‘Schillinger,’ Johnny said.
‘Right. Schillinger. He says it’s sabotage. He says someone must have opened his dog kennel as a lark. Just to see the dogs run off.’
‘And who would that be?’
The old man rested his eyes on him. They were filled with a surprising intensity. ‘You need to ask? We have enough riff-raff around here. They’re everywhere with their horrible pranks. The man who’s calling people, they haven’t caught him, have they? And he’s been at it for weeks.’
Johnny set the newspaper down. He could no longer sit still. He had to get up and pace. After a few moments he returned to the footstool.
‘The dogs can’t open the gate on their own,’ Henry said, ‘and their owner swears he’s always mindful to close it. When something like this happens, it’s no surprise the prankster gets blamed. After so many weeks of terrorising people, he’s going to have to put up with it.’ He tapped his gel pillow. ‘He’ll probably have some sleepless nights. Whether he’s guilty or not. Because this is negligent homicide. They’re out searching for leads. And he’ll have to pay for it!’
‘But,’ Johnny said weakly, ‘the guy who’s calling and placing announcements and all that, he’s just playing. They’re just innocent jokes.’
‘Innocent jokes?’ Henry got worked up. ‘Did you hear about the little girl displaying her two angora rabbits at an exhibition? She got her photograph in the paper and all of that. Two days later someone crucified a stuffed bunny on her door. Do you think that’s a joke?’
Johnny stared at the newspaper on the table, then turned it over so the front page was face down. Sitting motionless, he let his arms dangle at his sides. ‘How convenient for Schillinger to have someone to blame,’ he mumbled.
Irritated, Henry gesticulated with his hands. ‘Are you defending the joker now or what? You know what he’s been up to? I’ve thought about it often; one day he’ll go too far, and he’ll get a taste of his own medicine. It’s no longer a joke. But you’re a caring lad, Johnny, and you don’t understand such mischief.’
Johnny didn’t have anything to say.
‘Did you read the entire article?’ Henry asked. ‘It’s awful about that boy. One arm was torn off. They found it in the woods, several metres from the body. Think about his mother and father. I mean, think about them!’ Henry’s eyes began to run, and he had to wipe away some tears. ‘When I was a boy,’ he went on, ‘I grew up near a mink farm. We would gather there, a group of us boys, and look at them through the fence. They certainly smelled. You could smell it for miles around. None of the neighbours were especially happy about them, that’s for sure. To be honest, Johnny — because we’re always honest with each other, are we not? — we let them out of their cages a few times. Just for the fun of it. We weren’t against the fur trade or anything like that. We hadn’t a clue about those things. If old ladies wanted to wear fur, it was OK with us. But it was awfully funny to watch them dash off in every direction. So they put up an electric fence and the fun was over. But as you know, these are the things boys do.’ He coughed. ‘When I buy strawberries at the shop —’ He paused and started over. ‘Well, I never go to the shop any more. But before, when my legs held up, I would sometimes go to the shop to buy strawberries, and in some of the baskets I would find a rotten berry on top. So I would immediately think the entire basket was rotten. Isn’t that right? That’s how we humans function. No,’ he added, ‘perhaps that’s a bad comparison. But you know what I mean.
‘You look a little pale, Johnny. Why don’t you go to the kitchen and get yourself a drink from the fridge.’
Johnny got up, disappeared into the kitchen and found a Coke. He uncapped it and stood bent over the worktop drinking.
‘The scoundrel ought to go from door to door in the whole area,’ Henry Beskow shouted. ‘Kneel on every single doorstep and beg for forgiveness. What do you think of that, Johnny?’
Johnny clutched at the worktop. It was as if the room spun wildly and he stared down into an abyss so deep and so black that he grew dizzy.
‘Johnny!’ Henry shouted from the living room. ‘Don’t you think he should kneel on every doorstep?’
‘It’s too late,’ Johnny mumbled. ‘People will think what they want to think. And anyway, you can’t beg forgiveness for everything.’
Chapter 31
Gunilla Mørk didn’t believe Schillinger and his claims of sabotage. She didn’t care for his bitter tone, or his hostility and aggressiveness. He lacked humility in the face of the terrible thing that had happened, and she suspected him of exploiting the situation. The prankster who’d made fun of them for weeks had a touch of sophistication, she thought — there was no escaping that. He was creative and imaginative, and he had style. She had cut her own obituary out of the newspaper and hung it on the wall in a little silver frame. Each morning when she entered the kitchen, she read it and thought, Oh no, not yet. I’m still here. It gave her a certain satisfaction.
Sverre Skarning discussed the incident with his Syrian wife, Nihmet. ‘He’s been everywhere,’ Nihmet said, ‘our terrorist. Done all sorts of strange things. No wonder he’s being blamed for this, that and the other. It’s the price he’s got to pay. He should turn himself in. If he doesn’t, we’ll have our own theories.’
‘Bjørn Schillinger grew up here,’ Skarning said. ‘He’s had dogs for thirty years. When he trains with the wagon in the summer, he brakes when people walk on Glenna. In the winter he lets skiers pass. He’s considerate, and he’s meticulous in everything he does. The dogs are his life, and he cares for them in every way. He would never allow something like this to happen. Forget to close the gate? Never!’
No, it was impossible to comprehend. It didn’t make any sense.
‘I don’t like him,’ Nihmet said. ‘He drives like a maniac in his Land Cruiser. He’s a crude person, Sverre. And he has a wild look in his eyes. Haven’t you noticed?’
Frances and Evelyn Mold still carried a grudge against the person who had put them through hell. But even they had their doubts about the dog kennel. That someone would go up there to open the gate — no, that didn’t sound right.
Astrid Landmark no longer had anyone to discuss the matter with: her husband had been disconnected from the respirator. And he had been driven in style in the Daimler from Memento, surrounded by leather and mahogany and walnut, to his final resting place.
Little red-haired Else Meiner, she had her own ideas on the subject.
‘Didn’t I tell you?’ her father roared. ‘Didn’t I say one day he would go too far? Now everyone’s feeling the pain. He’ll lug this around for the rest of his life. A little boy. I’m speechless. Do you know what he’ll do now, Else? He’ll hunker down, and he’ll never be caught.’
Else didn’t respond. She sat in her room, at her desk, and painted her toenails. Now and then she glanced out of the window to look for the red moped which zipped so frequently down Rolandsgata, to Henry Beskow’s house.
But a few people did believe Bjørn Schillinger’s version. There was enough riff-raff in Bjerkås — everyone knew that by now — and not everyone was happy about the brutes that howled so wretchedly in the evening. With the big beasts on the loose, they could get rid of both the dogs and their owner once and for all. One of those who believed Schillinger’s story was Karsten Sundelin.
One day the two fell into conversation.
They ran into each other at a petrol station down by Bjerkås, a chance meeting, and instantly found common ground: they were bitter men craving revenge.