The gravel drive was always pristine; no one went near the house. It was as if people doubted whether Oslovski had actually died. Perhaps she had just gone off on one of her mysterious journeys; no one knew where she went or why. Except to track down parts for her car, which remained missing.
‘It’s always been desolate around here in the winter,’ Jansson said one day. ‘But now it’s worse than ever. As if empty can become emptier.’
I knew what he meant. The silence in the archipelago intensified during the winter. It wasn’t just the quayside crumbling away and the iron bollards rusting; it was as if the sea itself didn’t really have the heart to fill the harbour basin with water any more.
At Oslovski’s wake I took the opportunity to ask Jansson if he would sing at our New Year party. He recoiled as if I had suggested something inappropriate.
‘It would make the party just perfect,’ I said with a smile.
Jansson chewed his lower lip like an awkward schoolboy who hadn’t done his homework.
‘I can’t sing any more.’
‘Of course you can!’
‘And besides, “Ave Maria” isn’t the only song I know,’ he said stubbornly.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘That’s fine.’
We didn’t discuss it any further, but I knew I had his word. He would sing when we were gathered in the caravan, as midnight approached.
I went through the catering one more time with Veronika. We had settled on hot-smoked salmon for the main course, with soup to start and apple cake to follow.
‘I would have invited you,’ I said. ‘But there isn’t enough room in the caravan.’
‘I’m going to Iceland on New Year’s Day,’ she said.
I looked at her in astonishment.
‘Iceland? Isn’t it even colder there than it is here?’
‘I don’t care about the weather. I’m going because of the Icelandic horses.’
‘Is that where you might move to?’
‘Perhaps.’
Her phone rang; I gathered from the conversation that it was someone enquiring about a birthday party. I picked up my jacket, pulled my hat down over my ears and waved to her. She smiled at me as she began to make notes on a turquoise pad.
There was an old newspaper lying on one of the tables, so I checked my betting slip. I hadn’t won anything, of course.
I headed home, the boat buffeted by choppy waves. I felt as if the sea might solidify at any moment, petrifying the waves, the spume, the boat and me.
A grey sea like this one was like a clockface without hands. Or a room where the walls have fallen down. Sometimes I had a vague premonition that the sea was the force that would one day take my life.
In order to avoid the even rougher waters as I reached the part of the bay leading to the open sea, I followed the inner shipping lane. It was a longer route, but it was sheltered from the north wind almost all the way, except for the very last part of my trip. I passed an island where the bare branches of the oak trees reached up into the sky. I thought I caught a glimpse of a wild boar slipping away into the undergrowth. I let the engine idle and allowed the waves to carry me, hoping the animal would reappear. The next island was called Hästholmen; a geology professor called Sandmark had once built a summer cottage there. I had seen him when I had accompanied my grandfather to the harbour as a child. Sandmark always wore a black beret and a baggy British khaki uniform, and he lived until he was a hundred and seven years old. Back then it was Jansson’s father who delivered the post; according to Jansson, Professor Sandmark had died on his jetty, having just received a pension payment. Jansson’s father had been standing there with the notes in his hand when Sandmark sank silently to the ground and died on the spot.
Jansson’s father had been particularly upset by the fact that the professor had collapsed without so much as a groan of pain, fear or protest.
The summer cottage was in a terrible state. I didn’t know for sure, but I thought it was owned by two granddaughters, two sisters who hated each other because one had become rich while the other had failed in life.
My phone rang; it was Jansson.
‘I’m sure,’ he said.
‘Sure about what?’
‘That the arsonist isn’t local.’
‘Did anyone ever really believe that? Apart from when I was the prime suspect.’
‘I’ve gone through every single person who lives out here on the islands. It can’t be any of them.’
‘What do we really know about people?’ I said. ‘What do you know about me? What do I know about you?’
‘Enough to be confident in what I’m saying.’
I had the feeling that our conversation was going round in circles.
‘What do the police think?’ I asked, purely for the sake of something to say.
‘I imagine they probably think the same as me, but where do they start looking?’
Jansson chuckled, as if he had said something funny, then he became serious again.
‘I’d really like to hear your view,’ he said. ‘On who’s behind all this. These house fires.’
‘I’ll give it some thought, but right now I’m out in the boat. It’s cold.’
‘We need to talk about this.’
‘You’re right, we need to talk about this. At some point.’
I ended the call and put my phone back in my pocket. Something about our conversation was bothering me. Even though Jansson had spoken as he always did, something wasn’t right. I just couldn’t work out what it was.
What did I really know about Jansson, apart from the fact that he had delivered the post for years in all weathers? He had an extensive knowledge of everyone who lived out on the islands. Everyone knew Jansson, the helpful postman in the archipelago. But who really knew him?
I went over the conversation in my mind. I didn’t feel any better, and I still couldn’t decide where the anxiety was coming from.
I accelerated and headed home. A few Canada geese were flying around beneath the grey clouds, unable to find their route south.
Back home I solved a chess problem in the local paper; it was much too easy. The most stupid amateur could work out that a combination of moves involving a castle and a bishop would quickly lead to checkmate for the black pieces. I felt like contacting the paper to complain about the way they regarded their readers as idiots, but of course I didn’t do it. Those occasions when I have felt like protesting and have actually done so are few and far between.
It was hot inside the caravan. In spite of the fact that darkness had fallen, I undressed, picked up my torch and went to the boathouse. I climbed down into the water and forced myself to swim a few strokes before the cold got too much for me. I was on my way up the ladder when I heard my phone ringing; I had left the door of the caravan ajar. I set off at a run, but slipped and fell over one of the wet stones in the grass.
I put my clothes back on before I checked to see who had called. I could only think of two people: Louise or Jansson.
It was Lisa Modin. I called her back, but it was ages before she picked up. I was about to give up when she answered, sounding surprised to hear my voice.
‘You called me but I couldn’t get to the phone in time,’ I explained. ‘I’d just been for a dip and I was down by the jetty.’
‘I didn’t call you.’
‘But my phone is showing your number.’
‘I don’t understand that — I didn’t call you.’
‘And I’m not mistaken.’
She was breathing heavily, as if she had just run a long way uphill.
‘I’ll call you back,’ she said. ‘I need to check this out.’
I sat down to wait; she rang me after ten minutes.
‘I didn’t call you,’ she said yet again. ‘I must have accidentally pressed a button when the phone was in my pocket.’