health. They had argued about the same thing several times before, but their discussions always went round in circles, and they had tired of every other topic.
‘He is
‘He is, Max. He’s up and about much more often, and he’s walking better.’
‘He’s
When they had started to repeat themselves they had both given up and walked past each other across the echoing stone floor. Max had shut himself in his thinking room, and Vendela had chosen the kitchen. Aloysius had stayed out of the way during the quarrel, but had taken Vendela’s side by padding after her and rubbing his nose against her legs.
This was not the right thing to do, she had said so to Max many times. You should never simply storm off after a quarrel without sorting it out. He had even included that particular piece of advice in one of his books.
Vendela wiped a few breadcrumbs from the stainless-steel worktop and sighed. They weren’t going to get anywhere, she realized. They either had to give up, or go for counselling – but the problem was that Max was a trained psychologist, and always knew best. He refused to see other therapists; he didn’t believe in them.
Vendella went into the bathroom, but didn’t take a tranquillizer. She drank a glass of water, felt a little fuller and longed to be out on the alvar. She started to change into her tracksuit.
Five minutes later she was ready. She patted Aloysius and opened the front door. ‘Won’t be long!’ she shouted.
There was no response from the thinking room.
She ran straight to the elf stone this Monday evening, with long strides and tightly clenched fists. She stumbled a few times on tussocks of grass and hidden stones, but stayed on her feet. At last she was there.
Vendela had no money or jewellery with her. She had nothing to offer the elves, but she wanted to be here anyway. She had run here four days in a row now; she didn’t have to listen to Max out here.
She placed her palms flat on the stone and tried to relax. Loud voices reverberated inside her head, the memory of the quarrel. But this evening there was no solace to be found.
Things had got much worse since her last visit, and sorrow hung heavily over the kingdom of the elves. Vendela could see clear pictures in her head when she closed her eyes: the king of the elves sitting on his throne weeping for his ailing queen, blue blood trickling from his eyes.
Vendela felt that no one had any time for her. She turned and ran westward once more.
When she got home, there were no lights on in the house. The Audi had gone, and the front door was locked. Max must have gone off somewhere, but the spare key was under one of the plant pots. Vendela unlocked the door and went inside.
‘Hello?’ she shouted.
The echo of her call died away, and there was no reply. Vendela hadn’t expected an answer from Max, but why hadn’t Aloysius barked, or come pattering across the floor?
‘Ally?’
No response, but when she went into the kitchen she saw a note stuck on the fridge:
Vendela ripped down the note and threw it away.
She went around the house, looking in every room until she was certain Ally wasn’t there. Then she sat down in the enormous living room and stared through the enormous windows, out on to the deserted quarry.
Max had gone back to Stockholm and taken their dog with him. There was nothing Vendela could do.
She closed her eyes.
She could hear the sound of a cow bell, and Jan-Erik’s giggling laughter.
Oland 1958
Henry Fors has taken the boot with him and is leading the policemen up the stairs. Vendela sneaks silently behind them; she has a bad feeling.
‘Come with me and I’ll show you who owns this boot.’
He goes over to the only closed door and opens it without knocking.
‘Here he is … my son Jan-Erik.’
Vendela watches the policemen follow Henry into the room. All three gather around the figure sitting on his blanket, dressed in the same dirty clothes he was wearing the previous evening. Jan-Erik tilts his head back and looks up at them. Then he giggles and turns his attention to Vendela. She wants to say something, but doesn’t even open her mouth.
‘Is he ill?’ asks one of the policemen.
‘Well, that’s one way of putting it. He’s retarded.’ Henry is pointing at Jan-Erik as if he were exhibiting some kind of curious object. ‘We’ve had him here for a couple of years now … He was in an institution before that, but I brought him home out of the goodness of my heart.’ He pauses, then adds, ‘That was probably a mistake.’
‘So it’s his boot?’ says the first policeman.
‘Indeed it is – I can prove it.’
Henry bends down, grabs hold of one of Jan-Erik’s legs, stretches it out and puts on the boot. It seems to fit, even though Vendela knows perfectly well that it’s her father’s boot.
‘That’s all very well,’ says the policeman, looking over at the wheelchair. ‘But can he walk?’
‘Oh yes,’ says Henry. ‘The doctor at the institution said that he
‘Show us,’ say the policemen.
Henry bends down and gets hold of Jan-Erik under the arms. ‘Up you come.’ Then he lifts him from the blanket in one movement.
Jan-Erik is still giggling. He is standing upright, with a thick sock on one foot and the boot on the other.
Henry gives him a shove. ‘Go on now, boy. Off you go!’
Jan-Erik stands there for a few seconds, looking at the policemen. Then he takes a short step forward, followed by another.
‘But why would he set fire to the place?’
‘Why?’ says Henry. ‘Who knows? It doesn’t make any sense … the lad’s in a world of his own.’
The policemen look at each other, unsure what to do.
‘What do you think – can his sort be taken to court?’
‘No idea. How old is he, Fors?’
‘Seventeen.’
‘In that case it might be possible … We’ll have to check.’
Vendela feels sick. She opens her mouth. ‘No!’
They all stop dead and stare at her, and she has no option but to continue: ‘It was my fault. It was me! I hated the cows … I went out on to the alvar and wished that they would disappear. I asked …’
The policemen look surprised at first, then they smile at one another. One of them winks.
‘I see crime runs in the family,’ he says.
The policemen walk past Vendela and leave the room.
The house is very quiet once they have left. Henry doesn’t say anything, and Vendela doesn’t want to talk to him. The word must have got around about the policemen’s suspicions, because the following day nobody comes to visit the Fors family – it even looks as if the neighbours are taking a detour so they don’t have to walk past the farm and look at it.
The week after the fire there are more interviews with the police. Eventually it is decided that both Henry Fors and his son are under suspicion: Jan-Erik is accused of burning down the barn, and Henry of having kept quiet about his son’s actions in order to claim the insurance money.
