The Quarry (27 page)

‘Is there anybody else left in the village?’

‘I don’t know … a few people, I expect. I’ve been indoors most of the time.’

‘OK … well, I rang anyway.’

Silence. She heard the sound of pattering feet, and Ally came into the kitchen. Vendela clicked her fingers and the poodle listened hard in order to find his way over to her.

‘How’s the tour going?’ she asked.

‘Not bad.’

‘Many people?’

‘Some. But they’re not buying many books.’

‘I’m sure it’ll improve,’ she said.

‘Anything else?’ he said quietly.

‘Like what?’

‘Have you taken any tablets today?’

‘Only two,’ said Vendela. ‘One this morning and one after lunch.’

‘Good,’ said Max. ‘I have to go now; I’m having dinner with the organizers.’

‘OK. Sleep well.’

After she had put the phone down, Vendela wondered why she kept on lying about the tablets. She hadn’t taken a single one for several days. Her running was much more important now.

After Easter, everything went back to normal in Gerlof’s little garden, once his children and grandchildren had gone home.

The last of the dead leaves had fallen off the hazel bushes around the garden, and Gerlof could see small, busy shadows hopping about among the branches. They were bullfinches, newly arrived migrants who would either remain in the village for the whole summer, or just rest for a few days before continuing across the Baltic to Finland and Russia. He could hear them too – the chorus of the finches sounded like tinkling bells.

The temperature had risen by a few degrees; there was only a gentle breeze, and Gerlof could work on his model ships out on the lawn. John Hagman had given him an old, well-dried piece of mahogany that he was intending to use to build a full-rigged ship. They had had their glory days on the world’s oceans long before he himself became a sea captain, but he had always loved them.

He could also carry on reading Ella’s diaries in secret. From time to time he had found a note about her visitor.

5
^th
August 1957

Plenty of fish this week. Last Thursday we had fried pike steaks from a fish Gerlof caught with a spear between the rocks on the shore, and this morning Andersson the carpenter gave me a perch.

And we had a crayfish party last Saturday night. But Gerlof was down in Borgholm at a meeting, so the girls and I had a party on our own.

The changeling seems to know when there’s no one around. He’s stayed away for a couple of weeks, but today he was standing by the stone wall when I came out, and I fetched him some milk and biscuits. He came over and I could smell him; the stench was worse than ever, I expect it’s the heat. He needs a bath, I thought, why can’t he have a bath? But the changeling just smiled and I pretended everything was all right.

As usual he didn’t say a word, just munched away at the biscuits and drank his milk. And then he headed off towards the north again, without so much as a thank-you.

He’s so timid and he jumps at the slightest sound, so I don’t think he’s supposed to be here. He wants to come and go without anyone seeing him. That’s why I don’t mention him, not to anyone.

Gerlof stopped reading. He looked over towards the village road in the north and thought about the fact that Ella’s visitor had always come from that direction.

What lay to the north? In the fifties there had been a few farms and boathouses up there; apart from that, there was nothing but grass and bushes. And the quarry, of course. That was the closest, on the other side of the road.

He was going to start reading again, but the bell on the gate heralded the arrival of a visitor; not the care service this time, but Per Mörner. He waved, and Gerlof waved back. They hadn’t seen each other since the previous week, at the party.

‘I’m back,’ said Per, walking across the lawn.

‘I didn’t even know you’d been away,’ said Gerlof. ‘Did you take your father back to the mainland?’

‘That was the idea,’ Per said quietly, ‘but one or two things got in the way … He’s still here, I’m looking after him.’

He lowered his eyes as he spoke.

‘Well, that’s good,’ said Gerlof. ‘You’ll be able to spend some time together.’

‘Yes,’ said Per, not looking particularly pleased at the prospect.

There was a short silence, then he suddenly asked, ‘By the way, do you know anything about the blood over in the quarry?’

‘Traces of blood?’ said Gerlof. ‘I’ve never seen any.’

‘Not traces of blood,’ said Per. ‘It’s more like a red layer that you can see in the rock … Ernst used to talk about the place of blood.’

‘Oh, that?’ Gerlof laughed. ‘Yes, that’s what the quarry workers used to call it. But it’s not blood, it’s iron oxide. It was formed when Öland lay beneath the water, and the quarry was part of the sea bed. The sun shone down through the waters of the Baltic and the sea bed oxidized. Then the island rose from the waves and the iron oxide solidified and formed a layer of rock … It was before my time, of course, but that’s what I’ve read.’

‘But did the quarry workers believe it was blood?’

‘No, no, but they had lots of names for the different strata within the rock.’ Gerlof raised a hand and counted on his fingers: ‘There was the hard layer on the top; that was full of cracks, and they just broke it off and shovelled it away. Then there was the sticky layer that was solid and difficult to quarry. After that they reached the good layer, where they found the best, finest limestone, and that was what they dug out and sold. And underneath that, in certain parts, was the place of blood.’

‘Was the stone good down there?’

‘No, quite the opposite,’ said Gerlof. ‘When they reached the place of blood they’d gone too far.’

Per nodded and said, ‘So now I know. There’s always a simple explanation.’

Gerlof glanced at Ella’s diary, lying on the table. ‘Well, usually.’

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.’