The Quarry

33

Jerry Morner’s belly was large and white and not remotely muscular. It had swollen with the consumption of wine and cheese and Cognac, year after year. And for the last week it had had a long dressing across it, but Per pulled it off on Easter Sunday morning. With one quick yank.

Jerry grunted on the kitchen chair, but didn’t move.

‘There,’ said Per, folding up the dressing. ‘Does that feel better?’

Jerry grunted again, but Per thought the wound in his stomach looked as if it had healed. It had knitted together, and now there was just a pink line.

‘Do you remember what happened?’ he asked.

There was a long pause, then Jerry answered, ‘Bremer.’

‘Bremer was holding the knife? He stabbed you and hit you?’

Jerry nodded. ‘Bremer.’

‘OK. But I mean, you were friends... Do you know why he did it?’

Jerry shook his head. He was sticking to his story — perhaps that made it more credible, Per thought, but it was still very odd. Why would Hans Bremer attack his colleague with a knife, lock himself and some woman in the house and then set fire to it?

Per could only hope that the police would go through the film studio, find some answers soon, and pass them on to him.

There were several mysteries to puzzle over. He had searched for Nilla’s lucky stone both last night and this morning, but it just wasn’t in the house. He also searched the car, but with no luck. He tried to stay out of sight of his father, because as soon as he showed himself the hoarse cries started up: ‘Pelle? Pelle!’

When he had removed Jerry’s dressing, Per straightened up. ‘Now you’re better, I thought it was time we got you home. I’ll drive you down to Kristianstad this evening. What do you think about that?’

His father said nothing.

‘OK, that’s decided then. You can sit here and rest, and we’ll have something to eat in a little while.’

An hour or so after lunch Per went out for a run, partly to clear his head and partly to get away from Jerry for a while.

Easter Sunday was chilly and bright, with just a few wispy clouds visible over the mainland. He ran north along the coast, and when he’d gone so far that he could see the little island of Blå Jungfrun as a black dome out in the sound, he stopped and took in the view. The rocks, the sun, the sea. For a few seconds he was able to forget everything else. Then he turned around and ran back.

When he was almost home he caught sight of another runner, wearing a white cap and a red tracksuit. He or she was coming from the east, along the track that wound its way inland. A slender figure, approaching rapidly. It was Vendela Larsson.

Per stopped a few hundred metres from the quarry and allowed her to catch up with him. He smiled at her. ‘Hi — how far?’

It was strange, but he thought she looked slightly embarrassed as she came up to him, as if she had been caught out somehow.

‘How far? You mean how far have I run?’ She seemed to be thinking it over. ‘I don’t really work it out... I ran out on to the alvar and back again. That’s my usual circuit.’

‘Great. I usually run up the coast. Two kilometres north, then back again.’

She smiled. ‘I go for a jog almost every evening. We did say we might go together... how about tomorrow?’

‘Sure,’ said Per. Vendela didn’t say anything else, so he turned and jogged towards the cottage. She joined him, and asked, ‘How are the kids?’

Per glanced sideways at her. How much did she know? Did she know how sick Nilla was? He just didn’t have the strength to start telling her all about it.

‘Up and down,’ he said. ‘Jesper’s fine, but Nilla’s... she’s lost her lucky stone.’

‘Oh dear, is she upset?’ asked Vendela. ‘I thought she looked a bit pale at the party, as if she—’

‘A bit,’ Per interrupted. ‘She’s a bit upset.’

Vendela looked over at the cottage. ‘Did she lose it indoors?’

‘She thinks so.’

Vendela suddenly stopped dead and closed her eyes for a few seconds.

Per looked at her. ‘Are you all right?’

She opened her eyes and nodded. She started to jog again, heading for her own house. Over her shoulder she said briefly, as if it were obvious, ‘I think you’ll find the stone now — it’s probably in her room.’

And it was.

When Per got in he looked in the little room where Nilla had slept over Easter, and there it was on the bed. A little round piece of polished lava, clearly visible on the white duvet.

But he’d looked there, hadn’t he? He’d looked for Nilla’s lucky stone everywhere, surely?