The Quarry

62

Per slept until nine on the morning of April the thirtieth, but his head was still heavy when he woke up. He could hear the ticking of the wall clock in the kitchen and looked out of the window with a sense of being trapped beneath an immense sky.

Twenty-four hours to go.

It was a grey, windy morning on Öland. He wondered how he was going to get through the day, make the time pass as quickly as possible. He wanted to press fast forward so that Nilla’s operation would be over.

He had one more important call to make, to Lars Marklund, which he did at about ten o’clock.

Marklund had nothing new to say about the investigation into Jerry’s death, but at least Per was able to tell him that he had found ‘Markus Lukas’, and that his name was Daniel Wellman. He also told him that Wellman had been infected with HIV, and had passed away the previous year.

Marklund didn’t say anything for a few seconds. ‘So you think Wellman was HIV-positive when he was making these films? And that the girls got infected?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Per; in his mind’s eye he could see a procession of young girls disappearing into a dark forest. ‘But the risk has to be significant, surely... I was talking to another of Jerry’s male models a couple of days ago, and he reckoned he’d been with over a hundred women in the studio with my father and Hans Bremer. I’m sure Daniel Wellman had been with a similar number. And always without protection.’

Marklund remained silent again.

‘A high-risk individual,’ he said eventually. ‘We need to track down these girls.’

‘I’ve got a few names,’ said Per. ‘Some are alive, and some are dead.’

‘Did your father and Bremer know about this... did they know Wellman was infected while he was filming?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Per. ‘Jerry never mentioned it.’

‘And now it’s too late to ask them,’ said Marklund.

He seemed to be keying something in on his computer.

‘I’ve found a Daniel Wellman in Malmö,’ he said, then added, ‘But you’re right, he died in February last year.’

Per caught sight of Bremer’s yellow Post-it note, which he had put beside the telephone. Danielle, he thought. ‘Can I check a disconnected phone number with you?’

‘No problem.’

Per read out the numbers next to Danielle’s name, and asked, ‘Could you check whose number that was?’

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone.

‘I don’t need to check... It’s already part of our investigation.’

‘So whose number was it, then?’

‘Her name was Jessika Björk.’

‘Wasn’t she the one who died in the fire?’ said Per. ‘Along with Bremer?’

‘How do you know that?’ asked Marklund after a moment. ‘How did you get hold of her name?’

‘I found a note with her number on it in Bremer’s apartment,’ said Per. ‘Jessika must have worked for him and Jerry. They called her Danielle.’

‘Not recently,’ said Marklund. ‘We’ve spoken to her friends... They said she’d given up that kind of thing seven or eight years ago.’

‘So why did Bremer have her mobile number written down? And what was she doing with him in Jerry’s house?’

‘Yes, well... we’re working on it,’ said Marklund. ‘Thanks for your help. I’ll be in touch if anything comes up, but we’ll take care of this from now on. You can relax and enjoy the spring on Öland. You will do that, won’t you, Per?’

‘Absolutely.’

Twenty-three hours to go.

Per had lunch, then went out into the fresh air. There were small tears in the cloud cover above the village, showing fragments of blue.

He walked slowly past Vendela’s house, but the Audi was gone and the curtains were closed at the big windows. A car was parked at the other house for the first time in a while — the Kurdin family was evidently back.

Markus Lukas, Jessika, Jerry, Hans Bremer...

The names of the dead would not let him go. He went for a long walk south along the coast road, until the tarmac ran out and the dirt track began. The only buildings out here were small stone boathouses above the shore. The water was calm, and there wasn’t a soul in sight.

What did Jerry know?

Per didn’t really want to think about that question. Had his father known about Daniel Wellman’s condition, but let him carry on filming with the girls anyway? Had Bremer known?

He walked along the coast for almost an hour before looking at his watch and thinking of Nilla.

Ten past one. Less than twenty-one hours left.

