‘When you weren’t here I thought you’d got in your boat and simply headed out to sea, but Nilsson said he’d seen you sailing towards the mainland as we were on our way over.’
‘Jansson. Not Nilsson.’
‘Jansson. Did I say Nilsson?’
‘Yes.’
‘He was the one who sang so beautifully on Mum’s last birthday.’
‘How did you get hold of him?’
‘I got off the bus down by the harbour and asked the driver. He’s the one who was called Nilsson. He called Jansson, who promised to pick me up right away. There was something odd about the bus, incidentally.’
‘Oh?’
‘I was the only passenger.’
‘That’s not unusual at this time of year.’
‘I’ve never been the only passenger on a bus before. Never. Not anywhere. I have, however, been the only passenger on a huge airliner — in Mali. There were two pilots, two air hostesses, and me.’
‘What were you doing in Mali?’
‘A sandstorm had prevented me from landing in Dakar. Do you know where that is?’
‘In Senegal. So you can speak French?’
‘I can get by.’
‘What were you doing there?’
‘I was visiting an area from which slaves used to be shipped overseas. I went to see a remarkable door opening.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I’ll tell you later.’
She carried on up to the ruins of the house, which were still covered by a layer of malodorous soot. Several small birds searching for food among the mess flew away as we approached.
‘My room was just here. If I’d climbed on your shoulders I could have reached my window.’
She came and stood directly in front of me. I could see that not only had she been crying, she was also extremely tired. Usually when she returned from her frequent travels to mysterious destinations, she had a healthy tan. But not this time.
There was always so much I wanted to ask her. And she so rarely gave away anything about her life.
‘Tell me what happened.’
‘I fell asleep around ten thirty. Two hours later I was woken by a searing light that found its way into my brain. It was very hot, unpleasantly so. The house was ablaze; I rushed outside. Thinking back, I remember the roar of the fire. It was as if some kind of monster was breathing oxygen onto the flames.’
‘But how did it start?’
‘No one knows — not the police, not the fire investigation officer, not me.’
‘Are there many options?’
‘There’s a rumour that I set fire to my own house.’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘Perhaps because I’ve lost my mind?’
‘Have you?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Don’t answer a question with another question!’
‘I’m not crazy. I’m no arsonist. When I woke up, the whole house was on fire. Whatever the cause might have been, it wasn’t me playing with matches.’
‘A house doesn’t just burst into flames. Could mice have chewed through the wiring?’
‘Only if there was a gang of four mice working together who also had access to petrol.’
I told her what Hämäläinen had said. She listened but didn’t ask any questions. Instead she walked slowly around the house, pausing at each corner. I wondered if she would be the one to discover the cause of the fire. She took her time, and eventually she stood staring at the charred objects on the plastic sheet. I went over and picked up the buckle from Giaconelli’s shoes. She recognised it at once when I handed it to her.
‘You didn’t even manage to save the shoes.’
‘I didn’t manage to save anything except myself.’
She crouched down and replaced the buckle. I had a feeling that she was preparing for some kind of funeral. I crouched down beside her, even though my knees protested.
‘Giaconelli’s death...’ I said. ‘All I know is that he went back to Italy and died in a boarding house.’
‘His kidneys were failing. He didn’t want to become reliant on dialysis, so he decided to make sure his life had a decent end. He left everything in Hälsingland and went home to the village north of Milan where he grew up. In two weeks he was dead. His friends let me know.’
‘What’s happened to the workshop where he made his shoes?’
‘His neighbours are keeping it as a museum, but because they’re all quite old, no one knows how long they will be able to honour his memory.’
Louise straightened up. I tried to do the same and almost toppled over. I grabbed her leg and she helped me up.
We went down to the caravan. She sat on the bed; I sat at the table. I poured us both a cup of coffee from my Thermos.
‘There’s not enough room in here for both of us,’ she said.
‘I’ve already made preparations. You know the skerry to the east of the island, the one with no name? I’ve put up my old tent over there.’
‘Isn’t it cold?’
‘My old sleeping bag is nice and warm.’
‘Surely it must be rotten by now? I remember seeing it when I was here before, when Mum died. I couldn’t understand why you hadn’t thrown it away.’
‘It smells a bit musty, but things soon get aired out here, because it’s always windy.’
She lay down.
‘I’ve had a long journey. I’m tired.’
‘Where have you come from?’
She didn’t reply, she merely shook her head. That annoyed me.
‘Why can’t you answer? I’m not asking what you’ve been doing, I’m just wondering where you’ve come from.’
She opened her eyes and gave me the same challenging look that I had sometimes seen in Harriet’s eyes. However, she still didn’t answer. Instead she turned her back on me and drew up her knees, making it perfectly clear that she intended to get some sleep.
All I could do was to make some sandwiches quietly and get out a tin of soup that I could warm on the camping stove I had moved from the boathouse to the skerry. The caravan belonged to my daughter.
She had arrived too soon and too precipitately. I hadn’t had time to get used to the idea that my house had burned down, let alone the realisation that Louise had come home.
I walked around the island, following the shoreline heading south as I recalled virtually every rock from my childhood. I had spent so much time down there with my fishing rod, stopping at certain selected spots to try my luck.
I no longer had a fishing rod. And there were no fish left in the sea.
Louise was fast asleep when I got back. I gently placed a blanket over her legs. She didn’t move.
Dusk was falling as I walked down to the boathouse, and there was a bank of cloud over the sea. It had come creeping in without my noticing. The temperature was dropping.
I thought I should take my new A4 pad over to the tent with me so that I could write down everything that had happened, but I decided to leave it. I didn’t want to risk waking Louise by going back into the caravan.
I pushed the boat out of the boathouse, and instead of starting the engine I rowed across to the skerry. It didn’t take long, because of the following wind.
The hollow was sheltered. I lit the camping stove and warmed my soup. I had pulled the sleeping bag up over my legs so that I wouldn’t get cold. It was as if I was sitting there surrounded by myself, by the child I had been in all its manifestations.
I thought about Lisa Modin, about my daughter, about Harriet, who had died a few years ago.
After my meal I sat there in total darkness. I was very tired.
I was just about to go inside the tent when I saw a light. It was coming from the island, but I couldn’t work out what it was.