The Darkest Room Part 3

The pictures in my imagination turn out to be entirely false. The lighthouse keepers have left Eel Point, and only come to visit a few times a year-the lighthouses were converted to electricity a year or so after the war, and ten years later everything was automated. There's an old watchman; his name is Ragnar Davidsson and he lumbers around at Eel Point as if he owned the place.

A couple of months after we move in, I experience my first blizzard-and almost end up an orphan at the same time. It is the middle of December, and when I get home from school, Torun isn't there. One of her easels and the bag with her oils in it is also missing. Twilight falls and it begins to snow; the wind from the sea grows stronger. we move in, I experience my first blizzard-and almost end up an orphan at the same time. It is the middle of December, and when I get home from school, Torun isn't there. One of her easels and the bag with her oils in it is also missing. Twilight falls and it begins to snow; the wind from the sea grows stronger.

Torun doesn't come back. At first I am angry with her, then I start to feel afraid. I have never seen so much snow whirling past the windows. The flakes are not falling, they are slicing through the air. The wind shakes the windowpanes.

Half an hour or so after the storm begins, a small figure finally appears, plowing through the snowdrifts in the inner courtyard.

I hurry outside, grab hold of Torun before she collapses, and help her inside, to the fire.

The bag is still hanging over her shoulder, but the easel has been swept away in the storm. Her eyes are swollen shut; grains of ice mixed with sand have blown into them, and she can hardly see. When I take off her clothes, they are soaked; she is frozen stiff.

She had been sitting painting on the far side of the peat bog, Offermossen, when the clouds gathered and the storm came. She tried to take a shortcut through the tussocks of gra.s.s and the thin ice of the bog, but fell into the water and had to fight her way onto firmer ground. She whispers: "The dead came up out of the bog ... lots of them, clawing at me, ripping and tearing ... they were cold, so cold. They wanted my warmth."

Torun is rambling. I get her to drink some hot tea and put her to bed.

She sleeps peacefully for more than twelve hours, and I keep watch by the window as the snowfall gradually diminishes during the night.

When Torun wakes up, she is still talking about the dead who walked in the blizzard.

Her eyes are scratched and bloodshot, but the very next evening she sits down at a canvas and begins to paint.

21

Just when Tilda had stopped thinking about Martin Ahlquist every morning and night, the telephone rang in her little kitchen. She thought it was Gerlof, and picked up the receiver without any misgivings. stopped thinking about Martin Ahlquist every morning and night, the telephone rang in her little kitchen. She thought it was Gerlof, and picked up the receiver without any misgivings.It was Martin."I just wanted to see how you were. Make sure everything's okay."Tilda didn't speak; the pains in her stomach came back immediately. She gazed out at the empty quays in the harbor."Fine," she said eventually."Fine, or just okay?""Fine.""Do you fancy having a visitor?" asked Martin."No.""Isn't it lonely in northern oland anymore?""Yes, but I'm keeping busy.""Good."The conversation was not unpleasant, but it was short. Martin ended by asking if he could ring her again, and she said yes in a very small voice.The wound somewhere between her heart and her stomach started bleeding again.It isn't Martin who's ringing, she thought, it's his hormones. He's just h.o.r.n.y and wants a change from his wife again; he can't cope with everyday life ...The worst of it was that she still wanted him to come over, preferably that very night. It was sick.She should have mailed the letter to his wife long ago, but she was still carrying it around in her purse like a brick.Tilda worked long hours. She worked almost all the time to avoid thinking about Martin.In the evenings she would sit for hours preparing the talks on traffic awareness or law and order that she was due to give in schools or to local companies. And as often as she could, in between the talks, the foot patrols, and the paperwork, she went out in her police car all over the area.One Tuesday afternoon, on the deserted coast road, she slowed down when she saw the twin lighthouses at Eel Point. But she didn't stop; instead she turned down toward the neighboring property where a farming family lived. Their name was Carlsson, she recalled. Her only visit there had been on that long, difficult night after Katrine Westin had drowned, when Joakim had broken down in the neighbors' hallway.The lady of the house, Maria Carlsson, recognized her at once when she rang the doorbell."No, we haven't seen much of Joakim this fall," she said when they were sitting at the kitchen table. "We haven't fallen out, nothing like that, but he tends to keep himself to himself. His children play with our Andreas sometimes.""And what about his wife, Katrine?" said Tilda. "Did you see more of her when she was living there alone with the children?""She came over for coffee a couple of times ... but I think she had her hands full with the house. And of course we work long hours too.""Did you notice whether she had visitors?""Visitors?" said Maria. "Well, there were a few workmen there, toward the end of the summer.""But did you ever see a boat there?" said Tilda. "At Eel Point, I mean."Maria pushed back her bangs and thought about it."No, not that I remember. n.o.body would have seen it from here anyway. The view is pretty much obscured."She pointed toward the window in the northeast, and Tilda could see that the view of the lighthouses was blocked by the big barn on the far side of the yard."But did you perhaps hear the sound of a boat at some point?" she ventured. "The sound of an engine?"Maria shook her head. "You do hear boats chugging past sometimes when there's no wind, but I don't usually take any notice of it ..."When Tilda got outside, she stopped by the car and glanced to the south. There was a group of red boathouses out on the nearest point, but not a soul in sight.And no boats surging through the water.She got back in the car and realized it was time to put this particular criminal investigation to bed-and it had never really been an investigation anyway.When she got back to the station, she moved the file containing her notes on Katrine Westin into the tray marked Non-Priority Non-Priority.She had four substantial piles of paper on her desk, and half a dozen dirty coffee cups. Hans Majner's desk on the other side of the room was, in contrast, completely empty of papers. Sometimes she had the urge to dump a huge bundle of traffic reports on his desk, but it always pa.s.sed.