Echoes From the Dead (38 page)

“I know who’s going to be talking to Anders Hagman,”

said Lennart to Julia as they were on their way to Borgholm in the police car. “An inspector from Kalmar is coming; he’s trained in this sort of thing.”

“Will it be a long interrogation?” said Julia, looking at Lennart behind the wheel.

He was wearing a new uniform jacket, a padded winter jacket with the police badge on the shoulder. Dressed for town.

“I don’t think we’ll call it an interrogation,” said Lennart hastily.

“It’s just a chat, a conversation. He hasn’t been arrested or held on suspicion or anything like that. There’s no evidence for that. But if Anders admits that he’s the one who broke into Vera Kant’s house, and saved those old newspaper cuttings, then I’m sure they’ll talk about your son too. And then we can see what Anders has to say about all that.”

“I’ve tried to remember if he … if he showed an interest

in Jens in any way,” said Julia. “But I don’t recall anything like that.”

“That’s good. You shouldn’t start suspecting people of all

kinds of stuff.”

Lennart had called her as she was sitting drinking coffee with Astrid, He had passed on the news that Anders Hagman had been found in Kalmar and taken to Borgholm. Half an hour or so later he had come to pick her up in the police car. Julia was grateful that Lennart had allowed her to be involved in this investigation, or whatever it was, right from the start, but at the same time she was nervous about what was waiting for her.

“I won’t have to sit in the same room, will I?” she said. “I don’t think…”

“No, no,” said Lennart. “It’ll just be Anders and Niklas

Bergman, the inspector from Kalmar.”

“Do you have twoway mirrors … or anything?”

She regretted the question when Lennart began to smile.

“No, nothing like that,” he answered. “They’re mostly in

American TV series, when you have witness confrontations and exciting stuff like that. Sometimes we use video, but that doesn’t happen all that often either. I expect they have situations in Stockholm where they confront witnesses, but it doesn’t happen here.”

“Do you think it was him?” asked Julia when they were

stopped at the first set of traffic lights in Borgholm.

Lennart shook his head. “I don’t know. But we need to talk

to him.”

The police station in Borgholm was on one of the streets cutting across the main road into town. Lennart pulled up in the parking lot and opened the glove compartment. Julia watched him rummaging around among papers, business cards, and packets of gum.

“Mustn’t forget this,” he said. “Not that I’ll need it, but I’m not allowed to leave it behind.”

He took out his gun, which was in a black holster with the

word clock etched into the leather. Lennart quickly clipped it to his hip and waited until Julia had got out of the car and balanced on her crutches before he showed her into the Borgholm police station. She had to wait in the offduty room. It looked just like any other room of its kind, but there was a television in one corner, and she found herself sitting in front of the same American TV

shopping channel she usually watched at home in her apartment in Gothenburg in the daytime.

Now, this seemed completely incomprehensible. How could

she ever have thought TV shopping was an interesting thing to watch?

Just before two o’clock, Lennart came back into the room.

“That’s it, then,” he said. “For now. Would you like to go for something to eat?”

Julia nodded, not wanting to reveal how curious she was.

Lennart was sure to tell her at the appropriate moment. She followed him out of the station on her crutches.

“Is Anders still there?” she asked as they came out into the cold on Storgatan.

Lennart shook his head. “He’s been allowed to go back to his apartment here in Borgholm.”

He walked slowly along the sidewalk, adopting the same pace as Julia. The wind was icy cold and was making her fingers go numb on the crutches.

Lennart added, “Or it might be his mother’s apartment, I’m

not really sure. But he’s promised not to disappear, in case we need to talk to him again… . How about Chinese? I’ve had enough of pizza.”

“As long as it’s not far,” said Julia, and let Lennart lead her to a Chinese restaurant next to Borgholm church.

There were only a few customers left in the restaurant, and Lennart and Julia hung up their jackets before sitting down at a window table. Julia looked at the white church building outside and remembered the hot summer when she had been confirmed there; she’d been in love with a boy in the confirmation class called … What was he called? It had been so important then, but now she couldn’t remember.

he

“But what was Anders doing in the house?” she asked quietly when they had ordered their food, five small dishes to share. “Did say: “Yes … He says he was digging for diamonds,” said Lennart.

