‘The cairn ghost is called Aron Fredh,’ Gerlof said. ‘Is he still in the mill with your cousin and your aunt?’
‘Yes.’
‘What does he want? Do you know what he’s going to do with them?’
Jonas shook his head. ‘He’s got a big gun... and he said he wanted to talk to Aunt Veronica. He said she had to come to the mill on her own.’
Gerlof looked tired. ‘A confrontation.’ He glanced over towards the mill and asked quietly, ‘Exactly where are they sitting in there, Jonas? Can you remember? Are they downstairs, or up in the loft?’
‘Downstairs.’
‘Good. In the middle of the room, or by the wall?’
Jonas tried to think. ‘Me and Casper were sitting by the door. We were tied to chairs.’
‘And were you tied to the wall as well?’
Jonas shook his head. ‘He put ropes around our hands and our ankles.’
‘Good,’ Gerlof said, looking at the other man. ‘There is something we can do, John, but it’s a bit risky... There’s a trapdoor in the floor of the mill; it was used to drop heavy sacks of flour down on to the ground. If the boy is sitting on top of it, we can get him out. Veronica Kloss, too, perhaps.’
The other man adjusted his cap, frowning in the gathering twilight. He didn’t seem entirely happy with Gerlof’s plan. ‘How do we do that?’
Gerlof thought for a moment. ‘If I remember correctly, there’s a bolt securing the trapdoor from underneath. We’d have to knock it off — and fast.’
The man nodded. ‘I’ll find a suitable stone.’
Gerlof turned his attention back to Jonas. ‘Can you come with us just to make sure?’
Jonas hesitated, but in the end he agreed.
Gerlof smiled. ‘We have to be very, very quiet.’
Gerlof
Gerlof was trying to keep up with John and Jonas, but he was too slow. He was tired, and his feet were dragging on the ground. He was making a noise, rustling in the dry grass, which was no good at all.
He had to stop.
He saw John bend down and pick up a stone, long and flat like a hammer, then carry on with Jonas Kloss at his side.
Gerlof followed them at a steady pace. He knew his way around here; it was less than a hundred metres from his own garden on the other side of the trees and, over to the left, he could see the cairn. The real one from the Bronze Age, the one that was still intact.
The grove was becoming denser all around them, but in a narrow clearing up ahead they saw a tall shadow with spreading sails — the mill. Gerlof’s own father had brought his grain here sometimes; the mill had already been old all those years ago. It had been built at least a hundred and fifty years earlier, before the trees grew tall, when its sails could catch the wind from every direction. In northern Sweden, the mills had been driven by water, but here on the island there were no rivers, just the constant wind blowing across the flat landscape.
The wind had picked up, and the mill was visibly swaying.
The tall structure rested on a single round wooden post so that the body of the mill could be turned to bring the sails into the wind. But it was many decades since the sails had last moved; they were broken now, and the mill stood among the trees like a deserted watchtower.
No, not deserted — a dark-blue Ford was parked among the trees just outside and, a few metres away, Gerlof saw Veronica’s car. He was out of breath and could communicate only by gestures, but he waved to John to indicate that they should keep going.
As they drew closer to the mill, they could see flickering lights through the gaps in the walls and hear the low murmur of voices.
The space beneath the mill was about a metre high. It was dark under there, but Gerlof bent down and saw that the trapdoor next to the post was still there, secured with a heavy iron bolt.
Good. But had the wood swollen or warped over the years, meaning that the trapdoor was now stuck?
They would just have to take that risk.
He waved silently to John, and his old friend stooped down and began to creep towards the mill, with Jonas still beside him. The man and the boy edged underneath the mill, next to the post; they became two shadows.
Gerlof held his breath. There was nothing more he could do now except wait.
Then he heard a series of blows against the floor of the mill as John struck upwards as hard as he could: one, two, three, four blows.
There was a rattling sound, and then the trapdoor loosened and came crashing down.
The Homecomer
‘So here we are,’ Aron said to Veronica Kloss, his relative and his enemy.
She didn’t respond.
‘Here we are in the mill,’ he went on. ‘When the wind comes and the sails begin to turn, there is nothing that can stop the grinding process.’
Veronica still didn’t speak, but she had finished writing. The piece of paper with her confession on it was full. She held on to the pen but pushed the paper across to Aron. He carried on looking at her, and wiped his forehead. It was warm inside the mill, thanks to the paraffin lamps, but he had a temperature as well.
‘My wife needed care... I just wanted a small piece of land,’ he said slowly. ‘I just wanted the croft. That was what I’d dreamed of coming back to as an old man... Rödtorp, down by the water.’
‘You would never have got it,’ Veronica said.
‘No. You knocked it down to make sure of that.’
Veronica turned and looked at her son, who hadn’t made a sound.
‘It’s all about security,’ she said. ‘And planning for the long term. No one is going to come and take the Ölandic from us. Certainly not some bastard who turns up after sixty years, wanting our land... So I sent you away from Stockholm and I took care of your sister in the home, before she could start talking. Kent and I were in complete agreement; there was no way we were going to let you in.’
‘That was a mistake,’ Vlad said.
Veronica pointed at his bloodstained shirt with the pen. ‘That doesn’t look too good,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘You’re bleeding, Aron.’
Vlad shook his head, but he could feel the sweat trickling down his brow. ‘Not any more.’
Veronica smiled. ‘I think you’re dying, Aron.’
Vlad blinked. ‘So are you.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m feeling fine, Aron. I’m going to live for a very long time... After all, I have our land to take care of.’
Vlad raised the gun and said quietly, ‘Your children will have to do that.’
He was going to say more, but all of a sudden he heard banging. It was coming from underneath him, from the floor.
The old trapdoor was down there — he hadn’t really thought about it until now, but it was shaking, the dust whirling up in the glow of the lamps.
Vlad didn’t have time to do anything. The trapdoor dropped open with a crash, and the boy who had been sitting on top of it fell through, still tied to the chair.
He had lost his hostage.
Vlad stared at the hole for a couple of seconds too long. He didn’t notice that Veronica Kloss was on her feet, he just heard the sound of breaking glass as she kicked over the nearest lamp.
The paraffin flared up, and Veronica flew towards him. She was fast; Vlad didn’t see her until she was standing right in front of him, still clutching the pen. In a single movement, she jabbed it straight into the wound in his belly.
‘That’s from Kent!’ she yelled, before delivering a second vicious blow.
Ice-cold pain in the wound.
Vlad dropped the gun and heard it clatter on to the floor. He fumbled for the pen, trying to pull it out, but Veronica was holding on to it, and pushed him against the wall.