[image]In the evenings Tilda took off her uniform, got into her own little Ford, and drove around getting to know oland, while listening to the recordings she had made with Gerlof. Most of them sounded good, the microphone picking up both his and Tilda's voices, and she could hear that he had become more and more accustomed to talking each time they met. Tilda took off her uniform, got into her own little Ford, and drove around getting to know oland, while listening to the recordings she had made with Gerlof. Most of them sounded good, the microphone picking up both his and Tilda's voices, and she could hear that he had become more and more accustomed to talking each time they met.It was during one of these outings they she finally found the van Edla Gustafsson had mentioned.She had driven down to Borgholm, toured around the streets of the town for a while, then continued on south across the bridge to Kalmar. There were lots of streets there, lots of huge parking lots, and she drove slowly past hundreds of vehicles without spotting a dark van. The whole thing just seemed hopeless.After half an hour, when she heard on the local radio that there was horse racing tonight, she left the center and headed for the racecourse. The enclosed course was illuminated with huge spotlights. There was money to be won and lost in there, but Tilda stayed in the car and drove slowly along the rows of parked cars.Suddenly she slammed on the brakes.She had pa.s.sed a van. It said kalmar pipes & welding on the sides, and it was black.Tilda made a note of the license number and reversed into a parking s.p.a.ce a little further along. Then she called the central control number, asked them to look up the plates, and found that they belonged to a forty-seven-year-old man with no police record, in a village outside Helsingborg. The van had no record of traffic offenses, but it had been deregistered since August.Aha, thought Tilda. She also asked them to check out the firm called Kalmar Pipes & Welding, but no such firm was registered.Tilda switched off the engine and settled down to wait."Yes, Ragnar used to fish illegally up by Eel Point," said Gerlof in her headphones. "He was in fis.h.i.+ng waters belonging to other people sometimes, but of course he always denied it ..."After fifty minutes the spectators started pouring out through the gates. Two powerfully built men aged around twenty-five stopped by the dark van.Tilda took off her headphones and straightened up in her seat.One of the men was taller and broader than the other, but she couldn't make out any clear facial features. She peered through the darkness as the man got into the van, and wished she had a telescope.The men responsible for the break-ins? Impossible to tell, of course.They're just ordinary workmen, darling, she heard Martin's self-a.s.sured voice saying in the back of her mind, but she ignored him.The men drove out of the parking lot. Tilda started her own car and put it in first gear.The van drove away from the racecourse, out onto the freeway and on toward Kalmar. Tilda followed, a couple of hundred yards behind.Eventually they reached a high-rise apartment block not far from the hospital, and the van slowed down and pulled in by the sidewalk. The men got out and disappeared through a doorway.Tilda sat and waited. After thirty seconds the lights went on in a couple of windows on the second floor.She quickly wrote down the address. If these were the burglars, then at least she now knew where they lived. The best thing would of course be to go into the apartment to search for stolen goods, but her only justification for doing so was old Edla's information that the van had been on oland. That wasn't enough.[image]"I've given up on the investigation into Katrine Westin's death," said Tilda as she was having coffee with Gerlof a couple of evenings later. the investigation into Katrine Westin's death," said Tilda as she was having coffee with Gerlof a couple of evenings later."Her murder, you mean?""It wasn't a murder.""Oh yes," said Gerlof. "I think it was."Tilda said nothing, she merely sighed and took out the tape recorder."Shall we do one last-"But Gerlof interrupted her."I saw a man almost murdered once, without anyone touching him.""Really?"Tilda put the tape recorder down on the table, but didn't switch it on."It was out by Timmernabben, a few years before the war," Gerlof went on. "Two cargo s.h.i.+ps carrying stone were moored up side by side, in perfect harmony. But aboard one was a first mate from Byxelkrok, and aboard the other an ordinary seaman from Degerhamn. They got into an argument about something, and stood yelling at each other across the gunwales. In the end one of them spat at the other ... then it got serious. They started hurling shards of stone at each other, and in the end the guy from Degerhamn jumped up onto the gunwale to get across to the other s.h.i.+p. But he didn't get far, because his opponent met him with a boat hook."Gerlof paused, drank a little of his coffee, and went on:"Boat hooks these days are pathetic things made of plastic, but this was a st.u.r.dy wooden pole with a big iron hook on one end. So when this lout came hurtling over the gunwale, his s.h.i.+rt got caught on the hook, and he stopped in midair. Then he fell straight down like a stone into the water between the s.h.i.+ps, with his s.h.i.+rt still tangled up on the boat hook ... and he didn't come up again, because the other guy was holding him under the water." He looked at Tilda. "It was more or less the same as they did with those poor souls who were pushed down into the water with poles out on the peat bog.""But he survived?""Oh yes, the rest of us broke up the fight and got him out. But he only just made it."Tilda looked at the tape recorder. She should have switched it on.Gerlof bent down and started rustling with some paper under the table."Anyway, it was that fight I was thinking of when I asked to see Katrine Westin's clothes," he said. "And now I've had a look at them."He took an item of clothing out of the paper bag. It was a gray cotton top with a hood."The murderer came to Eel Point by boat," said Gerlof. "He put in by the stone jetty, where Katrine Westin was waiting ... and she stayed where she was, so she must have trusted him. He was holding a boat hook, which of course was perfectly natural because that's what you use when you put in. But this was one of the old kind ... a long pole with an iron hook that he twisted into the hood of her top, then he used it to drag her down into the water. Then he held her down until it was over."Gerlof spread the top out on the table, and Tilda saw that the hood was torn. Something sharp had ripped two inch-long holes in the gray fabric.