“Diamonds?”

Lennart nodded and looked out of the window. “It’s an old rumor … I’ve heard it too: the Germans Nils Kant killed are supposed to have had some kind of stolen treasure with them from the Baltic. Precious stones of some sort, so people say. Anders got it into his head that Nils had buried them in the cellar before he took off. So he dug and dug… but he never found them,” said Lennart, then added, “So he says, anyway. He’s a bit odd.”

“And the newspaper articles?” asked Julia.

“They were hidden in a cupboard; he found them and put

them up. Anders thinks it was Vera who saved them.” Lennart looked at her. “Do you know what else he says? He says he’s felt Vera Kant’s presence in there. Ghosts …”

“I see” was all Julia said.

She didn’t want to tell him she’d suspected the same thing.

She didn’t want to think about that night in Vera’s house for one single moment.

Julia had one more question, but didn’t know if she wanted to ask it. Just before their food arrived at the table, Lennart gave her the answer anyway: “Anders swears he didn’t see your son that autumn day. He said he didn’t know anything about Jens. He stayed inside that day, it was too foggy and raw outside, and he heard what had happened when we asked for help with the search parties.” He added, “Niklas Bergman got the feeling Anders was telling the truth. He was just as open about that as he was about breaking into Vera Kant’s house.”

Julia just nodded.

“So I don’t think we’re going to get much further with this,”

Lennart went on. “Not unless something new turns up.”

Julia nodded again. She looked down at her hands and said: “I’ve tried to move on … not to bury myself in the past. It hasn’t gone too well before, but this autumn it’s felt better. A bit better. I’ve been able to grieve … I couldn’t do that before.” She looked up at Lennart. “So I think it’s been good for me to come to Oland … and to meet Dad again. And you.”

“I’m really glad to hear that,” said Lennart. “I was stuck in the past too, for a very long time … And I felt really bad sometimes, until I realized taking revenge on people doesn’t make you happy.

You have to move on. It’s difficult to see the way forward, but I think you have to do it.”

“Yes,” said Julia quietly. “You have to let the dead rest in peace.”

PUERTO LIMON, JULY 1963

Nils sits at the bar known as Playa Bonita outside Limon when all the wine has been drunk and the party is almost over. He has emptied two bottles of Chilean wine all by himself during the course of the evening, and yet he still doesn’t feel drunk enough for what is to come.

There have been few visitors to Playa Bonita today, and almost all of them went home long ago.

There are only two men left. They are sitting like shadows in the sand beside a small, glowing fire. They are singing quietly and laughing drunkenly with their arms around each other’s shoulders.

One of the shadows is the man Nils knows as Fritiof Andersson, the other is their victim. Nils sometimes thinks of the man as the guy from Smaland, but usually he calls him Borrachon. The alcoholic.

Costa

Rica is much better than Panama, Borrachon keeps saying; he can’t understand why he didn’t come here much sooner.

And Limon is a fantastic town. In fact, he doesn’t want to go home.

Not ever.

Nils has told him he can stay as long as he wants.

It’s Nils who has helped Borrachon get to Costa Rica. He made sure Borrachon dragged himself out of the fog of alcohol and got hold of a provisional passport from the embassy in Panama City, to replace the one he left behind on his last ship, then took the train north to San Jose. Nils has paid for a room in a cheap hotel by the central station, provided Borrachon with money for wine and a little food, then waited for Fritiof Andersson.

Borrachon has been so grateful, exhaustingly grateful. He has found a new friend, someone who understands him. Someone he would die for.

Nils has nodded and smiled at Borrachon, but inside he has been constantly wishing that Fritiof Andersson would return as quickly as possible and help out. Here comes Fritiof Andersson … Nils doesn’t want to become friends with this defeated Swede who is so much like him; he just wants to go home to Oland. Fritiof has promised to organize it, and all he wants in return …

Hey, if you want, just say the word,

and we’ll go home …

all Fritiof wants are the hidden gemstones.