He turned back towards the village. By the campsite he saw a poster advertising the fact that Walpurgis Night would be celebrated that evening with a bonfire and a sing-song down by the sea. He noticed there was already a substantial pile of twigs and branches on the shore ready for the fire.

Just before he reached the quarry he turned off to the right along the village road and opened Gerlof Davidsson’s garden gate. It was only a week since they had seen each other, but a great deal had happened since then.

Gerlof was sitting in his chair on the lawn with a blanket over his knees and a tray on the table in front of him. There was also an old notebook on the table. The grass needed cutting, but Per was too tired to offer to do it.

Gerlof looked up and nodded at him. ‘Nice to see you,’ he said. ‘I was just wondering when you might turn up again.

Per sat down. ‘I’ve been away quite a bit,’ he said. ‘But everyone seems to be back this weekend.’

‘That’s right,’ said Gerlof. ‘Is there a bonfire tonight?’

‘I think so,’ said Per. ‘It looks as if the local council are setting fire to a few twigs and having a bit of a sing-song down on the shore.’

‘Setting fire to a few twigs?’ said Gerlof. ‘Let me tell you what we used to do here in the village. We collected all the old tar barrels that had split during the winter, and piled them up in a great big heap. Right on the top we put a new barrel full of tar... then we set fire to the whole thing! The tar in the top barrel melted and ran down into all the others, and we ended up with a bonfire that rose up towards the sky like a white pillar. It could be seen all the way from the mainland, and it drove away all the evil spirits.’

‘Those were the days,’ said Per.

Gerlof didn’t say anything, so Per asked, ‘Is everything all right, Gerlof?’

‘Not really. How about you?’

He shook his head. ‘But maybe it will be... The doctors are going to cure my daughter tomorrow morning.’

‘That’s good,’ said Gerlof. ‘You mean she’s going to have an operation?’

Per nodded silently, feeling the blood pounding in his throat. Why was he sitting here? Why wasn’t he at the hospital with Nilla?’

Because he was a coward.

‘Markus Lukas is dead,’ he said.

‘Sorry? Who’s dead?’ said Gerlof.

Per started to tell the story, and it all came pouring out. He told Gerlof about Markus Lukas, whose real name was Daniel Wellman, a male model who had been HIV-positive and had rung Jerry and Bremer asking for money. Per had misunderstood Jerry’s fear of Markus Lukas; he had never been dangerous, just ill. And now he was dead.

So who had set the incendiary devices in the film studio, killing Hans Bremer and Jessika Björk? Who had taken Bremer’s keys and got into Jerry’s apartment? And who had killed Jerry?’

Gerlof listened, but eventually he held up his hand. ‘There’s nothing I can say about all that.’

‘No?’ said Per.

Gerlof hesitated, then went on: ‘I’ve always puzzled over riddles and mysteries... tried to solve them. But it never ends well.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Per. ‘Surely solving something can’t do any harm?’

Gerlof looked down at the diary on the table. ‘There was another mysterious fire not far from here forty years ago,’ he said, ‘at a farm to the north of Stenvik. A barn with cattle inside it was burnt to the ground. I was here at the cottage when it happened, and like everybody else in the village I went up to have a look. But I got suspicious, because there was the smell of paraffin all around the barn. And when I bent down I could see strange footprints left in the mud by a boot, with a big notch in the heel from a nail that had been badly hammered in. So I realized that the boot that had left the prints must have been repaired by Shoe-Paulsson.’

‘Shoe-Paulsson?’

‘He was a particularly bad shoemaker who lived in the village,’ said Gerlof. ‘So I mentioned it to the police, who found the owner of the boot and arrested him.’

‘So who was it?’ asked Per.

‘It was the farmer who owned the place.’ Gerlof nodded over towards the quarry. ‘Henry Fors... the father of our neighbour, Vendela Larsson.’

‘Vendela’s father?’

‘Yes. He blamed it all on his son, but I think it was Henry. It’s funny, but arsonists almost always operate on their own patch. They almost always set fire to places they know.’