22

Often when Joakim looked out of the kitchen window in the evening, he would see Rasputin slinking off to go hunting. But sometimes he thought he caught a glimpse of other black shapes moving out there-sometimes on four legs, sometimes on two. out of the kitchen window in the evening, he would see Rasputin slinking off to go hunting. But sometimes he thought he caught a glimpse of other black shapes moving out there-sometimes on four legs, sometimes on two.Ethel?The first few times, Joakim had hurried out onto the veranda steps to get a better look, but the inner courtyard had always been empty.The shadows lengthened around Eel Point with every evening, and Joakim felt that the sense of unease in the house was also increasing as Christmas approached. The howling of the wind rose and fell around the eaves, and there was a constant tapping and creaking in the house.If there were some unseen visitor at the manor, it wasn't Katrine, he knew that. She was still keeping herself from him.[image]"I've brought the clothes back," said Gerlof, handing over the brown package to Joakim on the other side of the table. back," said Gerlof, handing over the brown package to Joakim on the other side of the table."Did you get anything out of them?""Perhaps.""But you don't want to tell me what it was?""Soon," said Gerlof. "When I've finished thinking."Joakim had never visited an old people's home, as far as he remembered. Both sets of grandparents had remained at home until a ripe old age, and had spent their final days in the hospital. But he was sitting here now, drinking coffee in silence in Gerlof Davidsson's room at the home at Marnas. A candleholder with two lit Advent candles was the only sign that Christmas was coming.A series of old objects hung on the walls: s.h.i.+ps' name-plates, framed s.h.i.+ps' certificates, and black-and-white photographs of two-masted sailing s.h.i.+ps."Those are pictures of my cargo s.h.i.+ps," said Gerlof. "I had three different ones.""Are any of them still around?""Just one. She's at a sailing club down in Karlskrona. The other two are gone ... one of them burned, the other sank."Joakim looked down at the package of Katrine's clothes, then looked out of the only window in the room. Twilight was already starting to fall."I have to pick up my children in an hour," he said. "Can we talk for a while?""Of course," said Gerlof. "The only thing on my schedule this afternoon was a talk on incontinence in the dayroom. It wasn't all that appealing."For a long time Joakim had wanted to talk to someone about what had happened in the fall, someone who knew Eel Point. The pastor at the church in Marnas seemed to have such rigid views, and Mirja Rambe thought too much about herself. It was only when Gerlof Davidsson came out to the house and proved himself to be a good listener that he thought he might have found the right person. A kind of father confessor."I never asked you when you came out to the house, but ... do you believe in ghosts?"Gerlof shook his head. "I neither believe nor don't believe," he said. "I do collect ghost stories, but not in order to prove anything. And of course there are so many theories about ghosts ... that they are part of the framework of old houses, or electromagnetic radiation.""Or just patches on the cornea," said Joakim."Exactly," said Gerlof. He was silent for a few seconds, then went on: "Of course, I could tell you a story I've never written about in any folk history book, but it's the only real ghostly experience I've had."Joakim nodded."I took over my first cargo s.h.i.+p when I was seventeen," said Gerlof. "I'd been at sea for a couple of years before that, saving up, and my father helped out with the finances. I knew exactly which s.h.i.+p I wanted to buy, a single-masted sailing s.h.i.+p with an engine; she was called Ingrid Maria Ingrid Maria, and her home port was Borgholm. The owner, Gerhard Marten, was in his sixties and had sailed cargo s.h.i.+ps all his life. But then he developed heart problems and his doctor told him he couldn't go to sea anymore. Ingrid Maria Ingrid Maria was for sale, and the price was three thousand five hundred kronor." was for sale, and the price was three thousand five hundred kronor.""That was cheap, wasn't it?" said Joakim."Yes, that was a good price even then," said Gerlof, and continued: "The evening I was due to go and hand over the money to Marten, I took a walk down to the harbor to have a look at her. It was April, and the ice had just disappeared from the sound. The sun was going down, and there was hardly anybody around in the harbor ... the only person I saw was old Gerhard. He was walking around on the deck of the Ingrid Maria Ingrid Maria, as if he was finding it difficult to part with her, and I went aboard. I don't remember what we talked about, but I took a short walk around the deck with him, and he pointed out a few little things that would need repairing. Then he told me to look after her, and we parted company. I went ash.o.r.e and walked home to my parents' house to have dinner and pick up the envelope containing the money."Gerlof fell silent, looking at the pictures of the cargo s.h.i.+ps on the wall."At about seven o'clock I cycled over to the Marten family cottage north of Borgholm," he went on. "But I arrived to find a house in mourning. Marten's wife was there, her eyes red with weeping. Gerhard Marten was dead, it turned out. He had signed the purchase agreement the night before, then walked down to the sh.o.r.e early in the morning with his shotgun, and shot himself in the head.""In the morning?" said Joakim."That same morning, yes. So when I met Gerhard Marten down in the harbor, he had actually been dead for many hours. I can't explain it ... but I know know that I met him that evening. We even shook hands." that I met him that evening. We even shook hands.""So you met a ghost," said Joakim.Gerlof looked at him."Perhaps. But it doesn't prove anything. It certainly doesn't prove that there's life after death."Joakim s.h.i.+fted in his seat and looked down at the parcel of clothes."I'm worried about my daughter, Livia," he said. "She's six years old, and she talks in her sleep. She always has done ... but since my wife died she's started to dream about her.""Is that so strange?" said Gerlof. "I dream about my late wife sometimes, and she's been dead for many years.""Yes ... but it's the same dream, over and over again. Livia dreams that her mother comes to Eel Point, but can't get into the house."Gerlof listened in silence."And sometimes she dreams about Ethel too," Joakim went on. "That's what worries me the most.""Who's Ethel?" asked Gerlof."She was my sister. She was three years older than me." Joakim sighed. "That's my own ghost story. Kind of.""Tell me about her," said Gerlof quietly.Joakim nodded wearily. It was time."Ethel was a drug addict," he said. "She died one winter's night close to where we lived ... two weeks before Christmas, a year ago.""I'm sorry," said Gerlof."Thank you," said Joakim, and went on: "I lied to you when I saw you last time ... when you asked why we'd sold the house in Bromma and moved here. It had a lot to do with what happened to my sister. Once Ethel was dead, we didn't want to stay in Stockholm."He stopped speaking again. He wanted to talk about this, and yet he didn't want to. He didn't really want to remember Ethel and her death. Nor Katrine's long depression."But you miss your sister?" said Gerlof.Joakim thought about it."A little." That sounded terrible, so he added, "I miss her the way she used to be before ... before the drugs. Ethel used to talk a lot, she always had so many plans. She was going to open a hair salon, she was going to be a music teacher ... but after a while you just got so tired of it all, because none of the plans involved giving up the drugs. It was like watching someone sitting in a burning house, planning a party in the middle of the flames.""So how did it start?" asked Gerlof, sounding almost apologetic. "I know so little about that world ...""For Ethel it started with hash," said Joakim. "Weed, as they called it. It was cool to smoke at parties and concerts. And life was a party for Ethel in her teens; she played the piano and the guitar. She taught me to play a little too."He smiled to himself."It sounds as if you were very fond of her," said Gerlof."Yes, Ethel was happy and funny," said Joakim. "She was pretty too, and popular with the boys. And she partied a lot; with amphetamines she could party even more. She must have dropped twenty pounds in weight, although she was already thin. She was away more and more. Then our father died of cancer, and I think it was around then she started with heroin ... brown heroin. Her laughter grew harsher and more hoa.r.s.e."He took a sip