The Quarry

52

The Krona grammar school in Kalmar was a collection of reddish-brown buildings extending over half a block. Per arrived there on his way back from Malmö about half an hour before lunchtime, while lessons were still going on. He walked down long, empty corridors and up a flight of stairs to the main office.

In the first room he found a young woman who was hardly likely to have been working there fifteen years earlier, but when she saw him she immediately asked, ‘Can I help you?’

‘Maybe,’ said Per. ‘I’m looking for a former pupil; I think she attended this school in the early eighties.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘That’s what I don’t know. But I do have a picture of her...’

He showed her the photograph of the blonde girl Gerlof Davidsson had found in Babylon — but not the full-length nude shot. He had cut her face out of the magazine and stuck it on a piece of white paper.

‘I’ve inherited an old cottage on Öland,’ he went on, ‘and this picture was in a cupboard with a diary and some letters and other papers. I’d really like to find her and return them.’

He looked at the woman to see if the series of lies was working. She looked closely at the picture and asked, ‘So what makes you think she attended this school?’

Tell as few lies as possible, thought Per.

‘Because... because there were other pictures of her with a school jumper from here.’

The last part was true, because Gerlof had spotted a jumper from the Krona school in the background of one of the pictures in Babylon. It was hanging over the back of a chair, apparently forgotten, with the name of the school and 1983–84 on it — one of the few signs in Jerry’s world that the girls weren’t just fantasy figures.

‘OK,’ said the woman, ‘it’s probably best if you speak to one of our Maths teachers, Karl Harju. He’s been here since the seventies.’

She got up and escorted Per down the stairs to the empty corridors again, and led him to a classroom with the door closed. ‘You can wait here, it’s almost lunchtime.’

Per waited five minutes, then the door flew open and a motley collection of teenagers came pouring out, laughing and talking in loud voices as they disappeared down the corridor. He watched them go and realized that his own children would be just like that in only a few years.

Both his children.

A middle-aged man in a green cardigan was in the classroom, calmly wiping equations off the board; Per went and stood in the doorway. ‘Karl Harju?’

‘That would be me,’ said the man in a Finland-Swedish accent.

‘I wondered if you might be able to help me with something...’

He walked in and ran through the same mixture of truth and lies once again, and held out the picture from the magazine.

‘Do you recognize her?’ he said. ‘I think she might have studied maths and sciences.’

The teacher looked at the picture with a frown. He nodded. ‘I think her name was Lisa,’ he said. ‘Wait here.’

He got up and left the room, and after almost ten minutes he returned with a folder. ‘They weren’t on the computer system in those days,’ he said. ‘We ought to enter their details now, but...’

He opened the folder and took out a sheet of paper, and Per saw that it was an old class list.

‘Yes, Lisa,’ said the teacher. ‘Lisa Wegner; she was a bit quiet, but she was a nice girl, and very pretty — well, you can see that from the picture. There was a group of girls in that class who were good friends — Lisa, Petra Blomberg, Ulrica Ternman and Madeleine Frick.’

Per could see that there were addresses and telephone numbers on the list, but of course they were fifteen years old.

‘Could I possibly make a note of those?’

‘I’ll do you a photocopy,’ said the teacher.

He handed the copy over to Per and asked, ‘Do you happen to know what became of Lisa? It looks as though this photo has been cut out of a magazine...’

‘Yes, it’s from a monthly magazine,’ said Per. ‘So I expect she was a model, a photographic model, for a little while.’

‘Well I never,’ said Karl Harju. ‘As a teacher I’m always interested to hear what becomes of our charges in later life.’

Per went back to the woman in the school office and asked if he could borrow the local telephone directory. He found only one of the names of the four girls who had been friends at the school: there was an Ulrica Ternman in the area. The address was in Randhult, a village somewhere to the south of the town.

He made a note of the number, went back to his car and called it on his mobile.

‘This is an answering machine,’ said a male voice. ‘You have reached Ulf, Hugo, Hanna and Ulrica. We’re not at home right now, but if you’d like to leave a—’

Per was about to end the call when a woman’s voice broke in. ‘Hello?’

Per leaned closer to the wheel. ‘Hello? Is that Ulrica Ternman?’

‘Yes, who’s calling?’

‘My name is Per Mörner. You don’t know me, but I’m looking for a woman called Lisa Wegner. I heard you were friends?’

The woman was silent, as if it took time to call up the name from her memory.

‘Lisa? Yes, we were friends for a while when we were at school,’ she said eventually, ‘but we haven’t kept in touch. She lives abroad.’

‘And you don’t have her phone number?’

‘No, she became an au pair in Belgium or France, and married some guy down there, I think... but what do you want with her?’

‘I think she used to work for my father, Jerry Morner.’

Silence once more.

‘What did you say his name was?’

‘Morner — Gerhard Morner, known as Jerry.’

Ulrica Ternman lowered her voice. ‘You mean the man who published those... those magazines? He was your father?’

‘That’s right — Babylon and Gomorrah. Did you know him?’

‘Well...’

‘You did?’ Suddenly Per understood, or thought he did, and said quickly, ‘So you worked for Jerry too?’

There was silence at the other end of the phone, followed by a click as the connection was broken.

Per looked at his mobile. He waited fifteen seconds, then rang the number again.

