Tommy scratched his neck and paused before the punch line:
“‘What’s the problem?’ says the girl. ‘I mean, the skunk stinks as well.’”
He laughed to himself. Then he turned around and grabbed hold of the tarpaulin.
“‘The skunk stinks as well,’” he said again.
“Just a minute…” Henrik began.
But Tommy didn’t wait, he pulled the tarpaulin hard, over to one side. He only managed to loosen a small section from the rope, but it was enough to reveal most of the stolen goods.
“Aha,” said Tommy, looking down at the objects in the boat. Then he pointed at the ground. “You should have swept away the tracks in the snow, Henke… you’ve been shuttling back and forth between the boathouse and the boat.”
Henrik shook his head. “I took a few things…”
“A few?” said Tommy, beginning to walk toward him.
Henrik took a step backwards. “So what?” he said. “I’ve worked hard for this. I’ve planned every trip, and all you’ve done-”
“Henke,” said Tommy, “you talk too much.”
“Me? You can-”
But Tommy wasn’t listening; he struck out, fetching Henrik a hard blow in the stomach and making him stagger backward. There was a rock behind him; he slumped down on it and looked at the ground.
His jacket was ripped. A narrow tear ran from the bottom of the material up toward his navel.
Tommy quickly went through Henrik’s pockets and fished out the car keys.
“Sit still… I’ll punch you again if you move.”
Henrik didn’t move. His stomach started throbbing.
The pain came in waves, and during one of them Henrik leaned forward and vomited between his legs.
Tommy took a couple of steps away from him, adjusted the gun on his shoulder, and pushed the sharp screwdriver into his back pocket.
Henrik coughed laboriously and looked up at him.
“Tommy…”
But Tommy just shook his head. “Do you think that’s what we’re really called…Tommy and Freddy? Those are our stage names.”
Henrik had run out of words. And strength. He sat there on the rock in silence.
Over by the road Freddy was still carrying stolen goods out to the van. Eventually he closed the door.
“Finished!”
“Good.” Tommy straightened up, scratched his cheek, and glanced at Henrik. “You’ll have to get the bus back… or whatever it is they have out here. A horse and cart?”
Henrik didn’t reply. He just sat there on the rock, watching the Serelius brothers. Freddy climbed unhurriedly in behind the wheel of the van. Tommy settled himself in Henrik’s Saab.
The brothers were stealing both his car and his boat, and all Henrik could do was watch.
He saw both vehicles disappear slowly toward the coast road.
Eventually he took his hand away from his stomach and looked. The tear in his gray padded jacket was colored red now.
And yet it wasn’t bleeding that much, actually, just a little trickle. Henrik had given blood in Borgholm once, and they had taken a whole pint. This little drop was nothing.
A little bit of stomachache, a slight shock, and one bout of vomiting. No problem.
After a while he managed to get up from the rock. The blood throbbed in the wound with approximately the same rhythm as the waves rolling in toward the shore, but he was actually able to walk. His intestines and his liver must be okay.
Colder air had started to blow in off the sea. Henrik thought about how his grandfather had died alone out here one winter’s day, but pushed the thought aside.
With his hand pressed against his belly, he started to walk toward his boathouse. The door was ajar, and he stopped on the threshold.
All the stolen goods were gone. The only consolation was
that Tommy and Freddy had taken the old stable lantern as well. Perhaps it was their turn to hear the knocking now.
Henrik stepped inside with difficulty, and made his way over to his grandfather’s workbench.
Algot’s old wood ax was laying there, a small but sturdy item. And the long, slender scythe was standing in one corner. He took the ax and the scythe and went slowly back outside into the snow.
The padlock had fallen off into the snow. Henrik couldn’t find it. All he could do was close the door behind him, which cost him considerable effort.
Then he set off into the snow, away from the road and the boathouses and out onto the meadow by the shore.
He carried on northward along the coast, his head bowed, walking diagonally into the strengthening wind. He was protected against the gusts of wind by his woolen hat and padded jacket, but it made his eyes and nose smart.
Henrik ignored the cold, he just kept on walking.
The Serelius brothers, or whatever their name was, had struck him down and stolen his boat. And they had talked about going up to Eel Point.
In which case Henrik intended to meet them there.
28
Tilda rang the doorbell of Henrik Jansson’s apartment in Borgholm, keeping her finger there for a long time. She waited in silence along with Mats Torstensson, one of her colleagues in the town.
It was the day before Christmas Eve, and this should all have been sorted out much earlier, but Henrik hadn’t turned up at the police station despite the fact that he had been called in for questioning about the wave of break-ins in northern Öland. If he wasn’t prepared to come in voluntarily, he would have to be brought in.
There wasn’t a sound. Tilda rang again, but no one opened the door and she couldn’t hear anything when she pressed her ear against it. She tried the handle-it was locked.
“Maybe he’s gone away,” suggested Torstensson. “To his mother’s or father’s, for Christmas.”
“His boss said he was supposed to be working today,” said Tilda. “Only half a day, but…”
She rang the bell again, and at the same time the outside door of the apartment block slammed and they heard the sound of boots clomping up the stairs. Tilda and Torstensson turned their heads at the same time-but it was a teenage girl who was coming up the stairs, a red woolen scarf covering half her face and a bag of Christmas presents in her hand. She glanced briefly at the uniformed police officers, but when she had unlocked the door opposite Henrik’s, Tilda took a step toward her and said, “We’re looking for your neighbor…Henrik. Do you know where he is?”
The girl looked at the nameplate on Henrik’s door. “At work?”
“We’ve checked there.”
The girl thought about it. “He could be at the boathouse.”
“Where’s that?”
“On the east coast… somewhere. He wanted to take me out there to go swimming last summer, but I said no.”
“Good,” said Tilda. “Have a great Christmas.”
The girl nodded, but glared at her bag of presents as if she were already pretty tired of the whole Christmas thing.
“That’s it then,” said Torstensson. “We’ll have to bring him in after the holiday.”
“Unless we bump into him on the way back,” said Tilda.
It was half past two. It was cold and gray out in the street, almost minus ten, and twilight was already falling.
“I finish in a quarter of an hour,” said Torstensson as he opened the car door. “Then I have to go shopping… I’m a little behind with the Christmas presents!”
He looked at his watch. In his mind he was probably already at home with a glass of Christmas beer in front of the TV.
“I’ll just call…” said Tilda.
Her five days of leave were also approaching, but she still didn’t want to let go of Henrik Jansson.
She got in the car and called Henrik Jansson’s boss for the second time that day. He told her that Henrik’s boathouse was at Enslunda.
That was south of Marnäs, quite close to Eel Point.
“I’ll drive you back to the station,” she said. “Then I can call in at Enslunda on the way up. I’m sure he won’t be there, but at least I can check.”