The Quarry

64

‘Mörner!’ a voice shouted from over by the quarry.

Per turned and saw that it was Max Larsson. He must have just come out of his house, because the front door was wide open. He was striding down the garden path, waving at Per.

Per stopped, despite the fact that he really wanted to get home. He could still feel the effects of the beer he had drunk with Christer Kurdin, and hoped he wouldn’t start swaying on his feet.

‘Where’s my wife?’ asked Max Larsson. He had stopped just a metre or so away.

‘Your wife?’

‘Vendela. Have you seen her?’

Per shook his head. ‘Not today.’

He didn’t care about Max Larsson, he had more important things to think about. But Max kept staring at him, as if he were weighing Per’s answer on some internal set of scales. ‘You’ve been spending time together,’ he said. ‘Haven’t you?’

‘Yes,’ said Per. ‘I saw her yesterday.’

He had no intention of telling Max what they had talked about, or what they had done. It was up to Vendela to tell him if she wanted to.

Max was still staring at him, but his expression was more uncertain now. ‘She must have gone somewhere,’ he said, looking around. ‘I tried calling her from town, but she didn’t answer. Her mobile’s on the kitchen table.’

‘Maybe she’s gone shopping,’ said Per.

‘She can’t have,’ said Larsson. ‘She hasn’t got a car.’

Per took a step towards home. ‘Perhaps she’s just gone for a walk,’ he said. ‘I’ll keep an eye open for her.’

‘Good,’ said Larsson. ‘I’ll drive down the coast... see if I can find her.’ And then he added, with a certain amount of hesitation, ‘Thanks for your help.’

Per nodded and left him. He felt quite sober now. The effects of the beer had subsided, and the idea that Kurdin might have put some kind of drug in it suddenly seemed utterly ridiculous. He was paranoid — and it was Jerry’s fault. Jerry had thought people were out to get him for years, and he had evidently managed to pass this on to his son.

He walked quickly back to his empty cottage and unlocked the door. When he got inside he switched on most of the lights to chase away the shadows.

It was quarter past four. Eighteen hours to go until Nilla’s operation.

He took a deep breath and sat down at the kitchen table to call her.

‘Hi, it’s Dad.’

‘Hi.’

She sounded subdued but calm. Per could hear music playing in the background. Nirvana, presumably.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Good.’

‘What are you up to?’

‘Reading,’ she said. ‘And waiting.’

‘I know. It’ll be good when it’s all over, won’t it?’

‘Yes.’

They chatted for quarter of an hour, and after a while Nilla seemed to be feeling a little better. Per felt calmer too. Nilla told him that Marika was at the hospital, and had been there all day.

‘I’m coming over this evening,’ he said.

‘When?’

‘Soon... in a few hours.’

‘I might be asleep by then.’ Nilla gave a tired laugh. ‘They’re going to wake me up early in the morning... I have to wash myself with some kind of spirit. Disfect my whole body.’

Disinfect, thought Per, but he didn’t correct her.

‘See you soon,’ he said.

When he had hung up and was moving across to the cooker to start making dinner, he saw something black crawling slowly across the floor. It was a big blowfly, the first one this spring — at least the first one he had seen. It looked as if it had just woken up; it was moving very slowly and listlessly.

Per could easily have killed it, and for that very reason he scooped it up on a piece of paper and let it out through the kitchen window. It managed to get its wings working and disappeared across the quarry, without bothering to say thank you.

After dinner he sat in the kitchen listening to the ticking of the clock and thinking about Vendela Larsson.

Where was she?

Of course, he knew where Vendela might have gone — back to her childhood. She could have run to the little farm, or out to the big stone on the alvar. Perhaps Max Larsson was searching there, always supposing he knew about those places. Did he?

Per tried ringing the Larsson house, but there was no reply.

It was quarter past five now. He could always take a look over at the farm himself before he set off for Kalmar, while it was still light. Running always made him feel better.

He got up, pulled on his running shoes and a tracksuit top and went outside. The air was fresh and chilly, and made him feel stone cold sober. And he was, wasn’t he?

He looked south towards the Larsson house. The big Audi was gone, and the house was in darkness.

The lights were on in the Kurdins’ house, but Per didn’t want to think about that family at the moment.

He could hear a distant rattling sound, like pistol shots. Some kids letting off bangers down by the shore.

Per didn’t run, but strode off along the track heading northeast. At first he followed the route leading away from the coast, then turned on to a smaller gravel track and eventually reached the farm.

The grass was even greener now and made the whole place look like some kind of Swedish summer idyll, but as he walked up the path he saw the outline of the stone foundations to his left. Now he knew why Vendela had stopped to look at it when she was showing him round. The rectangle on the ground was the remains of the barn that had burnt down.

The grass was slightly shorter and yellower there, or perhaps it was just his imagination.

Arsonists almost always operate on their own patch.

Per thought about Hans Bremer, who had enjoyed pyrotechnics, and who had been the person who knew the film studio outside Ryd best, along with Jerry. If anyone had had the time and opportunity to rig up incendiary devices in the house, it was Bremer. But Bremer’s hands had been tied behind his back, according to the police. And he had died in the fire — even if Jerry had carried on talking about his companion as if he were alive. Bremer had called him, Jerry insisted, and Bremer had been driving the car that had knocked him down in Kalmar.

Per hadn’t taken him seriously; after all, his father was ill and confused. But was it definitely Bremer’s body that had been found in the burnt-out house?

It had to be. His sister had confirmed it, and the police were hardly likely to have made a mistake. They had dental records, fingerprints and DNA analysis these days.

He went up to the house and knocked on the door. The family who owned the place were at home, and the woman who opened the door remembered Vendela.

‘Yes, she was here a few weeks ago... she said she lived here when she was little. But that’s the only time I’ve seen her.’

Per nodded and carried on, climbing over a moss-covered stone wall and heading out on to the alvar. It was completely dry now; the ground was covered with all the long-suffering little herbs and flowers that were able to root in the thin soil.

Spring had taken over the island, and he hadn’t even noticed.

Despite the dry weather he didn’t see a single rambler out there; they had probably all gone home to celebrate May Day. All he could hear was the faint soughing of the wind and the sound of distant birdsong. A whitethroat, perhaps, or a blackcap? Per was hopeless when it came to birdsong.

He increased his speed. There was nobody to ask, and he could only hope that he was running in the right direction, towards the great stone that belonged to the elves.