of his coffee and went on quickly:"n.o.body who smokes heroin thinks they're a real user. You're not a junkie. But sooner or later you switch to needles, because it's cheaper ... you need less heroin per dose. But you still need to come up with at least fifteen hundred kronor for supplies every day. That's a lot of money, particularly when you haven't got any. So you start stealing. You take your elderly mother's money, or steal the jewelry she's inherited."Joakim looked at the Advent candles and added:"On Christmas Eve, when we were sitting in my mother's house eating ham and meatb.a.l.l.s, there was always an empty chair at the table. As usual Ethel had promised to come, but she was in the city center looking for drugs. For her that was routine, just everyday life. And routines are the most difficult thing to break, however terrible they are."He was deep into his confession now, not even aware if Gerlof was listening any longer."So you know that everything has gone to h.e.l.l and that your sister is in the middle of the city gathering money for drugs, and her social worker never calls back ... but you go off to your teaching job in the morning and have dinner with the family and work on your new house in the evening, and you try not to think and feel so much." He lowered his eyes. "Either you try to forget, or you try to find her. My father used to go out looking in the evenings, before he got too sick. I did too. On the streets, in the squares, in the subway stations and the emergency psych wards ...We soon learned where she might be."He fell silent. In his mind he was back in the city, among the drug users and those sleeping rough, among all the lonely, half-dead souls who spent their nights chasing around out there."That must have taken a great deal of strength," said Gerlof quietly."Yes ... but I wasn't out every night. I could have looked for her more often.""And you could also have given up."Joakim nodded grimly. He had one more thing to tell Gerlof about Ethel, the most difficult thing of all to talk about:"What was in fact the beginning of the end happened two years ago," he said. "Ethel had been in rehab that winter, and it had gone well. When she went in, she weighed less than a hundred pounds, her body was covered in bruises, and her cheeks looked completely hollow. But when she came home to Stockholm, she was much healthier. She had been clean for almost three months and had put some weight on ... so we let her stay in our guest room. And it worked well. She wasn't allowed to look after Gabriel, but she used to play a lot with Livia in the evenings, they got on really well."He remembered that they had begun to hope again at that time, he and Katrine. They had begun to trust Ethel. Not to the extent that they would dare to invite people to dinner when she was home, but they had started to go for long walks in the evenings, leaving Ethel to look after Livia and Gabriel. And it had gone well every time."One evening in March, Katrine and I went to see a movie," he went on. "When we got back to the house after a couple of hours, it was dark and empty. There was only Gabriel there, sleeping in his cot with a soaking wet diaper. Ethel had gone, and she had taken two things with her: my cell phone and Livia."He stopped speaking and closed his eyes."I knew where she'd gone, of course," he continued. "The craving had returned and she had taken the subway into the city to buy heroin. She had done it so many times before. Bought a tab for five hundred kronor, injected it in some toilet, and rested for a few hours, until the craving came back again ... The problem this time was that she had Livia with her."The memories of that night came back to Joakim-ice-cold memories of growing panic. He had hurled himself into the car and driven around the areas close to the central station. He had done it before, either alone or with Katrine. But then he had been worried about what could have happened to Ethel.This time he was terrified for Livia."I found Ethel in the end," he said, looking at Gerlof. "She was lying in the dark graveyard at Klara church. She had curled up next to a tomb and pa.s.sed out. Livia was sitting beside her in thin clothes, ice cold and apathetic. I called an ambulance and made sure Ethel went into detox. Again. Then I drove home to Bromma with Livia."He fell silent."Katrine made me choose after that," he said in a low voice. "And I chose my family.""You made the right choice," said Gerlof.Joakim nodded, although he would still have preferred not to make that choice."After that night I told Ethel not to come near our house anymore ... but she did. We didn't let her in, but in the evenings, two or three times a week, she would stand at our gate in her scruffy denim jacket staring at the Apple House. Sometimes she would open our mail, to see if there was any money or a check in the envelope. And sometimes she had a guy with her ... some skeleton standing next to her, shaking."He paused and thought about the fact that this was one of his last memories of his sister: standing by the gate, her face deathly pale, her hair standing on end."Ethel used to just stand there yelling," he said to Gerlof. "She yelled stuff about ... about Katrine. Sometimes about me too, but mostly about Katrine. She would roar and bawl until the neighbors started peeping through their curtains, and I would have to go out and give her some money.""Did that help?""Yes ... it worked at the time, but of course it meant that she came back the next time she was broke. It became a vicious cycle. Katrine and I felt ... besieged. I would sometimes wake up in the middle of the night and hear Ethel shouting by the gate, but when I looked out, the street would be empty.""Was Livia at home when your sister turned up?""Most of the time, yes.""Did she hear Ethel yelling?""I think so. She hasn't talked about it, but I'm sure she did." Joakim closed his eyes. "Those were dark days ... a terrible time. And Katrine started to wish that Ethel would die. She would talk about it late at night, in bed. Ethel might take an overdose, sooner or later. Preferably sooner. I think that's what we were both hoping for.""And that's what happened?""Yes, eventually. The telephone rang at eleven-thirty one night. When it rang so late, we knew it was about Ethel, it always was."A year ago, thought Joakim, but it felt like ten.It was his mother, Ingrid, who told them the news. Ethel had been found drowned in Bromma, just below the area where their house was.Katrine had even heard her earlier. Ethel had been standing there at the gate as usual at around seven o'clock, yelling, then the screaming had stopped.When Katrine looked out, she was gone."Ethel had gone down to the walkway by the sh.o.r.e," said Joakim. "She had sat down by a boathouse and pushed the needle in, then she had tumbled into the freezing water. And that was the end of her.""Weren't you home that night?" asked Gerlof."I came home later ...Livia and I were at a children's party.""That was probably a good thing. For her sake.""Yes. And for a while we hoped that everything would settle down," said Joakim. "But I kept on waking up at night thinking that I could hear Ethel yelling out in the street. And Katrine just lost all her joy in life. ...We'd finished renovating the Apple House by that time and it was lovely, but she just couldn't relax there. So last winter we started talking about moving out to the country, moving south, maybe finding a place here on oland. And in the end that's what we did."He fell silent and looked at his watch. Twenty past four. It felt as if he had talked more during this last hour than during the whole of the fall."I have to go and pick up my children," he said."Did anyone ask how all this made you feel?" said Gerlof."Me?" said Joakim, getting up. "I felt terrific, of course.""I don't believe that.""No. But we've never talked about how we feel in my family. And we never really talked about Ethel's problems, either." He looked at Gerlof. "You just don't tell people that your sister is a junkie. Katrine was the first ... you could say I dragged her into all this."Gerlof sat there in silence, apparently lost in thought."What did Ethel want?" he said. "Why did she keep on coming to your house? Was it just to get the money for drugs?"Joakim pulled on his jacket without answering."Not just that," he said eventually. "She wanted her daughter back as well.""Her daughter?"Joakim hesitated. This was also difficult to talk about, but in the end he came out with it:"There was no father ... he died of an overdose. Katrine and I were Livia's G.o.dparents, and social services awarded her care to us four years ago. We adopted her last year ... Livia is ours now.""But she's Ethel's child?" said Gerlof."No. Not any longer."

