He told me that the residents of the islands were afraid that there would be another fire. Apparently the police were getting nowhere. Jansson thought the arsonist was an outsider. That was the term he used: an outsider. Someone who travelled around starting fires, only to disappear.
Louise and I continued to grow closer through our phone calls. I was visited by representatives from the insurance company. Kolbjörn Eriksson and a relative who was a carpenter were contracted to build the new house; in the best-case scenario, it would go up during spring and summer the following year.
The day the first snow fell, I went into town to shop for groceries. As usual I parked outside Oslovski’s house; no one knew what was going to happen to the place because there was no will, no family.
When I had locked the car I suddenly decided to walk up to the garage.
The door had been forced. Whoever had broken in had done so with such violence that the lock had been ripped out of the wood.
The DeSoto was gone. Someone must have driven up in a truck or recovery vehicle and towed it away. All the tools were exactly where they should be on the walls; only the car was gone.
I immediately called the police and reported the break-in. As the situation wasn’t regarded as an emergency, the operator informed me that it would probably be more than two hours before a car was dispatched.
I gave them my details because I had no intention of waiting around for that long.
The break-in and the theft had upset me. This was an attack on Oslovski. A dead person is dead, but to steal the car that she had worked on for so many years, determined to restore it to its former glory, that was still an attack.
I bought long johns, gloves, a woolly hat, a scarf and a thick winter coat. I made sure none of them had been made in China. Oddly enough, the hat was from Indonesia. Afterwards I went to the restaurant in the bowling alley for something to eat. I hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol since I got back from Paris; I didn’t miss it at all.
Before I went back to the harbour, I called in at the small electrical shop. It was owned by Johannes Rudin, a man with a hunchback. He had been there all those years ago when I had visited the shop with my grandfather to buy a new radio. According to Jansson, Johannes had recently turned eighty-five and had no intention of retiring.
I had decided to get a TV for the caravan. Listening to the old transistor radio wasn’t enough; I wanted something to look at.
Johannes listened with one hand cupped behind his ear as I explained about my caravan, then he pointed to the smallest flat-screen TV in the shop.
‘You’ll need an aerial,’ he said. ‘You can put it up yourself if you’re a bit of a handyman.’
I paid and carried the TV and aerial to my car. When I had stowed everything away and straightened up, I saw a poster informing me that it was time to book a table at the bowling alley restaurant for Christmas and New Year.
I decided to organise my own New Year party. In my caravan. I would invite Jansson and Lisa Modin. It would be cramped and hot and sweaty with the three of us, but a New Year celebration in a caravan was something different. About as far from an event in a restaurant as it was possible to get. I would ask Veronika to prepare the food, while I would provide the drinks.
I drove back to the harbour. My decision was challenging, but I had good reason to say goodbye to a difficult year. At the same time I wanted to celebrate the fact that my daughter and I had deepened our relationship, and that hopefully a child would soon come into the world. Of course Louise, Ahmed and Muhammed would also be welcome if they wanted to make the journey from France to the archipelago. Then the caravan really would be crowded, but we could manage.
To my surprise, Lisa said yes when I rang and invited her for New Year’s Eve. She said she was looking forward to the party. I asked what she was doing for Christmas, and she told me she was going to Crete. That made me feel jealous, but of course I didn’t say anything.
Jansson offered to arrange a small fireworks display.
Veronika came up with some suggestions for a simple menu, and we reached an agreement on the cost and all the practical details.
Snow fell from time to time, but it soon melted away. Fear still drifted across the islands and their sparse population like a sea fret, but there were no more fires. Jansson kept me informed; the police didn’t seem to have any leads, and it looked as if their investigation had ground to a halt. I kept wondering who had burned down my house and why. Sometimes I thought there was something I had missed, something I ought to have realised, but I didn’t know what it was.
No one seemed to have any idea what was going to happen to Oslovski’s house, but one day Jansson paid me an unexpected visit. He clambered up onto the jetty and we sat down on the bench. He had brought a magazine about vintage cars containing both articles and small ads. He turned to the advertising section, with pictures and prices.
He pointed, and I immediately saw what he meant. Oslovski’s car was for sale, and the image had been taken inside her garage. The thieves had photographed the car before they moved it.
Oslovski’s DeSoto Fireflite, manufactured in 1958.
I could still remember her telling me that this particular model had had a short production run — only 4,192. One of the most unusual details was that the exhaust pipe actually came through the bumper. The advert stated that the bodywork was a mixture of Wedgwood Blue and Haze Blue. No price was given; there was a phone number for interested parties to call.
‘How did you find this?’ I asked. ‘I didn’t know you were into old American cars.’
‘My nephew called,’ Jansson said. ‘I’d told him about the break-in and the fact that the car had been stolen. He knows everything about vintage American cars, and he guessed this might be the one. He was right.’
‘You’ve got a nephew?’
Jansson took out his phone and handed it to me instead of replying.
‘It’s best if you call. My voice starts trembling if I get nervous.’
A woman answered.
‘It’s about the car,’ I said. ‘The DeSoto. I was wondering how much it was?’
‘A hundred and eighty-five thousand.’
Her voice sounded muffled, as if she were speaking through a handkerchief.
‘Can you tell me something about the car? Background, previous owners, that kind of thing?’
‘You’ll have to talk to my brother about all that, but he’s not home at the moment.’
‘When will he be back?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Can I come and see the car? Where is it?’
‘You need to talk to my brother.’
‘Surely you can tell me where the car is?’
She saw through me.
‘Try again in a few hours,’ she said dismissively and ended the call.
Jansson had leaned closer to listen in to the conversation; it felt as if we were an old married couple, sitting there on the bench in winter chill.
Two swans flew past. We watched them until they were out of sight.
‘Bastards,’ Jansson said. ‘Stealing a dead woman’s car.’
We went up to the caravan for a cup of coffee, then we played cards. Jansson won every game.
After an hour and a half, by which time we were both tired of playing, I rang the number again. No one answered. In a sudden burst of energy I called the magazine’s advertising desk and informed them that one of the cars on their ‘For Sale’ pages was stolen. The man I spoke to was very concerned and asked me to report it to the police.
I did as he said. When the officer suggested that I report the matter via the police service website, I flared up, telling him I was sitting in a caravan on a remote island, with no internet access.