Echoes From the Dead

31

“Get out, Gerlof.”

Gunnar Ljunger had closed his own door, quickly walked around the car, and opened the passenger door. He was waiting impatiently for Gerlof to get out.

“I need to put on—” Gerlof began.

But Ljunger reached in with a gloved hand.

“You don’t need a coat, Gerlof.” Ljunger wore his yellow padded jacket, with LÅNGVIK CONFERENCE CENTER in black on the back. “You’re warm now, aren’t you?”

Ljunger was at least fifteen years younger than Gerlof, tall and broad and with plenty of strength in his arms. He gripped Gerlof firmly under the arm and lifted him easily out of the car.

“Come on.”

He slammed the car door, pointed his key ring at it, and pressed a little button. The car doors locked with a quiet click.

For Gerlof this sort of thing was almost like magic. He had his cane with him, but his briefcase was still on the floor inside the car. He took a few uncertain steps, out onto the rain-soaked meadow by the sea, beginning to get an idea of Ljunger’s intentions.

For the first minute it was actually quite pleasant for his body to get out of the sauna-like heat of the car; the wind was oddly refreshing, and it felt as though he didn’t need any outdoor clothes.

But Gerlof wouldn’t survive without his overcoat, he knew that. The cold was crippling out here, only a few degrees above zero. The wind was gusting in off the Baltic, and the drops of rain were like little nails on his face.

“Look at this, Gerlof.” Ljunger had gone a short distance along the gravel track beside the meadow and was pointing to a stone wall in front of a small clump of trees. A solitary, stunted tree was growing next to the wall. “Can you see what this is?” he asked.

Gerlof took a few stumbling steps toward him.

“An apple tree,” he answered quietly.

“Exactly, an old apple tree.” Ljunger gripped his arm and pulled him carefully but firmly toward the shore. Once again he pointed. “And over there,” he said, “you can hardly see it, but it’s actually an old gooseberry bush.” He looked at Gerlof. “And what does that mean?”

“An abandoned garden,” said Gerlof.

“Exactly. There are stones from the foundations of the house beneath the grass.” Ljunger looked around. “I found this beach a few years ago. It’s usually peaceful here, even in the summer. You can sit and think and sometimes...” Ljunger looked at the apple tree again. “Sometimes I just sit here and think about this old tree and about the people who used to live here. Why aren’t they still here, when it’s such a lovely spot?”

“Poverty,” said Gerlof, shivering for the first time.

He was trying to hold himself erect in the wind, not to shake or sway. But all he had on his upper body was a thin shirt and an almost equally thin undershirt, and he was beginning to feel the autumn chill penetrating through the fabric.

“Yes, they would definitely have been poor,” agreed Ljunger. “Maybe they sailed away across the Atlantic, like Nils Kant and thousands of others from Öland. But the point is...” He paused again. “The point is that they never saw all the great opportunities here on this island. People from Öland never have.”

Gerlof merely nodded; Ljunger could say whatever he liked.

“I want to get back in the car,” he said.

“It’s locked,” said Ljunger.

“I’ll freeze to death soon.”

“Go home to Marnäs, then.” Ljunger pointed at the wall beside the stunted tree. “There’s a gap in the wall over there. Behind it a path leads north along the shore, past an old open-air dance floor... It’s actually only a couple of kilometers up to the village, as the crow flies.”

Gerlof wobbled in the wind. He didn’t care what happened now; he had something important to say.

“I know, Gunnar.”

Ljunger looked at him without replying.

“Like I said before... I worked it all out on the bus, when I saw that it was you standing behind Martin Malm.”

Ljunger shrugged. “Ernst Adolfsson waved that picture at me too,” he said, “but he started gabbling about a whole lot of other stuff too, old land registrations and so on. I’m not that easily scared.”

“He got there ahead of me,” said Gerlof tiredly. “I thought Ernst told me everything, but he didn’t. What did he want from you?”

“The quarry. He wanted to buy the quarry from me for a pittance, and in return he wouldn’t tell the whole world what he knew about my dealings with Vera.”

“That wasn’t too much to ask, surely?” said Gerlof.

“Don’t say that,” Ljunger snapped. “The land is worthless now, but it could be extremely valuable in the future. A casino set into the hillside on Öland... who knows? So I turned down his offer.” Ljunger looked at Gerlof. “But you old sea captains overestimate your own importance, I think, if you imagine anyone else is interested in things that happened decades ago.”

“You’re interested, Gunnar,” Gerlof had to remind him. “Otherwise we wouldn’t be here, you and I.”

“I can’t have a load of old farts running around mouthing off about things,” said Ljunger wearily. “You do understand that, don’t you? It’s not just current projects... We’ve got important plans for Långvik that are with the building authorities at the moment. We’re talking about major investments here. Sixty new plots to the east of the village are going to be sold within the next six months — how much do you think that’s going to be worth?”