This is what Nils suspects. On the occasions when Fritiof has visited him, he’s mentioned the stones several times. He knows what happened to Nils out on the alvar just after the war.

“Did they say where they came from, those Germans?”

Fritiof has asked. “Is it true they’d brought something with them to Olandsome treasure? And if they did have something with them… what happened to it? What did you do with it, Nils?”

So many questions, but Nils suspects that this man who calls himself Fritiof already knows the answers to most of them.

Nils has answered the questions, briefly, but he isn’t telling anyone where he hid the gemstones. That treasure is his, whatever it’s worth. He’s earned it, after living with no money for so many years now.

Very soon Borrachon became restless in the little room in San Jose, but Nils had to keep him there until Fritiof arrived. After three days they had run out of conversation, and after a week all that Nils and Borrachon had in common was drinking wine. They sat in the hotel room, surrounded by empty bottles, and outside the sun beat down on the street.

At last Fritiof’s plane landed out at the airport, and he turned up at the hotel with a broad smile below his sunglasses. Borrachon woke from his drunken state without really grasping who this new Swede was and what he wanted, but Fritiof provided more bottles of wine and the party continued. Fritiof sang and laughed, but kept control all the time; he studied Borrachon with a steady gaze.

The day after Fritiof’s arrival, Nils went on ahead to Limon by train. He returned to his little room, paid a final installment of rent to his landlady, Madame Mendoza, and had his hair cut just as short as Borrachon’s. Then he went to the bar by the harbor and nodded to all the poor bastards who would never leave Limon. He drank wine and made sure he was seen on the muddy streets of the town for several evenings in a row, apparently very drunk indeed.

“Echo” he said. He thanked everyone.

And he told Madame Mendoza and several bartenders that he would soon be off on a little walking trip north along the coast, past Playa Bonitabut that he’d be back in a few days, when a Swedish friend was coming to visit.

“Echa’he says. “Hasta pronto.”

At dawn on the final day in Limon he got up, left a little money in the kitchen drawers, and most of his possessions; he just took a few clothes and some food, his wallet, and the letters from Vera.

Then he left Limon at long last. He went through the market in the square where the old fishmongers were already setting up, silent witnesses to the start of his journey home. He went on past the railway station and continued northward, out of the town, on the way to his meeting with Fritiof Andersson without looking back.

Not running awaygoing home.

For the first time in almost twenty years, Nils is on his way home to Oland.

it wasn’t the young nurse who opened the heavy door of Martin Malm’s house this time. It was an elderly woman with long gray hair, dressed in a blouse and palecolored pants. Gerlof recognized her: Martin’s wife, AnnBritt Malm.

“Good afternoon,” said Gerlof.

The woman was standing stiffly in the doorway. Her pale face remained serious; he could see that she didn’t recognize him.

“Gerlof Davidsson,” he said, moving his cane into his left hand and holding out his right hand. “From Stenvik.”

“Oh yes,” she said. “Gerlof, yes, of course. You were here last week, with a woman.”

“That was my daughter,” said Gerlof.

“I was at the window upstairs when you were leaving, but when I asked Ylva, she couldn’t remember your names,” said AnnBritt Malm.

“Not to worry,” said Gerlof. “I really wanted a chat with Martin about old times, but he wasn’t too well. Perhaps he’s feeling a bit better today?”

The icecold wind from the sound was on his back, and Gerlof was trying not to shiver. But he was desperate to get inside, into the warmth of the house.

“Martin isn’t really much better today,” said AnnBritt Malm.

Gerlof nodded sympathetically. “But a little bit better, maybe?” he said, feeling like a doortodoor salesman. “I won’t stay long.” He didn’t move from the doorway.

In the end she relented.

“We can see how he’s feeling,” she said. “Come in.”

Gerlof turned before he went in, and looked back toward the street.

John was still sitting in his car. Gerlof nodded to him. “Thirty minutes,” he’d told him. “If they let me in, come back in thirty minutes.”

Now John raised a hand and started the engine. He drove away.

Gerlof walked into the warmth, and his limbs gradually stopped shaking. He put his briefcase down on the stone floor of the large hallway, and took off his coat.