It was all coming back to him now.
‘Yes, that’s where he was. The man from the ship, he was sitting in a little kiosk, and he sold us our tickets.’
‘Good,’ Gerlof said again. ‘And I managed to find a name... There was only one young man who worked in the cinema that summer, so I think we can identify him.’
He paused and leaned forward. ‘But if I tell you, will you promise not to tell anyone else?’
Jonas didn’t look too sure, but he agreed.
‘His name is Peter, Peter Mayer. But he’s known as Pecka. Do you recognize that name?’
Jonas shook his head. ‘The man on the ship didn’t tell me his name.’
‘No, of course not. But I looked in the phone book this morning, and there’s a Peter Mayer who lives up in Marnäs.’
Jonas stiffened. There was a sudden chill in the evening air. ‘So he lives here... on the island?’
‘Yes, if that’s him. But there’s nothing to worry about, Jonas. He doesn’t know who you are.’
Nevertheless, Jonas’s heart was pounding. Marnäs wasn’t far away; you could cycle there in half an hour. Casper went there on his moped virtually every day. And the man with the axe lived there.
‘We just need to find out more about him,’ Gerlof went on. ‘You said he mentioned an old man, an American?’
‘Aron,’ Jonas said.
‘Aron,’ Gerlof repeated thoughtfully.
Jonas wanted to tell Gerlof about the figure he had seen by the cairn the previous day, the figure that reminded him of the man on the ghost ship — but now he was no longer sure whether he might have imagined it.
They sat in silence for a moment, then Gerlof looked down at his notebook.
‘Right, Jonas. I’ll try to find the American, too. If he exists.’
Gerlof
Tilda’s phone was still engaged. Gerlof had things to tell her, but he hung up. He knew that it wasn’t against the law for a private individual to look into things, but he thought it was time to let her know what he had found out about Peter Mayer. And the mysterious Swedish-American.
Gerlof thought about the period of mass emigration from Sweden to the United States, the great exodus from Sweden that had lasted from the 1840s into the 1920s and beyond.
These days, as the summer residences in Stenvik kept on getting bigger and bigger, and all the shiny, expensive cars zoomed along the coast road, it was easy to forget how poor this area had been a hundred years ago. Poverty had reigned throughout the whole of Sweden — a remote country in the north without any great wealth. Hunger and lack of work had driven a fifth of the population overseas, mainly to America.
Öland and America were linked by all those journeys — first of all, the journey to the new country, then the journey home. Most of those who returned were poverty-stricken; the odd one had made it and was rich.
Gerlof didn’t know of any emigrants who were still alive, so he picked up the phone again and called someone who might just have the answer. Bill Carlson in Långvik was the only elderly American he knew; Bill was an interested descendant of genuine emigrants from the island.
A young Swedish relative answered, but he quickly called Bill in from the veranda.
‘Yeah?’
‘Hello Bill, it’s Gerlof Davidsson.’
There was a brief silence at the other end of the phone, then an enthusiastic ‘Gerlof! Hello-o! How are you?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘How’s your little boat?’
‘Well, we’re working on her...’ He cleared his throat and went on. ‘Bill, I need your help with something. I’m looking for an American.’
‘An American?’
‘Yes. I think he’s on Öland at the moment, but I don’t know where.’
‘Good luck with that. There are more of us than you might think in the summer. I was in the grocery store here in Långvik yesterday, and I met a whole bunch of kids from Washington who—’
‘This is an old man,’ Gerlof broke in. ‘A Swedish-American who might be called Aron. He comes from northern Öland, I think — at least, he seems to be familiar with the coast around here. And I think he’s interested in ships.’
‘Doesn’t ring any bells. Anything else?’
‘No... but he seems a bit of a dubious character.’
Bill laughed quietly. ‘You mean he’s a criminal?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know him.’
‘There were all kinds of emigrants,’ Bill said. ‘Have you heard of Oskar Lundin from Degerhamn?’
‘No, who was he?’
‘An old Swedish-American from Chicago... I met him one summer many years ago, and he claimed he’d been a driver for the Mafia back in the thirties. For Al Capone. Lundin said he used to drive Capone to meetings, until he was arrested and locked up in Alcatraz.’
‘Is he still alive, this Lundin?’
‘No, he’s every bit as dead as Capone. Most of those who came home are dead now.’
Gerlof sighed. ‘You’re absolutely right.’
‘But some are still alive,’ Bill said. ‘We’re meeting up for lunch on Friday.’
‘Who’s meeting up for lunch?’
‘Those who’ve come home to northern Öland... Those of us who are left. There’s always an annual get-together for all Swedish-Americans at the Borgholm Hotel, just after midsummer.’
‘And does everyone come along?’
‘Who knows?’ Bill said. ‘But I’ve got something I can show you, if you want more names. It’s taken from the church registers — it’s a list of everyone who emigrated from Öland during the twentieth century. My cousin has been to the House of the Emigrants in Gothenburg to do some research; he got the list from their archive.’
‘That would be very useful,’ Gerlof said. ‘And this lunch...’
‘It’s usually very good. You’re welcome to come with me.’
‘Really? I’d love to, but I’m not a Swedish-American, Bill. I’ve never even been to America.’
‘Don’t you have any emigrants in the family?’
‘Well, yes... my grandfather’s two brothers. They set off across the sea in the early 1900s. One ended up in Boston and became quite wealthy; the other is supposed to have died on the street in Chicago. That’s the closest I can get.’
‘In that case, you can be an honorary homecomer,’ Bill said.
‘Thank you.’
‘People won’t ask you many questions anyway. They’ll just go on and on, like windmills. All they want to do is talk about their own stories and adventures.’
‘Then I’m happy to listen,’ Gerlof said.
The Homecomer
Everyone seemed to be carrying around their own little telephones these days. Everyone except the Homecomer. He had to rely on the public kiosks that still stood in the squares and picnic areas on the island, and he was standing in one of those kiosks right now.
He keyed in a number, and a hoarse male voice answered, sounding suspicious.
‘Hello?’
‘Wall?’
‘Yes...’
‘Do you know who this is?’
‘Yes...’
The arms dealer’s voice was slurred, as if he had been drinking all day.
‘I’d like to do some more business with you,’ the Homecomer said.
‘We need to sort out the last lot first,’ Wall said. ‘What the hell did you do with the ship?’
The Homecomer was silent.
‘Nothing that can be undone,’ he said eventually.
‘Exactly. Pecka called me yesterday; he was really shaken up. He told me you sank her.’
‘Yes. We had no choice... There was poison gas on board.’
Wall didn’t speak; the Homecomer heard him swigging something at the other end of the line, then he said, ‘So you want to come here and do some more business?’