23

Tilda had put in a report on the black van to headquarters in Borgholm, describing it as an "interesting" vehicle worth looking out for. But oland was a big place and the number of police officers out patrolling the roads was small. a report on the black van to headquarters in Borgholm, describing it as an "interesting" vehicle worth looking out for. But oland was a big place and the number of police officers out patrolling the roads was small.And Gerlof's talk of a murderer with a boat hook at Eel Point? She hadn't put in a report on that particular theory. Without any proof that there had in fact been a boat out by the point, it was impossible to instigate a murder investigation-it would take more than a few holes in a top."I've returned the clothes to Joakim Westin," said Gerlof the next time he called her."Did you tell him about your murder theory?" said Tilda."No ... it wasn't the right time. He's still out of balance; he would probably believe that an apparition had dragged his wife down into the water.""An apparition?""Westin's sister ... she was a drug addict."Gerlof told her the story of Joakim's sister, Ethel, her heroin addiction and her habit of disturbing the peace."So that's why the family moved from Stockholm," said Tilda when he finished. "A death drove them away.""That was one reason. But oland might just have tempted them as well."Tilda thought about how tired and worn Joakim Westin had looked when they went to see him, and said, "I think he could do with talking to a psychologist. Or maybe a priest.""So I'm not up to the job of father confessor?" said Gerlof.Almost every evening when Tilda pa.s.sed a mailbox on her way home from work, she was on the point of taking out the letter to Martin's wife and dropping it in the box, and yet it was still in her purse. It was as if she were carrying an ax around-the letter gave her power over a person she didn't know. when Tilda pa.s.sed a mailbox on her way home from work, she was on the point of taking out the letter to Martin's wife and dropping it in the box, and yet it was still in her purse. It was as if she were carrying an ax around-the letter gave her power over a person she didn't know.Of course, she had power over Martin too. He had continued to call her from time to time, trying to make small talk. Tilda didn't know what she would say if he asked if he could come and see her again.Over two weeks had pa.s.sed without a single reported break-in in northern oland. But one morning the telephone rang in the police station. The call came from Stenvik on the west coast of the island; the man on the other end of the line spoke quietly, with a strong local dialect, and said that his name was John Hagman. She recognized the name-Hagman was one of Gerlof's friends."I hear you're looking for people who've been breaking into houses," he said."We are," said Tilda. "I was intending to call you ...""Yes, Gerlof told me.""Have you seen anyone breaking in?""No."Hagman didn't say any more. Tilda waited, then asked, "Have you perhaps seen any trace trace of someone breaking in?" of someone breaking in?""Yes. They've been here in the village.""Recently?""I don't know ... sometime in the fall. They appear to have been in several houses.""I'll come down and take a look," said Tilda. "How will I find you in the village?""I'm the only one here right now."Tilda got out of the police car on a gravel track in the middle of a row of closed-up summer cottages, a hundred yards or so above the sound. She looked around in the cold wind, and thought about her family. They came from Stenvik; they had somehow managed to survive in this stony landscape. the police car on a gravel track in the middle of a row of closed-up summer cottages, a hundred yards or so above the sound. She looked around in the cold wind, and thought about her family. They came from Stenvik; they had somehow managed to survive in this stony landscape.A short, elderly man in dark blue dungarees and a brown cap came over to the car."Hagman," he said. He nodded briefly and pointed to a dark brown one-story house with wide windows. "There," he said. "I noticed it had blown open. Same thing next door."One of the windows at the back of the house was ajar. When Tilda went closer, she could see that the frame was split and broken open near the catch.There were no footprints on the veranda below the window. Tilda went over and pulled it wide open. The room inside was a mess, with clothes and tools just thrown on the stone floor."Have you got a key to this house, John?""No.""In that case I'll climb in."Tilda grabbed hold of both sides of the frame with her gloved hands and hauled herself into the darkness inside.She jumped down onto the floor of a small storeroom and flicked a switch, but no light came on. The power was turned off.The traces left by the thieves were clearly visible, however-all the storage boxes had been pulled out and emptied onto the floor. And when she moved through into the main room, she saw fragments of broken gla.s.s, just as in the vicarage at Hagelby.Tilda went over for a closer look. Small pieces of wood lay among the gla.s.s, and it was a while before she realized it was a s.h.i.+p in a bottle that had been smashed on the floor.A few minutes later she heaved herself back out through the window. Hagman was still standing on the gra.s.s. she heaved herself back out through the window. Hagman was still standing on the gra.s.s."They've been in there," she said, "and they've made a real mess ... smashed things."She held out a clear plastic bag and showed him the bits of wood she had collected-the remains of the model s.h.i.+p."Is it one of Gerlof's?"Hagman looked sadly at the bits and nodded. "Gerlof has a cottage here in the village ... he's sold s.h.i.+ps in bottles and model boats to plenty of the summer visitors."Tilda pushed the bag into her jacket pocket. "And you haven't heard or seen anything at night from these cottages?"Hagman shook his head."No unusual traffic in the area?""No," said Hagman. "I mean, the owners go home to the city in August every year. In September there was a firm out here replacing some floors. But since then there hasn't ..."Tilda looked at him. "A flooring company?""Yes ... they worked in these houses for several days. But they made sure everything was properly locked up when they'd finished.""It wasn't a plumbing firm?" said Tilda. "Kalmar Pipes and Welding?"Hagman shook his head. "They were laying floors," he said. "Young lads. Several of them.""Laying floors ..." said Tilda.She remembered the newly polished floor at the vicarage in Hagelby, and wondered if she'd found a pattern."Did you talk to them?""No."Tilda went around the other cottages nearby with Hagman, and made a note of which ones had broken window frames."We need to get in touch with the owners," she said as they walked back toward the police car. "Have you got contact details for them, John?""For some of them, yes," said Hagman. "Those who have decent manners."When Tilda got back to the station, she called a dozen or so owners of cottages on oland or in the Kalmar area who had reported break-ins during the fall. the station, she called a dozen or so owners of cottages on oland or in the Kalmar area who had reported break-ins during the fall.Four of the owners she managed to get hold of either had floors sanded or replaced in their summer cottages earlier in the year. They had used a local firm in northern oland: Marnas Fine Flooring.She also called the vicarage in Hagelby; the owners were now home from the hospital. Gunnar Edberg still had his hand in a cast, but he was feeling better. They had also used the firm in Marnas to lay a new floor."It went really well," said Edberg. "They were here for five days early on in the summer ... but we never saw them, we were in Norway at the time.""So you lent them the keys," said Tilda, "even though you didn't know who they were?""It's a reliable firm," said Edberg. "We know the owner, he lives in Marnas.""Have you got his number?"Tilda had the bit between her teeth now, and she called the owner of Marnas Fine Flooring as soon as she finished talking to Gunnar Edberg. She quickly spelled out the purpose of her call: to find out the names of the men who had been working in northern oland laying floors over the past year. She stressed that they weren't suspected of any crime, and that the police would appreciate it if the owner didn't mention her call to his employees.No problem. The owner of the flooring company gave her two names, along with their addresses and ID numbers.Niclas LindellHenrik Jans...o...b..th good men, he a.s.sured her. Decent, capable, and conscientious. Sometimes they worked together, sometimes separately-usually for residents of the island when they were away on holiday, and in summer cottages out of season when the owners had gone home. There was plenty of work.Tilda thanked him and asked one last question: Could she have a list of the houses where Lindell and Jansson had worked during the summer and fall?That information was held on a calendar on the company's computer system, the owner told her. He would print out the pages and fax them over to her.When she had hung up, Tilda switched on her own computer and checked out Lindell's and Jansson's ID numbers in the police database. Henrik Jansson had been arrested and fined for driving illegally in Borgholm seven years earlier-he had driven a car at the age of seventeen without a license. There was nothing else relating to either him or Lindell.Then the fax machine whirred into action and the list of jobs carried out by Marnas Fine Flooring started churning out.Tilda was quickly able to establish that of the twenty-two house owners who had had work done on their floors, seven had reported break-ins over the past three months.Niclas Lindell had worked in two of the houses. But Henrik Jansson had worked in all of them.Tilda felt the same excitement as the hunter in the forest when an elk appears. Then she noticed something else: during one week in August, Henrik Jansson had been at the manor house at Eel Point. According to the job sheet, the work had been "to sand floors, ground floor."Did it mean anything?Henrik Jansson lived in Borgholm. According to the calendar, he was out on a job outside Byxelkrok today, and given the current situation, he was welcome to carry on laying floors in peace and quiet. Tilda needed more time before calling him in for an interview with the police.Then the silence was broken by the sound of the telephone ringing. She looked at the clock-it was already quarter past five. She was almost certain she knew who it was."Marnas police station, Davidsson.""Hi, Tilda."And she was right."How are you?" said Martin."Fine," she said, "but I don't have time right now. I'm just in the middle of something important.""But Tilda, wait-""Bye."So there. She put the phone down without feeling even the slightest bit curious about what he wanted. It felt like a liberation to realize that Martin Ahlquist had suddenly become so unimportant to her. Right now Henrik Jansson was the man in her life.Tilda's goal was to find Henrik and arrest him-and on the way to the cells, to ask him a couple of questions. She wanted to know why he had attacked pensioners, of course-but also why he had smashed the s.h.i.+p in a bottle that Gerlof had made.

