He took a deep breath and sat down at the kitchen table to call her.
‘Hi, it’s Dad.’
‘Hi.’
She sounded subdued but calm. Per could hear music playing in the background. Nirvana, presumably.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Good.’
‘What are you up to?’
‘Reading,’ she said. ‘And waiting.’
‘I know. It’ll be good when it’s all over, won’t it?’
‘Yes.’
They chatted for quarter of an hour, and after a while Nilla seemed to be feeling a little better. Per felt calmer too. Nilla told him that Marika was at the hospital, and had been there all day.
‘I’m coming over this evening,’ he said.
‘When?’
‘Soon... in a few hours.’
‘I might be asleep by then.’ Nilla gave a tired laugh. ‘They’re going to wake me up early in the morning... I have to wash myself with some kind of spirit. Disfect my whole body.’
Disinfect, thought Per, but he didn’t correct her.
‘See you soon,’ he said.
When he had hung up and was moving across to the cooker to start making dinner, he saw something black crawling slowly across the floor. It was a big blowfly, the first one this spring — at least the first one he had seen. It looked as if it had just woken up; it was moving very slowly and listlessly.
Per could easily have killed it, and for that very reason he scooped it up on a piece of paper and let it out through the kitchen window. It managed to get its wings working and disappeared across the quarry, without bothering to say thank you.
After dinner he sat in the kitchen listening to the ticking of the clock and thinking about Vendela Larsson.
Where was she?
Of course, he knew where Vendela might have gone — back to her childhood. She could have run to the little farm, or out to the big stone on the alvar. Perhaps Max Larsson was searching there, always supposing he knew about those places. Did he?
Per tried ringing the Larsson house, but there was no reply.
It was quarter past five now. He could always take a look over at the farm himself before he set off for Kalmar, while it was still light. Running always made him feel better.
He got up, pulled on his running shoes and a tracksuit top and went outside. The air was fresh and chilly, and made him feel stone cold sober. And he was, wasn’t he?
He looked south towards the Larsson house. The big Audi was gone, and the house was in darkness.
The lights were on in the Kurdins’ house, but Per didn’t want to think about that family at the moment.
He could hear a distant rattling sound, like pistol shots. Some kids letting off bangers down by the shore.
Per didn’t run, but strode off along the track heading northeast. At first he followed the route leading away from the coast, then turned on to a smaller gravel track and eventually reached the farm.
The grass was even greener now and made the whole place look like some kind of Swedish summer idyll, but as he walked up the path he saw the outline of the stone foundations to his left. Now he knew why Vendela had stopped to look at it when she was showing him round. The rectangle on the ground was the remains of the barn that had burnt down.
The grass was slightly shorter and yellower there, or perhaps it was just his imagination.
Arsonists almost always operate on their own patch.
Per thought about Hans Bremer, who had enjoyed pyrotechnics, and who had been the person who knew the film studio outside Ryd best, along with Jerry. If anyone had had the time and opportunity to rig up incendiary devices in the house, it was Bremer. But Bremer’s hands had been tied behind his back, according to the police. And he had died in the fire — even if Jerry had carried on talking about his companion as if he were alive. Bremer had called him, Jerry insisted, and Bremer had been driving the car that had knocked him down in Kalmar.
Per hadn’t taken him seriously; after all, his father was ill and confused. But was it definitely Bremer’s body that had been found in the burnt-out house?
It had to be. His sister had confirmed it, and the police were hardly likely to have made a mistake. They had dental records, fingerprints and DNA analysis these days.
He went up to the house and knocked on the door. The family who owned the place were at home, and the woman who opened the door remembered Vendela.
‘Yes, she was here a few weeks ago... she said she lived here when she was little. But that’s the only time I’ve seen her.’
Per nodded and carried on, climbing over a moss-covered stone wall and heading out on to the alvar. It was completely dry now; the ground was covered with all the long-suffering little herbs and flowers that were able to root in the thin soil.
Spring had taken over the island, and he hadn’t even noticed.
Despite the dry weather he didn’t see a single rambler out there; they had probably all gone home to celebrate May Day. All he could hear was the faint soughing of the wind and the sound of distant birdsong. A whitethroat, perhaps, or a blackcap? Per was hopeless when it came to birdsong.
He increased his speed. There was nobody to ask, and he could only hope that he was running in the right direction, towards the great stone that belonged to the elves.
65
Per thought he must be somewhere in the middle of the narrow island now. He had moved quickly along the tracks among the undergrowth for a kilometre or so, then set his sights on a clump of trees on the horizon and begun to run.
After ten minutes he was hot and out of breath. There was no sign of the elf stone, but when he looked to the north he spotted a group of juniper bushes that looked familiar. They were a few hundred metres away in a circular grove, and he headed in that direction.
When he got there he could just see the top of a large block of stone, and recognized its angular shape. He had reached the place Vendela had shown him.
The sun had emerged from the clouds and its evening glow shone over to the west. It made the shadows of the bushes extend like long black ribbons across the grass. He made his way through the thicket and stopped.
The stone rose up in the glade in front of him, and there was someone standing on the grass beside it. A slender figure who didn’t reach the top of the stone.
It was a boy, wearing jeans and blue jacket. He turned to face Per, and seemed to be smiling.
Per looked at him and blinked several times, but the boy was no illusion, he was still there, and Per could see that he was holding a little wooden box in his hand. He was perhaps nine or ten years old.
‘Hi,’ said Per.
The boy said nothing.
Per moved one step closer. ‘What’s your name?’
The boy didn’t respond to that either.
‘What are you doing here?’
The boy opened his mouth and looked sideways. ‘I live over there.’
He pointed somewhere behind him, towards the north-east. Per couldn’t see any buildings, or indeed any sign of human habitation, but if there were houses they were probably hidden by the trees.
‘Are you all on your own here?’
The boy shook his head and took a step away from the stone. ‘I’ve turned her on her side,’ he said. ‘That’s what you’re supposed to do.’
That was when Per spotted Vendela.
She was lying with her eyes closed behind the boy, half hidden by the stone and with her hands joined in front of her face. She was wearing a hat and a bulky padded jacket, and looked as if she were just resting.
Per quickly went over and bent down to her. ‘Vendela?’
When he shook her shoulders he realized she wasn’t sleeping. She was unconscious; he could see scraps of food gleaming among the grass, and there was a sour smell emanating from her open mouth. She had been sick.