Per remembered Vendela’s sad expression when she was showing him around her childhood home a couple of weeks earlier. It was lonely here, she had said.

‘But why do you regret telling the police, Gerlof?’ he said. ‘I mean, pyromaniacs have to be stopped.’

‘Yes, I know... but it destroyed the family. It broke Henry completely.’

Per nodded without saying anything; he understood. But here they were talking about misery and death again; he got to his feet. ‘I’ll be off to the hospital soon.’

It was a sudden impulse, but it felt right. He would drive down and spend the whole evening and night with Nilla, even if Marika and her new husband were there. He wasn’t going to be afraid any more.

‘I’ll be thinking of you tomorrow,’ said Gerlof. ‘And your daughter, of course.’

‘Thank you.’

Per turned and left the garden.

He was intending to go home, but a few metres from the gravel track by the quarry he came across Christer Kurdin, planting a tree. He had dug a hole in the lawn, and was busy filling in around the roots.

He straightened up and took a couple of steps towards Per. ‘I heard about Gerhard, your father... that he’d died. Was it a car accident?’

Per stopped. ‘Yes, he died in Kalmar... Is that an apple tree?’

‘No, a plum.’

‘Right.’

Per was about to move on, but Kurdin held his gaze. ‘Would you like to come in for a while?’

Per thought about it, and nodded. He followed Kurdin up the path, glancing at his watch. It was five to three, and the hands kept moving on, tick tock.

‘So you’re here over the holiday weekend?’ he said as they reached the house.

‘Yes,’ said Christer Kurdin. ‘We’re going home on Sunday... this will be our last visit before the summer.’

They were in a narrow hallway leading into a large living room.

Per looked around. There wasn’t much in the way of furniture or ornaments, but there was plenty of electronic equipment, telephones and speakers. Black and grey cables snaked across the floor along the walls. On one table there were two large computer monitors. It seemed that either Kurdin or his wife was heavily involved in music as well, because under one of the windows was an oblong table with rows of dials and switches — a mixing desk.

‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’

‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’

Near the windows looking out towards the quarry was a black leather sofa behind a low coffee table made of stone. Per sat down.

‘How about a beer?’

‘That would be good.’

Per remembered he had just decided to drive to the hospital this evening, but one beer probably wouldn’t do any harm.

Christer went into the kitchen and came back with two glasses of lager.

‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’

Per took a couple of swigs, put down his glass and wondered what to say. ‘Have you been married long?’ he asked.

‘Marie and I? No, not very long. Two years, just about. But we’ve been together for five.’

‘So where do you actually live? Stockholm?’

‘No, Gothenburg. I went to university there, to the Chalmers Institute, and that’s where my company is. But I come from Varberg originally.’

‘And your wife?’

‘She’s from Malmö.’

They drank their lager in silence. Per took another swig; it was quite strong, and the alcohol settled like a warm blanket over his anxiety about the following day. ‘What do you think of Max Larsson?’ he asked. ‘Just between ourselves?’

Christer Kurdin pulled a face. ‘Larsson? I think he’s one of those people who has to be right all the time. He won’t give up until everybody agrees with him. Didn’t you notice how subdued his wife was?’

Per didn’t respond to that; instead he asked, ‘Have you read any of his books?’

‘No,’ said Christer, ‘but I’ve seen how many he’s churned out, so I can imagine what kind of advice you’d get from them.’

‘Bad advice, you mean?’

‘Simplistic, at any rate,’ said Christer. ‘Reading a psychology book isn’t going to make you a good person. You need life experience for that — plenty of trial and error.’

Per nodded, and at that moment the front door opened. Marie Kurdin came into the hallway with their baby in a sling across her stomach.

‘Hello?’ she called out. ‘Anyone home?’

She hadn’t noticed Per, but Christer Kurdin got up quickly and went over to her. ‘Hi darling,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a visitor.’ He seemed relieved to see her, as if he’d been waiting for an interruption to a difficult conversation. But if he didn’t like Per, why had he bothered to invite him in? ‘It’s our neighbour, Per Mörner.’

