Юхан Теорин - Echoes From the Dead

The old garden Ljunger had pointed out was perhaps fifty yards away. He might just be able to make it that far, and then the stone wall would give him at least some protection from the wind.

“Go on, then, do it,” he muttered to himself.

Gerlof began to move. One step at a time, with the cane as a trusty support each time his own legs betrayed him. He held his free arm across his wet shirtfront, as a feeble shield against the wind.

The gravel track beneath his feet was hard and firm, built from crushed limestone many years ago. Gunnar Ljunger’s car had left no trace on it, and if there were tire tracks further back in the muddy puddles on the road, the rain would soon obliterate them. It was as if Ljunger had never been there, as if Gerlof had come here under his own steam.

“The police do not suspect any crime.” That’s what it would no doubt say at the end of the item in Ölands-Posten when they found him frozen to death out here.

The sky above him darkened.

One step at a time. Gerlof raised a trembling hand and wiped cold drops of rain from his forehead.

As he slowly got closer to the shore, he could hear the waves more and more clearly, splashing rhythmically onto a narrow strip of sand below the meadow. Further out, above the open water, a solitary seagull hovered in the wind. It wasn’t the only sign of life, because several nautical miles out to sea Gerlof could make out the blurred gray silhouette of a big cargo ship on its way north. But he could have waved and yelled at the ship for all he was worth — nobody would have seen or heard him.

He’d never been to this little meadow by the shore before, at least not that he remembered. Gerlof longed suddenly for Stenvik’s steep coastline, barren and beautiful. Here on the east coast of Öland, the landscape was too flat and overgrown for him.

The gravel track suddenly came to an end, and a narrow path continued through the grass. Nobody had walked there for quite some time, because the grass was tall and difficult to move through, at least for Gerlof, who could hardly lift his feet. From time to time a particularly strong gust of wind slammed in off the sea, making him stagger and almost fall. But he kept on going, one step at a time, and at long last he reached the apple tree. That distance of just a few yards had taken almost all his strength.

It was a miserable tree, spindly and twisted by the harsh winds from the sea. The branches didn’t have a single leaf left on them, and offered no protection, but Gerlof could at least lean back against the rough trunk and catch his breath for a while.

He felt in his right trouser pocket. There was something hard in there, and he took it out.

It was Gunnar Ljunger’s black cell phone.

Gerlof remembered. He’d picked up the little phone from the space between the seats when Ljunger had got out and was walking around the car. Just before Ljunger dragged him out of the car, he’d managed to slip it into his pocket.

But stealing the phone was no help, because Gerlof had absolutely no idea of how to make a call. He tried keying in some numbers — John Hagman’s number — but nothing happened. The cell phone was dead.

Slowly he put it back in his pocket.

Should he be grateful for the fact that Gunnar Ljunger had allowed him to keep his shoes? Without them he wouldn’t have been able to move at all.

No, he wasn’t grateful. He hated Ljunger.

Land and money — that was what this whole thing was about. Martin Malm had got money for new ships. And Gunnar Ljunger had got lots of land around Långvik to rape and exploit.

Vera Kant had been lied to for years and years, just like Nils.

And so had Gerlof, of course.

Gerlof now knew more or less everything about what had happened; that had been his goal all along, but it was no longer enough. He wanted to tell other people, to tell John and the police. Most of all, he wanted to tell Julia.

All this time he had wanted to stand in front of all those involved in the drama, to explain exactly what had happened, then point out who had done it, who had killed Nils Kant and little Jens. Great excitement, murmuring voices throughout the room. The murderer would break down and confess; everyone else would be amazed at the truth. Applause.

“You just want to feel important,” Julia had once said to him. And she was probably right. That’s probably what all this was about, feeling important. Not old and forgotten and half dead.

But he was almost dead now. Life was light and warmth, and now that the sun had gone down, the warmth was dwindling away. Gerlof’s feet were like blocks of ice in his shoes; his fingers had lost all feeling. The cold was crippling, but also strangely relaxing — almost pleasant.

He closed his eyes for a few seconds. In his mind’s eye he could see Gunnar Ljunger driving off in his big car. He had thrown out Gerlof’s coat and briefcase to lay a false trail, Gerlof presumed. For those who eventually found them, everything would be perfectly clear: a senile old man had got off the bus and lost his way, wandered off in the wrong direction, and in his confused state had taken his outdoor clothes off. In the end he’d frozen to death by the shore when darkness came.

It wasn’t enough for Ljunger to take Gerlof’s life; he had to make him look like an old idiot too.

He inhaled the cold air in short, panting breaths. When did the body give up and stop working? Wasn’t it when the temperature of the blood dropped below eighty degrees?

He ought to do something, perhaps go down to the shore and try to scratch a message in the sand before he died: GUNNAR LJUNGER — MURDERER, in big letters that the rain wouldn’t be able to obliterate. But he didn’t have the strength.

This was like falling overboard from a ship out at sea, just as cold and wet and lonely. Gerlof had never really learned to swim, and falling into the water far out at sea had always been one of his fears.

He thought about Ella. He’d always believed that he would somehow sense her presence when he was close to death, but he felt nothing.

Then he thought about Julia. Had she left Borgholm yet? Perhaps she was driving past at this very moment in Lennart’s police car, up on the main road. He hoped Ljunger would leave her in peace.

I never stand when I can sit, and never sit when I can lie down. That was a quotation Gerlof had read somewhere, but right now he couldn’t remember where.

His legs gave way. Gerlof began to slip slowly downward, his back scraping painfully against the bark of the tree.

Beneath the leafless crown of the apple tree, he slid down, his legs buckling, and he knew he would never be able to get up again.

It would be a big mistake to sit down and close his eyes under the apple tree, Gerlof knew that. Once he’d sat down, sooner or later he would want to lie down on the ground and close his eyes and drift into the darkness.

Going to sleep would be an even bigger mistake.

But in the end Gerlof gave up, and slid slowly down onto the grass.

He’d just sit down and close his eyes, just for a little while.

Gunnar has an iron pick and two shovels in the trunk of the Volvo. He lifts out the tools, gives one shovel to Martin, then looks at Nils.

“Okay,” he says. “Where are we going?”

Nils stands there in the cold, looking around him in the fog on the alvar. He picks up the familiar scent of grass and herbs and poor soil, and he sees juniper bushes and rocks and faintly marked pathways, just as it was in his youth — but he doesn’t know where he is. All his landmarks have disappeared in the fog.

“We’re going to the memorial cairn,” he says quietly.

“I know that, you said that last night,” says Gunnar irritably. “But where exactly is it?”