The Caller

Chapter 31

Gunilla Mørk didn’t believe Schillinger and his claims of sabotage. She didn’t care for his bitter tone, or his hostility and aggressiveness. He lacked humility in the face of the terrible thing that had happened, and she suspected him of exploiting the situation. The prankster who’d made fun of them for weeks had a touch of sophistication, she thought — there was no escaping that. He was creative and imaginative, and he had style. She had cut her own obituary out of the newspaper and hung it on the wall in a little silver frame. Each morning when she entered the kitchen, she read it and thought, Oh no, not yet. I’m still here. It gave her a certain satisfaction.

Sverre Skarning discussed the incident with his Syrian wife, Nihmet. ‘He’s been everywhere,’ Nihmet said, ‘our terrorist. Done all sorts of strange things. No wonder he’s being blamed for this, that and the other. It’s the price he’s got to pay. He should turn himself in. If he doesn’t, we’ll have our own theories.’

‘Bjørn Schillinger grew up here,’ Skarning said. ‘He’s had dogs for thirty years. When he trains with the wagon in the summer, he brakes when people walk on Glenna. In the winter he lets skiers pass. He’s considerate, and he’s meticulous in everything he does. The dogs are his life, and he cares for them in every way. He would never allow something like this to happen. Forget to close the gate? Never!’

No, it was impossible to comprehend. It didn’t make any sense.

‘I don’t like him,’ Nihmet said. ‘He drives like a maniac in his Land Cruiser. He’s a crude person, Sverre. And he has a wild look in his eyes. Haven’t you noticed?’

Frances and Evelyn Mold still carried a grudge against the person who had put them through hell. But even they had their doubts about the dog kennel. That someone would go up there to open the gate — no, that didn’t sound right.

Astrid Landmark no longer had anyone to discuss the matter with: her husband had been disconnected from the respirator. And he had been driven in style in the Daimler from Memento, surrounded by leather and mahogany and walnut, to his final resting place.

Little red-haired Else Meiner, she had her own ideas on the subject.

‘Didn’t I tell you?’ her father roared. ‘Didn’t I say one day he would go too far? Now everyone’s feeling the pain. He’ll lug this around for the rest of his life. A little boy. I’m speechless. Do you know what he’ll do now, Else? He’ll hunker down, and he’ll never be caught.’

Else didn’t respond. She sat in her room, at her desk, and painted her toenails. Now and then she glanced out of the window to look for the red moped which zipped so frequently down Rolandsgata, to Henry Beskow’s house.

But a few people did believe Bjørn Schillinger’s version. There was enough riff-raff in Bjerkås — everyone knew that by now — and not everyone was happy about the brutes that howled so wretchedly in the evening. With the big beasts on the loose, they could get rid of both the dogs and their owner once and for all. One of those who believed Schillinger’s story was Karsten Sundelin.

One day the two fell into conversation.

They ran into each other at a petrol station down by Bjerkås, a chance meeting, and instantly found common ground: they were bitter men craving revenge.

‘I can’t believe that son of a bitch is playing with people’s lives like that,’ Schillinger said. ‘Kept it up so long and no one can manage to catch him. I’m going to lose everything.’

‘My wife’s moved out,’ Sundelin said. ‘She’s taken Margrete and gone to live with her parents. I feel completely exhausted. Our lives have fallen apart, and there’s nothing I can do about it. What about you? Do you have a good lawyer?’

Schillinger filled the tank, banged the nozzle back on the pump and screwed the cap back on.

‘Yes, I’ve got a lawyer. But when it comes to justice, I don’t have much faith in the authorities. They have too many rules to follow, and there’s so much red tape.’

There was a pause. In the silence they found an understanding, as if they had gathered around something that couldn’t be named. But each knew what this mutual understanding meant.

‘Let’s grab a beer sometime,’ Schillinger said.

‘Yes,’ Sundelin said.

In the days and weeks that followed they were regularly seen together, conversing intensely in a nook at the local bar.

Deep, muzzled voices.

Huddled together.