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‘His name is Niklas.’

‘Indeed. And what else do you know about Niklas Kloss?’

‘Not much,’ John said, glancing back at the coast road. ‘He runs the restaurant, but I don’t see much of him. It’s Kent Kloss who’s around most of the time, and sometimes their sister, Veronica.’

‘It was the same today,’ Gerlof said thoughtfully. ‘Kent Kloss was there while the boy was being interviewed. It should really have been Jonas’s father, but he seemed to be hiding.’

‘Niklas Kloss is the black sheep of the family,’ John said. ‘If you believe the gossip.’

‘What’s he supposed to have done?’

John nodded in the direction of the houses on the coast road. ‘He also inherited a plot of land here, but he couldn’t afford to build on it, so after a few years he sold it. Gambling debts, apparently. And then of course he ended up in jail.’

‘Did he? What for?’

‘No idea. Fraud, maybe, or theft... It’s not very long since he came out.’

Gerlof nodded pensively. ‘In that case, I can understand why he avoids the police.’

The Homecomer

The second weekend in July, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky over Öland; from morning till evening, the island was bathed in light and warmth, and the sun attracted visitors from all over southern Sweden. This was when the real wave of tourists arrived from the mainland. The holiday season was well under way. There were no traffic jams, as there had been at midsummer, but from Friday to Sunday a steady stream of cars and caravans passed over the bridge before dispersing all over the island, from north to south.

The beaches were packed with people during the day, the campsites and hotels at night. Summer cottages were opened up, barbecues set up, lawnmowers hummed into life. For the next few weeks, every road, every electrical supply cable and every sewage outlet on the island would be used to its maximum capacity, until calm returned in August.

The holiday complexes were also full to bursting, as were the nightclubs. This was the most important month of the year for the Ölandic Resort outside Stenvik.

The Homecomer was standing in a picnic area just off the main road, watching the cars pass by. Rita was beside him; she looked tired but resolute. She tilted her head in the direction of her own car: ‘Well, we’ve done what we had to do... I’ll be on my way.’

The Homecomer nodded, thinking once again that he could have been her father or grandfather. He took out his wallet and removed a wad of notes. ‘A bit more from the ship,’ he said. ‘Where will you go?’

She took the money but made no attempt to count it. ‘Copenhagen,’ she said. ‘I’ve got friends there. I’m going to stay out of the way for a while... What about you?’

‘I’m staying here on the island,’ the Homecomer said.

‘How long for?’

‘Until I die.’

Rita smiled briefly, as if he were joking. ‘Thanks for everything.’

She gave him a quick hug, then walked away. Heading for new adventures.

The Homecomer remained where he was. Several cars had stopped, and the picnic tables were beginning to fill up with people. He knew that the Kloss family would be looking forward to the arrival of all the tourists.

The Ölandic Resort was ready. But no one except the Homecomer and Rita knew that disaster was on its way to the complex. It was already creeping through the ground.

The New Country, February 1936

The day when disaster strikes is just like any other working day.

There are four of them in the forest: Aron, Vlad, old Grisha and Sven. They are shifting logs, and on this particular occasion they have an old horse to help them. His name is Bokser, and he drags the sledge down to the river and back again. Bokser is half dead; he has scabs as big as saucers on his neck, but he still has to work. He is the third horse the commandant has requisitioned from a farm to the south of the camp; the first two froze to death. The meat tasted like dry bacon.

Bokser is a luxury, and no one knows how long they will be allowed to keep him. Other brigades don’t have a horse; the prisoners have to pull the sledges instead.

The four of them work hard, felling trees and loading up the logs; they are behind with their quota. They are always behind. The trees would have to fall down by themselves in their thousands for them to catch up. There should have been seven of them in the brigade today, but two are sick and one is in solitary confinement, accused of trying to cheat the system.

The logs are lying on the ground. Vlad counts to three, then he and Grisha and Aron lift them on to the sledge, one after the other, and Sven secures them with a chain. Grisha whines and complains after each one. They have done all this thousands of times before.

Aron’s movements are mechanical; in his mind, he is on the shore down below Rödtorp, where the sun is shining and the waves murmur among the rocks. Where the sand is soft and you can go for a swim whenever you like.

‘Aron,’ Sven says quietly.

Aron blinks, and he is back in the cold, the endless exhaustion. He turns his head and sees Sven standing by the sledge laden with logs; there is a strange expression on Sven’s face. A resolute expression. His hands are moving, turning something around and around.

Then everything falls apart. The world shakes and shatters.

‘Look out!’ Sven yells in Swedish.

Vlad is still bending down next to the sledge, but Aron begins to move. He realizes what is happening. The chain has come off, and the logs are moving. Nothing can stop them now.

‘Vlad!’ Aron shouts.

At the same time, he jumps back, and almost gets away. He hears the crash as the first log falls off the sledge, but the end of it catches his shoulder, dislocating the joint.

The next log strikes him, knocks him to the ground and hits him in the face.

Aron feels no pain. He feels only the power, the weight of the tree trunk pressing him down into the snow. He sees the rest of the logs rolling down, long and black against the sky. They bounce on the frozen ground like millstones, crushing everything in their path, but by some miracle every single one misses his head, and they go rolling down the slope.

He can hear Grisha’s voice shouting through the racket. Bokser neighing frantically. They have both survived.

But somewhere under the logs is Vlad. Vladimir from the Ukraine. With his warm coat and his sheepskin hat.

Aron knows he is there, but he can’t see Vlad. His eyes are swollen shut. When the pain from his broken bones takes over his entire body, Aron is no longer there. He has gone away, drifted off into unconsciousness as if it were the sea, gently lapping on the shore near Rödtorp.

aron

aron

Aron!

Faint noises in the darkness, echoing shouts that sound like his name. He can hear them, but he doesn’t want to go back.

Aron opens his eyes. No, he isn’t lying on warm sand, he is lying in the snow among the fir trees. And a huge shadow is looming over him.

‘Aron! Can you hear me?’

It is Sven’s voice, full of energy. He shouts right in Aron’s face. ‘We’re going to do it! We’re going to swap!’

Sven bends down and Aron feels hands on his body. Hard blows that make his broken ribs throb with agonizing pain.

‘Stop it,’ Aron whispers.

But Sven won’t stop.

‘We have to hurry up, Aron... I’ve sent Grisha to get help. They’ll be here soon — we have to hurry!’

Aron feels someone pulling off his clothes. It is Sven, his hands tugging at buttons and laces.