‘I don’t know … a few people, I expect. I’ve been indoors most of the time.’
‘OK … well, I rang anyway.’
Silence. She heard the sound of pattering feet, and Ally came into the kitchen. Vendela clicked her fingers and the poodle listened hard in order to find his way over to her.
‘How’s the tour going?’ she asked.
‘Not bad.’
‘Many people?’
‘Some. But they’re not buying many books.’
‘I’m sure it’ll improve,’ she said.
‘Anything else?’ he said quietly.
‘Like what?’
‘Have you taken any tablets today?’
‘Only two,’ said Vendela. ‘One this morning and one after lunch.’
‘Good,’ said Max. ‘I have to go now; I’m having dinner with the organizers.’
‘OK. Sleep well.’
After she had put the phone down, Vendela wondered why she kept on lying about the tablets. She hadn’t taken a single one for several days. Her running was much more important now.
37
After Easter, everything went back to normal in Gerlof’s little garden, once his children and grandchildren had gone home.
The last of the dead leaves had fallen off the hazel bushes around the garden, and Gerlof could see small, busy shadows hopping about among the branches. They were bullfinches, newly arrived migrants who would either remain in the village for the whole summer, or just rest for a few days before continuing across the Baltic to Finland and Russia. He could hear them too – the chorus of the finches sounded like tinkling bells.
The temperature had risen by a few degrees; there was only a gentle breeze, and Gerlof could work on his model ships out on the lawn. John Hagman had given him an old, well-dried piece of mahogany that he was intending to use to build a full-rigged ship. They had had their glory days on the world’s oceans long before he himself became a sea captain, but he had always loved them.
He could also carry on reading Ella’s diaries in secret. From time to time he had found a note about her visitor.
5th August 1957
Plenty of fish this week. Last Thursday we had fried pike steaks from a fish Gerlof caught with a spear between the rocks on the shore, and this morning Andersson the carpenter gave me a perch.
And we had a crayfish party last Saturday night. But Gerlof was down in Borgholm at a meeting, so the girls and I had a party on our own.
The changeling seems to know when there’s no one around. He’s stayed away for a couple of weeks, but today he was standing by the stone wall when I came out, and I fetched him some milk and biscuits. He came over and I could smell him; the stench was worse than ever, I expect it’s the heat. He needs a bath, I thought, why can’t he have a bath? But the changeling just smiled and I pretended everything was all right.
As usual he didn’t say a word, just munched away at the biscuits and drank his milk. And then he headed off towards the north again, without so much as a thank-you.
He’s so timid and he jumps at the slightest sound, so I don’t think he’s supposed to be here. He wants to come and go without anyone seeing him. That’s why I don’t mention him, not to anyone.
Gerlof stopped reading. He looked over towards the village road in the north and thought about the fact that Ella’s visitor had always come from that direction.
What lay to the north? In the fifties there had been a few farms and boathouses up there; apart from that, there was nothing but grass and bushes. And the quarry, of course. That was the closest, on the other side of the road.
He was going to start reading again, but the bell on the gate heralded the arrival of a visitor; not the care service this time, but Per Morner. He waved, and Gerlof waved back. They hadn’t seen each other since the previous week, at the party.
‘I’m back,’ said Per, walking across the lawn.
‘I didn’t even know you’d been away,’ said Gerlof. ‘Did you take your father back to the mainland?’
‘That was the idea,’ Per said quietly, ‘but one or two things got in the way … He’s still here, I’m looking after him.’
He lowered his eyes as he spoke.
‘Well, that’s good,’ said Gerlof. ‘You’ll be able to spend some time together.’
‘Yes,’ said Per, not looking particularly pleased at the prospect.
There was a short silence, then he suddenly asked, ‘By the way, do you know anything about the blood over in the quarry?’
‘Traces of blood?’ said Gerlof. ‘I’ve never seen any.’
‘Not traces of blood,’ said Per. ‘It’s more like a red layer that you can see in the rock … Ernst used to talk about the place of blood.’
‘Oh, that?’ Gerlof laughed. ‘Yes, that’s what the quarry workers used to call it. But it’s not blood, it’s iron oxide. It was formed when Oland lay beneath the water, and the quarry was part of the sea bed. The sun shone down through the waters of the Baltic and the sea bed oxidized. Then the island rose from the waves and the iron oxide solidified and formed a layer of rock … It was before my time, of course, but that’s what I’ve read.’
‘But did the quarry workers believe it was blood?’
‘No, no, but they had lots of names for the different strata within the rock.’ Gerlof raised a hand and counted on his fingers: ‘There was the hard layer on the top; that was full of cracks, and they just broke it off and shovelled it away. Then there was the sticky layer that was solid and difficult to quarry. After that they reached the good layer, where they found the best, finest limestone, and that was what they dug out and sold. And underneath that, in certain parts, was the place of blood.’
‘Was the stone good down there?’
‘No, quite the opposite,’ said Gerlof. ‘When they reached the place of blood they’d gone too far.’
Per nodded and said, ‘So now I know. There’s always a simple explanation.’
Gerlof glanced at Ella’s diary, lying on the table. ‘Well, usually.’
38
Per started working again on Tuesday.
‘Good morning, my name is Per Morner and I’m calling from Intereko, a company involved in market research. I wonder if you have time to answer a few questions?’
Even while he was reeling off the questions he was thinking about other things. He gave some thought to Vendela Larsson and her talk of trolls and elves. She was a bit strange, but he couldn’t get her out of his mind.
The telephone on the kitchen table rang at about ten o’clock, when he had just finished his twelfth conversation about soap. The memory of the strange anonymous call after Easter made him hesitate, his hand hovering above the receiver, but in the end he picked it up.
A firm male voice spoke. ‘Per Morner?’
‘Speaking.’
‘This is Lars Marklund from the Vaxjo police. We’ve spoken before …’
‘I remember.’
‘Good; it’s about the house fire in Ryd, of course. We’d really like to expand on the interview from that first evening.’