The summer was unusually wet on oland that year, and our second winter at Eel Point was worse than the first. Much colder, and with even more snow. In January and February the school in Marnas was closed every Monday, as I recall, because the snowplows hadn't managed to clear the roads after the snowfall over the weekend.

-MIRJA RAMBE

WINTER 1960.

My mother, Torun, continues to paint, although her sight never recovers after her experience out in the snowstorm. She can only just see where she's going by this stage, and she is no longer able to read.

Her gla.s.ses don't help much. In Borgholm we find a kind of big halogen lamp that stands on a sort of tripod. It s.h.i.+nes with a dazzling white light, making our two dark rooms in the outbuilding at Eel Point look like a film studio. In the middle of this brilliant suns.h.i.+ne my mother sits painting, using the darkest tones she is able to mix.

Torun's spatula and brushes rasp across the taut canvas like stressed-out mice. My mother is painting the blizzard in which she got lost the previous winter, and she has her face so close to the canvas that the tip of her nose is almost permanently dark gray. She stares intently at the dark shadows that develop-I think when she is painting she feels as if she were still out there among the dead in the pools on the peat bog, Offermossen.

Canvas after canvas is covered in oils, but since no one wants to buy or even exhibit the paintings, she keeps the rolled-up canvases in the empty, dry room next to the kitchen in the outbuilding.

I am also doing some painting, when there are colors and paper left over, but the atmosphere in the house at the end of the world still remains grim. We never have any money, and Torun can no longer see well enough to work as a cleaner.

Torun has her forty-ninth birthday at the beginning of November; she celebrates alone with a bottle of red wine and begins to talk about the fact that her life is over.

Mine feels as if it hasn't even begun yet.

I am eighteen years old, I have left school, and I have taken over some of Torun's cleaning jobs while I wait for something better to turn up. I have missed the 1950s in every way. It is only when they are over that I come across some old copies of Picture Journal Picture Journal and find out that the fifties, apart from the death of Stalin and the fear of the atom bomb, was the decade of the teenagers, with white ankle socks, house parties, and rock and roll-but there wasn't much of that out in the country. Our radio was old, and usually broadcast a mixture of crackles and ghostly voices. After the blissful season when it's possible to go swimming, life on the coast is nine months of darkness, wind, long muddy roads, wet clothes, and constantly frozen feet. and find out that the fifties, apart from the death of Stalin and the fear of the atom bomb, was the decade of the teenagers, with white ankle socks, house parties, and rock and roll-but there wasn't much of that out in the country. Our radio was old, and usually broadcast a mixture of crackles and ghostly voices. After the blissful season when it's possible to go swimming, life on the coast is nine months of darkness, wind, long muddy roads, wet clothes, and constantly frozen feet.

The only consolation this year is Markus.

Markus Landkvist came from Borgholm in the fall that year and moved into a little room in the manor house at Eel Point. Markus is nineteen, one year older than me, and is doing casual work on the farms in the area while he waits to be called up for his military service. Borgholm in the fall that year and moved into a little room in the manor house at Eel Point. Markus is nineteen, one year older than me, and is doing casual work on the farms in the area while he waits to be called up for his military service.

He is not my first love, but he is definitely a step forward. Earlier romances have mostly involved standing and staring at a boy across the schoolyard, hoping that he will come over and pull my hair.

Markus is tall and blond and the best-looking boy around, at least that's what I think.

"You know Eel Point is haunted?" I ask him when we meet in the kitchen of the manor house for the first time.

"What do you mean?"

He doesn't seem in the least afraid or even interested, but I have made contact now and I have to carry on.

"The dead live in the barn," I say. "They whisper behind the walls."

"It's just the wind," says Markus.

It isn't exactly love at first sight. But we start spending time together. I am the talkative annoying one, Markus is the strong silent one. But I think he likes me. I draw Markus from memory before I fall asleep, and start to dream about leaving Eel Point with him.

As I see it, Markus and I are the only ones here who have any kind of life ahead of us. Torun has given up, and the older men in the house seem content to work during the day and to sit around gossiping in the evenings.

Sometimes they drink home-brewed liquor in the kitchen with Ragnar Davidsson, the eel fisherman. I can hear their laughter through the windows.

We all move in our own circles at Eel Point, and this winter I discover the hayloft above the barn. There is hardly any hay in there, but it is full of possessions that people have left behind, and I set off on a journey of discovery almost every week. There are lots of traces of families and lighthouse keepers who have lived in the manor house; it is almost like a museum, with odds and ends to do with boats and wooden boxes and piles of old navigation charts and log books. I move things aside so that I can make my way further in among the treasures and the trash, and finally I reach the wall at the far side of the loft.

And I discover all those names, carved into the wall: CAROLINA 1868 1868PETTER 1900 1900GRETA 1943 1943.

And many more. Almost every plank in the wall has at least one name carved into it.

I read the names and I am fascinated by all those who have lived and died at Eel Point. It feels as if they are with me up there in the loft.

My main goal in life is now to get Markus up there with me.