‘Oh?’

Per clearly saw Marie Kurdin’s smile briefly disappear.

Christer kissed his wife, who kissed him back, but Per thought they were both moving awkwardly. He had the impression they were playing roles for his benefit.

‘Did you find everything, darling?’

‘I think so... I got candles too.’

‘Good.’

Per picked up his glass and looked at them. Marie and Christer Kurdin and their baby, the happy family in their luxury home. Was he envious of them?

Marie nodded at Per in passing as she disappeared into one of the bedrooms with the baby in her arms.

Jerry had pointed at Marie. Filmed her, he had said.

Christer Kurdin sat down again and smiled at Per across the table.

Per didn’t smile back; he was searching for the right words to say. ‘Did you know my father?’ he asked.

Kurdin shook his head. ‘Why do you ask?’

Per looked down into his glass, which was almost empty, and said, ‘He was known as Jerry Morner, but when we met today you referred to him by his real name, Gerhard.’

‘Did I?’

Per looked at him. ‘Have you been phoning me?’

Christer Kurdin didn’t reply.

‘Someone’s been calling me,’ Per said slowly. ‘It started after the party... Someone’s been calling and playing something that could be the soundtrack from one of Jerry’s films.’

Kurdin still said nothing; he just stared at Per for a few seconds before turning and calling over his shoulder, ‘Darling?’

‘Yes?’ replied his wife.

‘Could you come here for a moment?’

Marie Kurdin’s heels tapped across the floor as she came back into the living room. ‘What is it?’

‘He knows,’ said Christer Kurdin.

His wife didn’t speak, but she looked Per in the eye.

‘Did you do some filming with Jerry and Markus Lukas?’ Per asked.

Marie shook her head. ‘Of course not.’

She didn’t say any more, but Christer Kurdin lifted his chin. ‘Her younger sister did.’

‘Sara,’ Marie said quietly. ‘She was in one of their films when she was only eighteen... and she fought it with antiretroviral drugs, but she died three years ago. She knew she’d been infected during filming and she told me, but she refused to tell anyone else. She was too ashamed.’

Per understood. ‘So you rang my father... to remind him.’

‘I recognized him at the party,’ said Marie. ‘I knew who he was when he got out that magazine.’

Per couldn’t look her in the eye; he lowered his gaze. ‘He did actually say that he recognized you too. You must have been alike... you and Sara.’

Marie didn’t reply.

He looked into his glass. What was in the beer? It seemed cloudy — had Kurdin put something in his glass when he poured it in the kitchen?

Did Christer Kurdin own a red Ford?

Had he lured Jerry to a deserted road in Kalmar?

Per put his glass down carefully on the table and got to his feet, very slowly. He wanted to ask more questions, but his head was spinning.

‘Must you go?’ said Christer Kurdin.

Per nodded; he thought he could hear girls’ voices echoing in the back of his mind. ‘Yes... I have to go home.’

They looked at him and he felt ridiculous, but the girls were screaming inside his head now and Jerry was in there too, whispering and telling him to leave.

He took a step away from the sofa in the direction of the hallway, then one more. It was fine, he could move. It felt like being back in Jerry’s film studio, in the middle of all the smoke and heat and the smell of burnt human flesh.

Arsonists almost always operate on their own patch, Gerlof had said. So it must have been Jerry who burnt down his own studio. Or Hans Bremer. Or maybe Per himself, the lost son.

The last thing he did was to turn around in the hallway and raise his voice: ‘I don’t think Jerry... I don’t think he knew anything. He didn’t know Markus Lukas was infected. And I’m sorry, I didn’t know, but they’re all dead now...’

He was babbling, and closed his mouth. Christer and Marie Kurdin were standing side by side, still watching him, but he couldn’t look them in the eye. He could only manage one more word: ‘Sorry.’

He fumbled with the front door handle and eventually managed to get out.