The woman answered after four rings. Per took command, like the experienced telephone interviewer he was. ‘Hi Ulrica, it’s Per Mörner again... I think we were cut off.’

He thought he heard her sigh. ‘What do you want?’

‘I just want to ask a few questions, then I’ll leave you in peace... Did you work for Jerry Morner?’

Ulrica sighed again. ‘Just once,’ she said. ‘One weekend.’

Per gripped the phone more tightly. ‘Ulrica, I’d really like to talk to you about all that.’

‘But why?’

‘Because... my father is dead.’

‘Oh?’

‘He died in a car accident. And... well, there were some things I never got to know about him, about what he did.’

‘Really? So you weren’t involved in any of that?’

‘No,’ said Per. ‘But others were. Other men.’

‘Yes, I know that,’ Ulrica Ternman said wearily. ‘But I don’t think there’s much I can tell you.’

‘Could we try?’

She hesitated.

‘OK,’ she said eventually. ‘You can come here tomorrow evening, as long as it’s before seven.’

‘Excellent. I live on Öland... Where exactly is Randhult?’

‘Twenty-five kilometres south of Kalmar,’ she said. ‘It’s signposted, and I live in the only brick-built house, next to a barn.’

‘Thank you.’

Per had called in to see Nilla on his way back from Malmö that morning, but she had been asleep. He went again after his visit to the school.

Marika wasn’t there, but Nilla was awake this time and on a drip, attached to the bed with a plastic tube going into her arm.

‘Hi Dad,’ she said quietly, but didn’t move.

‘How are you?’

‘I’m... not so bad.’

‘Are you in pain?’

‘No, not much.’

‘What is it, then? Are you feeling a bit lonely?’

Nilla seemed to hesitate, then she nodded.

Per thought about the horde of teenagers racing past him in the school corridor, and asked, ‘Would you like to see some of your friends?’

Nilla didn’t say anything.

‘Some of your classmates, maybe? If you give them a call I could go and pick some of them up.’

Nilla didn’t reply; she just smiled wearily and shook her head.

She was much quieter than when he had seen her on Saturday. Today she was indicating how she felt only through her smiles, usually just that same tired smile. Per almost stopped breathing each time he saw it. No thirteen-year-old should look so devoid of happiness.

‘No,’ she said eventually, turning to face the wall. ‘I don’t want to see them.’

‘No?’ said Per.

Nilla coughed and swallowed, then answered in a whisper, ‘I don’t want them to see me like this.’

The silence in the room became unbearable, until eventually Per realized his daughter had started to cry. He sat down next to the bed and placed a hand on her back. ‘What’s wrong, Nilla? Tell me and we’ll fix it.’

The tears flowed as she started to tell him.

When he got home, Per put on his trainers and set off. He didn’t give a damn where he was going, he just had to get out. He ran with the wind in his face along by the quarry, beside the sea and then away from it, increasing his speed all the time until his lungs were bursting and his thighs were aching.

He stopped on a rocky outcrop, gasping for breath and leaning forward into the wind. He wanted to throw up, but couldn’t.

He kept on thinking about Nilla.

The rest of the school year was a write-off, he had realized that several weeks ago. The spring term was lost, but she would be back at school in the autumn. Back with her classmates.

She would be back.

That was the only thought in Per’s head as he stood there. She would get better, she would come racing out of the classroom, out into the corridor with her friends. She would start playing basketball again and do her homework and go to school dances and organize parent-free parties.

She would move up to the grammar school and sneak in too late while Per pretended to be asleep. She would travel in Europe and learn new languages.

Nilla would go back to school, she would have a future. Her life existed only in the present right now, but soon she would get her future back. He would do anything to make sure that happened.

Save the children, he thought, and set off again.

He reached a moss-covered stone wall and followed it for a hundred metres or so before climbing over it. He was on the edge of the alvar. There was no water left out there now. The ground was dry and hard as he ran among the bushes.

It was a while before he realized that he was being followed — a rustling sound made him stop and look back. He could clearly hear someone running behind him, at almost the same pace.

Per stopped and held his breath; he thought about Markus Lukas, and crouched down. He was completely defenceless out here on the alvar — the axe and all his other weapons were back at the cottage.

A figure eventually appeared among the juniper bushes and caught sight of him, but everything was fine — it was Vendela Larsson. She was just as puffed as he was, and stopped a few metres away to catch her breath.

They looked at each other without speaking, both panting with exertion from their run. But Per saw a weariness that went beyond the purely physical when he met Vendela’s eyes.

Eventually he straightened up and took a deep breath. ‘My father is dead,’ he said.

Vendela placed her hand on his cheek. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

Per nodded. ‘And my daughter’s friend Emil is dead too.’

Vendela said nothing; she left her hand where it was and looked inquiringly at Per. He went on: ‘He died on Sunday night. He picked up an infection in hospital, and he was too weak to fight it... Nilla was in love with him, she cried when she told me what had happened. She just cried and cried, and I didn’t know what to say.’

Vendela moved closer, holding out her arms.

Per didn’t want her to hug him, she was so skinny and there was no love left in the world.

They stood motionless in the grass holding one another for several minutes. After a while Per could hear that they were breathing in time with one another. Long, deep breaths.

Eventually she let go of him, then she took a step back and turned her head. She nodded over towards the labyrinth of rocks and bushes.

‘Come with me. There’s something I want to show you.’