The Quarry

38

Per started working again on Tuesday.

‘Good morning, my name is Per Mörner and I’m calling from Intereko, a company involved in market research. I wonder if you have time to answer a few questions?’

Even while he was reeling off the questions he was thinking about other things. He gave some thought to Vendela Larsson and her talk of trolls and elves. She was a bit strange, but he couldn’t get her out of his mind.

The telephone on the kitchen table rang at about ten o’clock, when he had just finished his twelfth conversation about soap. The memory of the strange anonymous call after Easter made him hesitate, his hand hovering above the receiver, but in the end he picked it up.

A firm male voice spoke. ‘Per Mörner?’

‘Speaking.’

‘This is Lars Marklund from the Växjö police. We’ve spoken before...’

‘I remember.’

‘Good; it’s about the house fire in Ryd, of course. We’d really like to expand on the interview from that first evening.’

‘You want to talk to me?’

‘And your father.’ It sounded as if Marklund was shuffling through some papers. ‘Gerhard Mörner. When would be a convenient time for you?’

‘I’m afraid there’s not much to be gained from speaking to my father,’ said Per.

‘Is he ill?’

‘He had a stroke last year. It’s affected his speech; he can only remember odd words.’

‘We’d still like to ask him a few questions. Is he at his home address?’

‘No, he’s here on Öland.’

‘OK... we’ll be in touch.’

‘But what’s it about?’ asked Per. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘We just have a few more questions... The fire investigators have finished now.’ He paused and added, ‘And the post-mortems have been carried out.’

‘So what have you found out?’ said Per.

But Marklund had already hung up.

Jerry was still asleep, or at least he was still in bed. Per managed to get him up and persuaded him to get dressed. It seemed to take longer and longer every day; Jerry had no strength whatsoever in his left arm, and Per had to help him into his shirt.

‘Breakfast time,’ he said.

‘Tired,’ said Jerry.

Per left him at the kitchen table with coffee and sandwiches and went out into the sunshine and the clear, cold air to take another look at Ernst’s workshop.

He opened the doors wide so that the light fell on the sculptures inside. It was a strange group — like a big troll family, or whatever it was supposed to be. And all around them, lining the walls, were Ernst’s tools: chisels, hammers, axes and drills. A whole arsenal of tools.

If Jerry had had other interests earlier in life, sleep was his only interest now. He stayed in bed in the mornings, and after his late breakfast he wanted to go straight back there. But Per was having none of it; he made his father put on his coat and shoes, and took him over to the edge of the quarry.

‘Look,’ he said, pointing. ‘Jesper and I are building a flight of steps... we can use them now, if we’re careful.’

He held Jerry’s arm firmly as they moved down the narrow ramp; there was just enough room for them to walk side by side, although some of the stones felt alarmingly wobbly beneath their feet. But the blocks remained in place.

‘Not bad, eh?’ said Per as they reached the bottom.

Jerry’s only response was a cough. He looked around the wide gravelled space. ‘Empty,’ he said.

Per kept an eye on him, but started working on the steps again. The wheelbarrow was still there, and he filled it with gravel and pushed it over to the rock face so that he could unload it and start building up the ramp with his spade to make it more stable.

When he had emptied out five loads of gravel, he turned and looked at his father. ‘What are you doing, Jerry?’

Jerry had gone to stand over by the nearest pile of gravel, with his back to Per. He was just standing there, his head bowed, and at first Per didn’t realize what he was doing — until he noticed that Jerry was fiddling with his flies.

‘No, Jerry!’ he shouted.

His father turned his head. ‘What?’

‘You can’t do that down here... You need to go back up to the house!’

But it was too late. He could only stand and watch until Jerry had finished and done up his zip.

The trolls don’t like it if you spill liquid, thought Per. He went over and took his father by the arm. ‘There’s a toilet in the house, Jerry. Use it next time, please.’

Jerry looked at him uncomprehendingly, then suddenly he stiffened, looking past Per and out towards the sea. He blinked. ‘Bremer’s car,’ he said.

‘What?’

Jerry raised his good arm and pointed over towards the coast road, winding its way between the quarry and the sea.

Per turned and saw that a car had stopped. A dark-red car had driven far enough to allow a clear view across the whole of the quarry. He hadn’t seen it arrive, but he was fairly sure the coast road had been empty when he and Jerry had walked down the steps.

He squinted at the car, which was almost directly in the path of the sun. ‘Why do you think... what makes you think it’s Bremer’s car?’

Jerry didn’t answer, but kept on staring at the car.

‘OK. I’ll go and have a word,’ said Per.

He strode across the huge expanse of gravel. The car was still there, and as he drew closer he could see a man hunched over the wheel, looking down at him. A motionless figure that seemed to be wearing some sort of cap.

When he was about a hundred metres away from the coast road, the engine sprang into life.

‘Hello!’ Per shouted and waved, without any idea of who he was waving to, and increased his speed. ‘Wait!’ he shouted.

But the dark-red car began to move. It reversed, swung around and shot away to the south, and it was still too far away for him to be able to make out a number plate, or even what make of car it was.

The sound of the engine died away, and Per had to turn back. He was out of breath when he reached the eastern end of the quarry.

Jerry looked enquiringly at him. ‘Bremer?’

‘No.’

‘Markus Lukas?’

Per shook his head, gasping for breath. No one from Jerry’s world was allowed to come here. Per lived here, and so did Jesper and Nilla.

‘I expect it was a tourist,’ he said. ‘Shall we try out the steps, then?’

Lars Marklund rang Per again at about three o’clock, when they were back in the cottage.

‘I’ve had a look at my diary,’ he said, ‘and I was thinking that perhaps we could meet halfway... Could you and your father come to the police station in Kalmar at the end of this week?’

‘OK.’

‘So we could meet on Friday at two o’clock, for example?’

‘Sure. But things are a bit up in the air at the moment, so I don’t know... I might have to go to the hospital.’

‘Is your father seriously ill at the moment, then?’

‘No, it’s not my father. It’s my daughter.’

‘I see. But could we say Friday anyway, and you can ring me if there’s a problem?’

‘Of course,’ said Per. ‘But can’t you tell me why you want us to come in? Have you found something in the house?’

‘One or two things.’

‘Was the person upstairs Hans Bremer?’

Marklund hesitated. ‘The bodies have been identified.’

‘A man and a woman, according to the papers,’ said Per. ‘And the fire was started deliberately, wasn’t it?’ There was no response from Marklund, so he went on. ‘You don’t have to say anything — I saw a leaking petrol can down in the studio. And the whole place stank of petrol.’

The silence continued, but eventually Marklund spoke. ‘As I said, we would like to ask your father a few more questions about what he saw when he arrived at the house... and what you saw inside.’

‘Are we suspected of anything?’

‘No. Not you, at any rate. You didn’t have time to set the fire.’

‘So you suspect my father? Or Bremer?’

Marklund was silent again, and then he sighed. ‘We don’t suspect Bremer. He can’t have attacked your father, or started the fire.’

‘Why not?’

Marklund hesitated again, then said, ‘Because Bremer’s hands were tied behind his back when he died. And so were the woman’s.’