24

Twilight fell over sea and land in the afternoon now. The solitary streetlamp out by the main highway came on earlier and earlier, and Joakim walked around in his big house and tried to feel pride in what he had achieved. and land in the afternoon now. The solitary streetlamp out by the main highway came on earlier and earlier, and Joakim walked around in his big house and tried to feel pride in what he had achieved.The renovations on the ground floor were more or less finished. All the painting, wallpapering, and furnis.h.i.+ng was done, as far as possible. He ought to buy some more furniture, but he was short of money at the moment and had made only halfhearted attempts to find a new teaching post. But at least he had put the big eighteenth-century cupboard, the long dinner table, and the tall dining chairs in the drawing room. He had hung the big round chandelier from the ceiling, and placed candlesticks in the windows.He had managed hardly any work on the outside of the house this fall-he had no money for scaffolding-but he had the feeling that the previous residents still appreciated the renovation indoors. When he was alone, Joakim sometimes hoped that he might hear them in the house, hear their slow steps crossing the floor upstairs, their murmuring voices in the empty rooms.But not Ethel. Ethel was not allowed to come into the house. Thank goodness Livia seemed to have stopped dreaming about her."Are you coming up to me for Christmas?" asked Ingrid when she called in the middle of December. to me for Christmas?" asked Ingrid when she called in the middle of December.She spoke in the same quiet, tentative voice as always, and Joakim just felt like hanging up."No," he said quickly, looking out of the kitchen window.The door to the barn was open again. He hadn't opened it. Of course, it could be down to the wind or one of the children, but he sensed that it was a sign from Katrine."No?""No," he said, "we're intending to stay here this Christmas. At Eel Point.""Alone?"Maybe not, thought Joakim. But he replied, "Yes, unless Katrine's mother, Mirja, stops by. But we haven't discussed it yet.""Can't you-""We'd love to come up to you for New Year's," said Joakim. "We can exchange presents then."Of course, Christmas was going to be grim wherever he celebrated it.Unbearable, without Katrine.Early on the morning of December 13, Joakim sat in the darkness at the preschool in Marnas, watching the children celebrate the feast of Saint Lucia. Dressed in white with candles in their hands, smiling nervously, the six-year-olds filed into the meeting room where their parents were waiting. Several of the parents had their video cameras at the ready. of December 13, Joakim sat in the darkness at the preschool in Marnas, watching the children celebrate the feast of Saint Lucia. Dressed in white with candles in their hands, smiling nervously, the six-year-olds filed into the meeting room where their parents were waiting. Several of the parents had their video cameras at the ready.Joakim didn't need to film the children, he would still remember exactly which songs Livia and Gabriel sang. He touched his wedding ring and thought about how Katrine would have loved to see this.The day after Lucia the first winter storm swept in over the coast, with bulletlike granules of snow rattling against the windowpanes. Out at sea the white-crested waves reared up. They moved rhythmically in toward the sh.o.r.e and smashed the thin layer of ice that had formed off the point, then they crashed over the jetty, the water foaming and swirling around the islands where the lighthouses stood. the first winter storm swept in over the coast, with bulletlike granules of snow rattling against the windowpanes. Out at sea the white-crested waves reared up. They moved rhythmically in toward the sh.o.r.e and smashed the thin layer of ice that had formed off the point, then they crashed over the jetty, the water foaming and swirling around the islands where the lighthouses stood.When the storm was at its worst, tearing at the house, Joakim rang Gerlof Davidsson, who was the only person he knew on the island who was interested in the weather."So, this is the first blizzard of the winter," said Joakim.Gerlof snorted at the other end of the line. "This?" he said. "This is just a slight breeze. This isn't a blizzard ... but it is coming, and I think it'll be before New Year's."The strong wind died away before dawn, and when the sun rose next morning Joakim saw that a thin layer of snow was still covering everything. The bushes outside the kitchen window were wearing white hats, and down on the sh.o.r.e the waves had hurled the ice up to form wide banks.Beyond these banks a new layer of ice had quickly formed out at sea, like a blue-and-white field crisscrossed with black cracks. The ice didn't look safe-some of the deep cracks met up in dark gaps.Joakim peered toward the horizon, but the line between sea and sky had disappeared in a dazzling mist.The telephone rang after breakfast. It was Gerlof's relative, Tilda Davidsson, who started off by saying that she was calling on a police matter. breakfast. It was Gerlof's relative, Tilda Davidsson, who started off by saying that she was calling on a police matter."I just wanted to check something, Joakim. You said before that your wife didn't have any visitors at the house ... but you have had workmen there?""Workmen?"It was an unexpected question, and he had to think about it."I heard you'd had someone laying floors," said Tilda. "Is that correct?"Now Joakim remembered. "Yes," he said, "but it was before I moved here. There was a guy here to rip out some old cork flooring and sand the floors in the main rooms.""From a firm in Marnas?""I think so," said Joakim. "It was the realtor who suggested them. I've probably still got the invoice somewhere.""We don't need that at the moment. But do you remember what his name was?""No ... it was my wife who dealt with him.""When was he there?""In the middle of August ... a few weeks before we started bringing our furniture down.""Did you ever meet him?" asked Tilda."No. But Katrine did, as I said. She and the children were here then.""And he hasn't been back since then?""No," said Joakim. "All the floors are finished now.""One more thing ... have you had any uninvited guests during the fall?""Uninvited ..." said Joakim, his thoughts immediately turning to Ethel."Anyone trying to break in, I mean," said Tilda."No, we haven't had anything like that. Why do you ask?""There have been a number of break-ins on the island during recent months.""I know, I read about it in the paper. I hope you find them.""We're working on it," said Tilda.She put down the phone.[image]The following night Joakim woke up in bed with a start. Joakim woke up in bed with a start.Ethel ...The same fear as always. He raised his head and looked at the clock: 1:24.He pushed away all thoughts of Ethel. Had Livia called out? There wasn't a sound in the house, but still he got up and pulled on a sweater and a pair of jeans, without switching on the light. He went out into the corridor and listened again. He could hear the ticking of the wall clock, but not a sound came from the darkness of Livia's and Gabriel's rooms.He went in the opposite direction, over to the windows in the hallway, and looked out into the night. The solitary lamp illuminated the inner courtyard, but nothing was moving out there.Then he saw that the door to the barn was standing open once again. Not far, just eighteen inches or so-but Joakim was almost certain he had pulled it shut a few evenings earlier.He would go and close it right now.He pulled on his winter boots and went out through the veranda.It was windy outside, but the sky was clear and full of stars, and the southern lighthouse flashed rhythmically, almost keeping pace with his heartbeat.He went over to the half-open door and peered into the barn. It was pitch black."h.e.l.lo?"No reply.Or was there? Perhaps he could hear a slow, whimpering sound somewhere inside the wooden building. Joakim reached in and switched on the light. He didn't step inside until the lights on the ceiling came on.He wanted to call out again, but stopped himself.He could hear something now: a quiet but regular rasping sound. Joakim was sure of it.He went over to the steep steps. The bulb high above on the ceiling wasn't very powerful, but he began to climb upward.Up in the hayloft Joakim stopped again and looked at the piles of old forgotten junk. At some point he must clear all this out. But not tonight.He moved in amongst the objects. He could make his way through the piles without any problem by now; he knew this labyrinth by heart and was drawn to the far side of it. Toward the wall at the far end of the loft.That was where the rasping noise was coming from.Joakim could see the wall now, and the names of the dead that had been carved into it.Before he had time to start reading them again, he heard a whimpering noise again, and stopped. He looked down at the floor.First of all came the whimpering, then Rasputin yowling.The cat was sitting by the wall, carefully was.h.i.+ng his paws. Then he looked up at the visitor, and Joakim met his gaze; the cat almost looked pleased. And why not? He had worked hard tonight.In front of him lay a dozen or so slender bodies with brown fur. Mice. They had been carefully ripped apart, and looked as if they had been killed just before Joakim arrived.Rasputin had placed the b.l.o.o.d.y mice in a row at the bottom of the wall.They looked like a sacrifice.

