The Quarry

He heard the background noise again for a few seconds, then the answer came: ‘Yes.’

‘And your name is Fall?’

‘Yes … Thomas Fall.’ The man still sounded hesitant. ‘So how did you get hold of my number?’

Per explained, and when he mentioned the note he had found in Bremer’s kitchen, Thomas Fall seemed to relax slightly.

‘He’d written “Cash” next to your number,’ Per went on. ‘Any idea why he did that?’

Fall didn’t speak for a few seconds, then he laughed. ‘That’s what he called me sometimes. I used to listen to a lot of Johnny Cash when I got to know him. The Man in Black.’

‘Were you related to Bremer?’

‘No,’ said Fall. ‘He was my photography tutor in Malmo. I did an evening course in the mid-seventies because I wanted to get into advertising, and Bremer was teaching at the college. He left the following year … Or perhaps I should just come straight out with it: he got the sack.’

‘Do you know why?’

There was a short silence.

‘He was a bit different. He was good with the students, but his teaching was a bit disorganized … and he was drinking a fair amount, even then.’

‘Did you know he was involved in porn as well?’ said Per. ‘That he made porn films every spring and summer?’

Another pause at the other end of the line.

‘Yes, I did know that,’ Fall said eventually. ‘He didn’t exactly talk about it, but I found out after a while.’

‘But you kept in touch with him?’

‘Yes,’ said Fall, ‘but only to the extent that I rang occasionally to see how things were, and helped him out with the odd freelance job. I think Bremer was pretty lonely … he had no family of his own, just a sister.’

‘Did he ever mention a man called Markus Lukas?’

Silence once more.

‘I don’t think so,’ Fall said after a while. ‘Not that I remember.’

Per was just wondering what else to ask when Fall went on, ‘But he gave me a briefcase … I think I’ve still got it.’

‘Bremer gave you a briefcase?’

‘Yes, he left it here last year. He called round and he was pretty drunk; he asked me to look after it. I’m not really sure where it is now.’

‘Have you got time to look?’

‘Of course. I’ll check in the loft.’

‘Can I ring you back?’ said Per.

‘Sure,’ said Fall, and added, ‘I can take your number as well.’

Per gave him both his mobile number and the landline number for the cottage, and thanked him for his help before hanging up.

I think Bremer was pretty lonely, Thomas Fall had said. Per thought so too.

He stretched his back, then rang the third number on Bremer’s list, the one with ‘Fountain’ next to it. This time it took even longer for someone to answer; the phone rang eleven or twelve times before the receiver was picked up.

‘Hello?’

It was a tired male voice. Canned laughter from a TV programme could be heard in the background.

‘Hello,’ said Per, ‘is that Fountain?’

‘Yes – who wants to know?’

‘Excellent!’ said Per. The laughter from the TV was so loud and the man was speaking so quietly that he almost found himself shouting. ‘I got your number from Hans Bremer.’

‘Right,’ said the man. ‘What do you need?’

‘What do I need?’ said Per, trying to think. ‘Well … what have you got?’

‘Not all that much at the moment,’ said the man. ‘I’ve got some ten-litre packs of Swedish schnapps and a couple of Polish vodka. Will that be enough?’

Per finally got it – Fountain supplied cheap, home-distilled illicit spirits.

‘That’s not really what I had in mind,’ he said, and was about to hang up when the man said, ‘Bremer was supposed to be settling up – do you know anything about that?’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Per, as the canned laughter grew even more hysterical.

‘He said he was going to pay off his debts before the summer.’

‘How much are we talking about?’

‘Twenty thousand. Are you going to sort it out?’

‘No,’ said Per. ‘And I shouldn’t think Bremer will be sorting it out either.’

He hung up and called the last number on the list, which apparently belonged to someone called Danielle. It was a mobile number, but an automated message immediately cut in, informing him that the number was no longer in use. No other number was given.

That was it, then. He sat at the table thinking about Jerry’s dead colleague.

Hans Bremer had led a double life. He seemed to have put all his energy into making porn films at the weekends, then had gone back home to Malmo to live a miserable, debt-ridden existence fuelled by booze.

Per picked up the phone again and rang the undertaker to discuss Jerry’s funeral.

‘Do you know how many people will be coming?’ asked the funeral director. ‘Approximately?’

‘No. But probably not very many.’

He couldn’t actually think of anybody who ought to be invited to the funeral. Jerry’s relatives had broken off all contact with him long ago – or perhaps it was the other way round. All in all, he had probably been just as lonely as Bremer.

Then Per looked around and realized that he was sitting here in an empty house. His family wasn’t here, and how many friends did he have? How many people would come to his funeral?

That wasn’t something he ought to be thinking about right now.

Quarter of an hour later he drove away from the quarry, and couldn’t help glancing over at Vendela’s house. Lights were shining from the tall windows. He wondered what she was doing and whether her husband had come home yet, but didn’t stop to find out.

Randhult wasn’t a village like Stenvik; it was just a few farms scattered around in an agricultural landscape, half an hour by car along the motorway to the south of Kalmar. Ulrica Ternman had said she lived in the only brick- built house in the village, and it was easy to find. Per parked on the drive.

He heard a clattering noise as he was getting out of the car and saw a boy of about twelve trying out a radio-controlled jeep on the gravel. The boy looked up when he saw Per, but quickly turned his attention back to the car.

Per went up the steps and rang the bell, and a woman of about thirty-five opened the door. She was no blonde bimbo; she had short brown hair and was dressed in faded jeans and a black cotton top.

Per remembered what his father had said about Regina during the Easter weekend: Got old, I suppose. No doubt that was how Jerry had divided women up – into hot girls and old bags.

‘Hi,’ said Per, and introduced himself.

Ulrica Ternman nodded. ‘Come in.’

She turned away and Per followed her into the hallway.

‘Is that your son outside?’

‘Yes, that’s Hugo,’ she said. ‘We also have a daughter called Hanna … My husband has taken her into town to her gymnastics class this evening. It’s probably best if they’re not at home.’

‘Does he know you …’

Per was searching for the right words, and Ulrica Ternman looked tired.

‘That I was a slag, you mean?’

‘No, I mean …’

‘I haven’t mentioned the modelling,’ she broke in. ‘But Ulf knows I did plenty of stupid things when I was young, and so did he. Before he grew up.’