Gerlof understood.

“But I’m the only one who knows,” he said. “Nobody else. Not John, or my daughter.”

Ljunger smiled at him, amused. “It’s very noble of you to take all the credit, Gerlof,” he said. “And I believe you.”

“Did you kill Vera Kant too, Gunnar?”

“No, no. She fell and broke her neck on the stairs, so I’ve heard. I’ve never killed anyone.”

“You killed Ernst Adolfsson.”

“No,” said Ljunger. “We had a discussion, Ernst and I. It turned into a minor quarrel.”

“He threw one of his sculptures down into the quarry during the quarrel, didn’t he?”

“He did, yes. And then I gave him a little push and he fell and pulled one of the big stone sculptures down with him. It was an accident, just as the police assumed.”

“You killed Nils Kant,” said Gerlof.

“No.”

“Then Martin did,” said Gerlof. “And Jens? Which of you killed my poor Jens?”

Ljunger wasn’t smiling any longer. He looked at his watch.

“Did Jens bump into you out on the alvar?” Gerlof went on in a louder voice. “Why didn’t you let my grandson live? He was five years old... he was no threat to you.”

“Let’s leave this depressing topic, Gerlof. I have to go now, anyway.”

And it was no doubt true — Gunnar Ljunger had a packed schedule. Killing Gerlof was just one item on his agenda for the day.

Gerlof closed his eyes against the cold and the rain. He wouldn’t be able to stay on his feet much longer. But he had no intention of falling to his knees in front of Gunnar Ljunger, that was beneath his dignity.

“I know where the gemstones are,” he said.

He took one step back toward the car, leaning on his cane. If he got close enough, he might be able to whack it with his cane and put a serious dent in the shiny bodywork.

“The gemstones?”

Ljunger was staring sharply at him, his hand resting on the door handle.

“The soldiers’ spoils of war. I’ve got them and I’ve hidden them. Help me into the car and we’ll go and get them.”

Ljunger merely shook his head, smiling once more.

“Thanks for the offer,” he said. “I asked Nils about them several times, but actually it was mainly Martin who wanted the stones, not me. There isn’t even any guarantee they’re worth anything. For me, Vera’s land was enough... One mustn’t be too greedy.”

And with that he quickly opened the door and got in.

The car engine didn’t even roar, it simply hummed into life, expensive and perfectly tuned.

Ljunger put the Jaguar into reverse and the car glided slowly backward along the gravel track, just as Gerlof managed to take the final step forward and raise his cane.

Too late. Christ!

Gerlof stood there alone on the meadow, helpless. He slowly lowered his cane and watched the car, and with it his overcoat, disappear out of reach.

Ljunger was sitting comfortably at the wheel, not even looking at Gerlof; he’d twisted his head so that he could reverse rapidly along the track. Up by the ridge where the railway line had been, he swung the car around and headed off.

Still further away, almost at the main road, the Jaguar stopped briefly. Gerlof narrowed his eyes against the icy rain and saw Ljunger open the door and hurl out his briefcase, then his overcoat. Then he closed the door and drove off. The sound of the engine died away.

Gerlof remained where he was, with his back to the rain. The bitter wind whistled in his ears.

He was thoroughly soaked and frozen, and would never be able to make it back up to the main road, or to Marnäs. And Ljunger knew that perfectly well.

He lifted one foot and moved his unsteady body in a semicircle, turning himself around with small, wobbly steps. The shoreline was gray and desolate.

The old garden Ljunger had pointed out was perhaps fifty yards away. He might just be able to make it that far, and then the stone wall would give him at least some protection from the wind.

“Go on, then, do it,” he muttered to himself.

Gerlof began to move. One step at a time, with the cane as a trusty support each time his own legs betrayed him. He held his free arm across his wet shirtfront, as a feeble shield against the wind.

The gravel track beneath his feet was hard and firm, built from crushed limestone many years ago. Gunnar Ljunger’s car had left no trace on it, and if there were tire tracks further back in the muddy puddles on the road, the rain would soon obliterate them. It was as if Ljunger had never been there, as if Gerlof had come here under his own steam.

“The police do not suspect any crime.” That’s what it would no doubt say at the end of the item in Ölands-Posten when they found him frozen to death out here.

The sky above him darkened.

One step at a time. Gerlof raised a trembling hand and wiped cold drops of rain from his forehead.

As he slowly got closer to the shore, he could hear the waves more and more clearly, splashing rhythmically onto a narrow strip of sand below the meadow. Further out, above the open water, a solitary seagull hovered in the wind. It wasn’t the only sign of life, because several nautical miles out to sea Gerlof could make out the blurred gray silhouette of a big cargo ship on its way north. But he could have waved and yelled at the ship for all he was worth — nobody would have seen or heard him.