25

"People worry too much nowadays," said Gerlof. "I mean, these days people call out the lifeboat as soon as it gets a little bit choppy out there. In the old days people had more sense. If the wind got up when you were a long way out, it was no problem ... you just carried on to Gotland, pulled the boat up onto the sh.o.r.e, then lay down underneath it and went to sleep, until the wind had blown itself out. Then you sailed home again." nowadays," said Gerlof. "I mean, these days people call out the lifeboat as soon as it gets a little bit choppy out there. In the old days people had more sense. If the wind got up when you were a long way out, it was no problem ... you just carried on to Gotland, pulled the boat up onto the sh.o.r.e, then lay down underneath it and went to sleep, until the wind had blown itself out. Then you sailed home again."He fell silent, lost in thought after his last story. Tilda leaned over and switched off the tape recorder."Fantastic. Are you okay, Gerlof?""Yes. Sure."Gerlof blinked, and was back in the room.They each had a small gla.s.s of mulled wine in front of them. The start of Christmas week had been heralded with wind and snow, and Tilda had brought a bottle with her as a present. She had warmed the sweet red wine out in the kitchen and added raisins and almonds. When she brought the tray in, Gerlof had got out a bottle of schnapps and added a shot to each gla.s.s."So what are you doing on Christmas?" Gerlof asked when they had almost finished their drinks and Tilda was feeling warm right down to the tips of her toes."I'll be celebrating quietly, with the family," she said. "I'm going over to Mom's on Christmas Eve.""Good.""And what about you, Gerlof? Would you like to come with me over to the mainland?""Thanks, but I think I'll probably stay here and eat my Christmas rice pudding. My daughters have invited me to the west coast, but I can't sit in a car for so long."They both fell silent."Shall we have one last go with the tape recorder?" said Tilda."Maybe.""But it's fun to talk, isn't it? I've found out so much about Grandfather."Gerlof nodded briefly. "But I haven't told you about the most important part yet.""No," said Tilda.Gerlof seemed hesitant. "Ragnar taught me a great deal about the weather and the winds and fis.h.i.+ng and sailing when I was a kid ... all the important stuff. But when I got a little older, I realized I couldn't trust him.""No?" said Tilda."I realized that my brother was dishonest."There was silence around the table once again."Ragnar was a thief," he went on. "Nothing more than a thief. I can't make it sound any better, unfortunately."Tilda thought about switching off the tape recorder, but left it running."So what did he take?" she asked quietly."Well, he stole everything he could, by and large. He went out at night sometimes and stole eels from others' tanks. And I remember one time ... when the manor house at Eel Point was having new drainpipes put in. There was a box left over, sitting out in the courtyard, until Ragnar stole it. He didn't actually need drainpipes at the time, but he had keys to the lighthouses, so he put the box in there, and I'm sure it's there to this day. It wasn't the need that was important to him, it was the opportunity, I think. He always kept an eye open for something that was left unlocked or unwatched."Gerlof was leaning forward; it seemed to Tilda that he was speaking more intensely than ever."But surely you must have stolen something yourself at some point?" she said.Gerlof shook his head. "No, I haven't, actually. I might have lied a little about my cargo prices sometimes, when I met up with other skippers in port. But fighting and stealing, those are things I've never done. I just think we should all help one another.""That's the right att.i.tude," said Tilda. "We are the community."Gerlof nodded. "I don't think about my older brother too often," he said."Why not?""Well ... he's been gone for such a long time, after all. Many, many years. The memories have faded ... and I have allowed them to fade.""When was the last time you saw him?"The silence hung in the room, before Gerlof replied:"It was at Ragnar's little farm, in the winter of 1961. I went out there, because he was refusing to answer the telephone. We quarreled ... or rather, we stood and glared at each other. That was our way of quarreling.""About what?""We quarreled about our inheritance," said Gerlof. "Not that it helped, but ...""What inheritance?""Everything my mother and father left.""What happened to it?" said Tilda."A lot disappeared. But it was Ragnar who took it, he did himself proud on it. ...My brother was a real s.h.i.+t, in fact."Tilda looked at the tape recorder, but couldn't come up with a suitable response."Ragnar was a s.h.i.+t, toward me at any rate," Gerlof went on, shaking his head. "He emptied our parents' place in Stenvik, sold most of the contents of the house, sold the house to people from the mainland and kept the profit for himself. And he refused to discuss it. He would just stare coldly at me ...It was just impossible to get anywhere with him.""Did he take everything?" everything?" said Tilda. said Tilda."I got a few mementos, but Ragnar took the money. Presumably he thought he would be better at taking care of it.""But ... wasn't there anything you could do?""Sue him, you mean?" said Gerlof. "That isn't the way we do things here on the island. We become enemies instead. Even brothers, sometimes.""But ...""Ragnar helped himself," Gerlof went on, "he was the eldest brother after all. He took what he wanted first, then shared with me if he felt like it ... so we parted on bad terms, in the fall before he froze to death in the storm." Gerlof sighed. "'Let brotherly love continue' it says in Saint Paul's Epistle to the Hebrews, but it isn't always that easy ... Of course, that's the sort of thing I end up thinking about these days."Tilda looked at the tape recorder again with a regretful expression. Then she switched it off."I think ... I think it might be best if I delete this last part. Not because I think you're lying, Gerlof, but ...""Fine by me," said Gerlof.When Tilda had put the tape recorder away in its black case, he said, "I think I know how it works now. Which b.u.t.tons you have to press.""Good," said Tilda. "You obviously have a talent for technology, Gerlof.""Might you be able to leave it here? Until we see each other again?""The tape recorder?""Just in case I feel like talking into it some more.""Sure." Tilda pa.s.sed over the case. "Talk as much as you want. There are a couple of blank tapes you can use."When she got back to the police station, the light on the answering machine was flas.h.i.+ng. She started to listen to the message, but when she heard Martin's voice she sighed and pressed Delete. the police station, the light on the answering machine was flas.h.i.+ng. She started to listen to the message, but when she heard Martin's voice she sighed and pressed Delete.It was time he gave up.

26

Joakim was making one last trip with the children before Christmas. It was the first day of the Christma