director. ‘Approximately?’

‘No. But probably not very many.’

He couldn’t actually think of anybody who ought to be invited to the funeral. Jerry’s relatives had broken off all contact with him long ago — or perhaps it was the other way round. All in all, he had probably been just as lonely as Bremer.

Then Per looked around and realized that he was sitting here in an empty house. His family wasn’t here, and how many friends did he have? How many people would come to his funeral?

That wasn’t something he ought to be thinking about right now.

Quarter of an hour later he drove away from the quarry, and couldn’t help glancing over at Vendela’s house. Lights were shining from the tall windows. He wondered what she was doing and whether her husband had come home yet, but didn’t stop to find out.

Randhult wasn’t a village like Stenvik; it was just a few farms scattered around in an agricultural landscape, half an hour by car along the motorway to the south of Kalmar. Ulrica Ternman had said she lived in the only brick-built house in the village, and it was easy to find. Per parked on the drive.

He heard a clattering noise as he was getting out of the car and saw a boy of about twelve trying out a radio-controlled jeep on the gravel. The boy looked up when he saw Per, but quickly turned his attention back to the car.

Per went up the steps and rang the bell, and a woman of about thirty-five opened the door. She was no blonde bimbo; she had short brown hair and was dressed in faded jeans and a black cotton top.

Per remembered what his father had said about Regina during the Easter weekend: Got old, I suppose . No doubt that was how Jerry had divided women up — into hot girls and old bags.

‘Hi,’ said Per, and introduced himself.

Ulrica Ternman nodded. ‘Come in.’

She turned away and Per followed her into the hallway.

‘Is that your son outside?’

‘Yes, that’s Hugo,’ she said. ‘We also have a daughter called Hanna... My husband has taken her into town to her gymnastics class this evening. It’s probably best if they’re not at home.’

‘Does he know you...’

Per was searching for the right words, and Ulrica Ternman looked tired.

‘That I was a slag, you mean?’

‘No, I mean...’

‘I haven’t mentioned the modelling,’ she broke in. ‘But Ulf knows I did plenty of stupid things when I was young, and so did he. Before he grew up.’

Per took off his jacket. ‘And you remember Jerry, my father?’

She nodded. ‘He was a bit different, a mixture of a teddy bear and a dirty old man... I never quite worked him out.’

‘I don’t think anybody did,’ said Per.

She led him into a neat little kitchen and put some coffee on.

‘So Jerry Morner is dead?’

‘He died a few days ago.’

‘And you want to know more about him?’

‘Yes... but I think I really want to know more about the people he worked with,’ said Per. ‘He had a colleague called Hans Bremer...’

‘Bremer, that’s right,’ said Ulrica. ‘He was the younger one, he organized everything. And took the pictures.’

She didn’t say any more; she just looked serious and seemed lost in thought, so Per asked, ‘How did you end up working with my father?’

Ulrica gave a mirthless laugh. ‘I don’t really know,’ she said. ‘I didn’t really do much thinking. You don’t when you’re nineteen, do you? You decide in a split second and just go for it... A boyfriend had dumped me that summer and gone off with another girl; I was angry and upset and furious with him, so this was meant to be some kind of revenge. I was going to send him a copy of the magazine, but I never got round to it, in fact I never even got the magazine... Although I did get paid, of course, in cash.’

‘Did you get a lot of money?’

‘Fifteen hundred, I think. That was a lot of money when you were nineteen... I would have had to work at least a week in a nursing home to earn that much.’

‘So how did you hear about the job?’

‘There was a small ad asking for photographic models in one of the evening papers. Lisa Wegner had seen it, and mentioned it to me and Petra Blomberg. It was obvious what it was all about... You had to send in nude pictures, so we took a few photos of each other and sent them off to Malmö. And a couple of weeks later I got a call from someone who said his name was Hans.’

‘Did he sound nice?’

‘Not bad,’ said Ulrica. ‘He talked about how cool it would be. So Petra and I went down to Ryd together on the train. We spent most of the time giggling — it was a bit like an adventure, like running away with the circus.’ She looked at Per and added, ‘But without a band.’

Then she went on: ‘When we came out of the station in Ryd there was another girl waiting there... She was much more provocatively dressed in tight jeans and a tight top, and she just glared at us. Then this guy Bremer came along in his car; he got out and smiled at us and said hello, and ushered us into the car. Sitting there in the back seat it all suddenly seemed much more serious; I stopped giggling, and when I looked at Petra she seemed really nervous.’