He’d never been to this little meadow by the shore before, at least not that he remembered. Gerlof longed suddenly for Stenvik’s steep coastline, barren and beautiful. Here on the east coast of Öland, the landscape was too flat and overgrown for him.

The gravel track suddenly came to an end, and a narrow path continued through the grass. Nobody had walked there for quite some time, because the grass was tall and difficult to move through, at least for Gerlof, who could hardly lift his feet. From time to time a particularly strong gust of wind slammed in off the sea, making him stagger and almost fall. But he kept on going, one step at a time, and at long last he reached the apple tree. That distance of just a few yards had taken almost all his strength.

It was a miserable tree, spindly and twisted by the harsh winds from the sea. The branches didn’t have a single leaf left on them, and offered no protection, but Gerlof could at least lean back against the rough trunk and catch his breath for a while.

He felt in his right trouser pocket. There was something hard in there, and he took it out.

It was Gunnar Ljunger’s black cell phone.

Gerlof remembered. He’d picked up the little phone from the space between the seats when Ljunger had got out and was walking around the car. Just before Ljunger dragged him out of the car, he’d managed to slip it into his pocket.

But stealing the phone was no help, because Gerlof had absolutely no idea of how to make a call. He tried keying in some numbers — John Hagman’s number — but nothing happened. The cell phone was dead.

Slowly he put it back in his pocket.

Should he be grateful for the fact that Gunnar Ljunger had allowed him to keep his shoes? Without them he wouldn’t have been able to move at all.

No, he wasn’t grateful. He hated Ljunger.

Land and money — that was what this whole thing was about. Martin Malm had got money for new ships. And Gunnar Ljunger had got lots of land around Långvik to rape and exploit.

Vera Kant had been lied to for years and years, just like Nils.

And so had Gerlof, of course.

Gerlof now knew more or less everything about what had happened; that had been his goal all along, but it was no longer enough. He wanted to tell other people, to tell John and the police. Most of all, he wanted to tell Julia.

All this time he had wanted to stand in front of all those involved in the drama, to explain exactly what had happened, then point out who had done it, who had killed Nils Kant and little Jens. Great excitement, murmuring voices throughout the room. The murderer would break down and confess; everyone else would be amazed at the truth. Applause.

“You just want to feel important,” Julia had once said to him. And she was probably right. That’s probably what all this was about, feeling important. Not old and forgotten and half dead.

But he was almost dead now. Life was light and warmth, and now that the sun had gone down, the warmth was dwindling away. Gerlof’s feet were like blocks of ice in his shoes; his fingers had lost all feeling. The cold was crippling, but also strangely relaxing — almost pleasant.

He closed his eyes for a few seconds. In his mind’s eye he could see Gunnar Ljunger driving off in his big car. He had thrown out Gerlof’s coat and briefcase to lay a false trail, Gerlof presumed. For those who eventually found them, everything would be perfectly clear: a senile old man had got off the bus and lost his way, wandered off in the wrong direction, and in his confused state had taken his outdoor clothes off. In the end he’d frozen to death by the shore when darkness came.

It wasn’t enough for Ljunger to take Gerlof’s life; he had to make him look like an old idiot too.

He inhaled the cold air in short, panting breaths. When did the body give up and stop working? Wasn’t it when the temperature of the blood dropped below eighty degrees?

He ought to do something, perhaps go down to the shore and try to scratch a message in the sand before he died: GUNNAR LJUNGER — MURDERER, in big letters that the rain wouldn’t be able to obliterate. But he didn’t have the strength.

This was like falling overboard from a ship out at sea, just as cold and wet and lonely. Gerlof had never really learned to swim, and falling into the water far out at sea had always been one of his fears.

He thought about Ella. He’d always believed that he would somehow sense her presence when he was close to death, but he felt nothing.

Then he thought about Julia. Had she left Borgholm yet? Perhaps she was driving past at this very moment in Lennart’s police car, up on the main road. He hoped Ljunger would leave her in peace.

I never stand when I can sit, and never sit when I can lie down. That was a quotation Gerlof had read somewhere, but right now he couldn’t remember where.

His legs gave way. Gerlof began to slip slowly downward, his back scraping painfully against the bark of the tree.

Beneath the leafless crown of the apple tree, he slid down, his legs buckling, and he knew he would never be able to get up again.

It would be a big mistake to sit down and close his eyes under the apple tree, Gerlof knew that. Once he’d sat down, sooner or later he would want to lie down on the ground and close his eyes and drift into the darkness.

Going to sleep would be an even bigger mistake.

But in the end Gerlof gave up, and slid slowly down onto the grass.

He’d just sit down and close his eyes, just for a little while.