‘Vendela’s father?’
‘Yes. He blamed it all on his son, but I think it was Henry. It’s funny, but arsonists almost always operate on their own patch. They almost always set fire to places they know.’
Per remembered Vendela’s sad expression when she was showing him around her childhood home a couple of weeks earlier. It was lonely here, she had said.
‘But why do you regret telling the police, Gerlof?’ he said. ‘I mean, pyromaniacs have to be stopped.’
‘Yes, I know... but it destroyed the family. It broke Henry completely.’
Per nodded without saying anything; he understood. But here they were talking about misery and death again; he got to his feet. ‘I’ll be off to the hospital soon.’
It was a sudden impulse, but it felt right. He would drive down and spend the whole evening and night with Nilla, even if Marika and her new husband were there. He wasn’t going to be afraid any more.
‘I’ll be thinking of you tomorrow,’ said Gerlof. ‘And your daughter, of course.’
‘Thank you.’
Per turned and left the garden.
He was intending to go home, but a few metres from the gravel track by the quarry he came across Christer Kurdin, planting a tree. He had dug a hole in the lawn, and was busy filling in around the roots.
He straightened up and took a couple of steps towards Per. ‘I heard about Gerhard, your father... that he’d died. Was it a car accident?’
Per stopped. ‘Yes, he died in Kalmar... Is that an apple tree?’
‘No, a plum.’
‘Right.’
Per was about to move on, but Kurdin held his gaze. ‘Would you like to come in for a while?’
Per thought about it, and nodded. He followed Kurdin up the path, glancing at his watch. It was five to three, and the hands kept moving on, tick tock.
‘So you’re here over the holiday weekend?’ he said as they reached the house.
‘Yes,’ said Christer Kurdin. ‘We’re going home on Sunday... this will be our last visit before the summer.’
They were in a narrow hallway leading into a large living room.
Per looked around. There wasn’t much in the way of furniture or ornaments, but there was plenty of electronic equipment, telephones and speakers. Black and grey cables snaked across the floor along the walls. On one table there were two large computer monitors. It seemed that either Kurdin or his wife was heavily involved in music as well, because under one of the windows was an oblong table with rows of dials and switches — a mixing desk.
‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’
‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’
Near the windows looking out towards the quarry was a black leather sofa behind a low coffee table made of stone. Per sat down.
‘How about a beer?’
‘That would be good.’
Per remembered he had just decided to drive to the hospital this evening, but one beer probably wouldn’t do any harm.
Christer went into the kitchen and came back with two glasses of lager.
‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
Per took a couple of swigs, put down his glass and wondered what to say. ‘Have you been married long?’ he asked.
‘Marie and I? No, not very long. Two years, just about. But we’ve been together for five.’
‘So where do you actually live? Stockholm?’
‘No, Gothenburg. I went to university there, to the Chalmers Institute, and that’s where my company is. But I come from Varberg originally.’
‘And your wife?’
‘She’s from Malmö.’
They drank their lager in silence. Per took another swig; it was quite strong, and the alcohol settled like a warm blanket over his anxiety about the following day. ‘What do you think of Max Larsson?’ he asked. ‘Just between ourselves?’
Christer Kurdin pulled a face. ‘Larsson? I think he’s one of those people who has to be right all the time. He won’t give up until everybody agrees with him. Didn’t you notice how subdued his wife was?’
Per didn’t respond to that; instead he asked, ‘Have you read any of his books?’
‘No,’ said Christer, ‘but I’ve seen how many he’s churned out, so I can imagine what kind of advice you’d get from them.’
‘Bad advice, you mean?’
‘Simplistic, at any rate,’ said Christer. ‘Reading a psychology book isn’t going to make you a good person. You need life experience for that — plenty of trial and error.’
Per nodded, and at that moment the front door opened. Marie Kurdin came into the hallway with their baby in a sling across her stomach.
‘Hello?’ she called out. ‘Anyone home?’
She hadn’t noticed Per, but Christer Kurdin got up quickly and went over to her. ‘Hi darling,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a visitor.’ He seemed relieved to see her, as if he’d been waiting for an interruption to a difficult conversation. But if he didn’t like Per, why had he bothered to invite him in? ‘It’s our neighbour, Per Mörner.’
‘Oh?’
Per clearly saw Marie Kurdin’s smile briefly disappear.
Christer kissed his wife, who kissed him back, but Per thought they were both moving awkwardly. He had the impression they were playing roles for his benefit.
‘Did you find everything, darling?’
‘I think so... I got candles too.’
‘Good.’
Per picked up his glass and looked at them. Marie and Christer Kurdin and their baby, the happy family in their luxury home. Was he envious of them?
Marie nodded at Per in passing as she disappeared into one of the bedrooms with the baby in her arms.
Jerry had pointed at Marie. Filmed her, he had said.
Christer Kurdin sat down again and smiled at Per across the table.
Per didn’t smile back; he was searching for the right words to say. ‘Did you know my father?’ he asked.
Kurdin shook his head. ‘Why do you ask?’
Per looked down into his glass, which was almost empty, and said, ‘He was known as Jerry Morner, but when we met today you referred to him by his real name, Gerhard.’
‘Did I?’
Per looked at him. ‘Have you been phoning me?’
Christer Kurdin didn’t reply.
‘Someone’s been calling me,’ Per said slowly. ‘It started after the party... Someone’s been calling and playing something that could be the soundtrack from one of Jerry’s films.’
Kurdin still said nothing; he just stared at Per for a few seconds before turning and calling over his shoulder, ‘Darling?’
‘Yes?’ replied his wife.
‘Could you come here for a moment?’
Marie Kurdin’s heels tapped across the floor as she came back into the living room. ‘What is it?’
‘He knows,’ said Christer Kurdin.
His wife didn’t speak, but she looked Per in the eye.
‘Did you do some filming with Jerry and Markus Lukas?’ Per asked.
Marie shook her head. ‘Of course not.’
She didn’t say any more, but Christer Kurdin lifted his chin. ‘Her younger sister did.’
‘Sara,’ Marie said quietly. ‘She was in one of their films when she was only eighteen... and she fought it with antiretroviral drugs, but she died three years ago. She knew she’d been infected during filming and she told me, but she refused to tell anyone else. She was too ashamed.’
Per understood. ‘So you rang my father... to remind him.’
‘I recognized him at the party,’ said Marie. ‘I knew who he was when he got out that magazine.’
Per couldn’t look her in the eye; he lowered his gaze. ‘He did actually say that he recognized you too. You must have been alike... you and Sara.’
Marie didn’t reply.
He looked into his glass. What was in the beer? It seemed cloudy — had Kurdin put something in his glass when he poured it in the kitchen?