Nils knows perfectly well where Ramneby is; he’s been there several times while he was growing up, and his last visit was the previous summer. He doesn’t need to go into the village or around it, because the sawmill his Uncle August owns and runs lies to the south of the community.
He can hear the sound of whining saws from far away as he approaches, and soon he can smell the familiar aroma of newly sawn timber mixing with the seaweed from the waters of the Baltic.
Nils creeps cautiously out of the forest in the shelter of a big barn filled with planks of wood. He’s visited the place a few times, but isn’t sure how to get to the office. And he couldn’t show himself in the open anyway. A few hundred yards to the south of the sawmill is Uncle August’s wooden house, but Nils daren’t go there either. There are children there, chauffeurs, servants — people who might tell the police if they see him. He is forced to wait by the barn, concealed by a dense lilac bush whose heavily scented flowers attract countless insects.
Nils’s watch stopped when he was swimming across the sound, but he’s sure that at least half an hour passes before the first people come into view. Three workers from the mill pass the barn laughing, without even glancing in his direction.
He waits.
A few minutes later another person comes plodding along. It’s a boy, maybe thirteen or fourteen years old, but almost as tall as Nils. He has a thick cap pulled down over his forehead, and his hands are thrust deep into the pockets of his oil-stained trousers.
“Hey!” calls Nils from behind the bush.
He calls out quietly, and the boy doesn’t react. He keeps on walking.
“You! With the cap!”
The boy stops. He looks around suspiciously, and Nils cautiously stands and waves to him. “Over here.”
The boy changes course and takes a few steps toward the bush. He stands there staring at Nils, without saying a word.
“Do you work here at the sawmill?” asks Nils.
The boy nods proudly. “It’s my first summer.”
His voice very nearly cracks, and he speaks with the Småland dialect.
“Good,” says Nils. He is making a real effort to sound calm and friendly. “I need some help. I want you to fetch August Kant. I need to talk to him.”
“The boss?” asks the boy in surprise.
“August Kant, the boss, that’s right,” says Nils. He holds the boy’s gaze and extends his hand to show that he is holding a whole one-krona coin between his fingers. “Tell him Nils is here. Go to the office and tell the boss he has to come.”
The errand boy nods, without any reaction to the name Nils, and quickly grabs the coin. Then he turns away, without any great hurry. He pushes the coin deep into his pocket.
Nils breathes out and settles back down behind the bush. That’s it, everything will be all right now. His uncle will look after him, hide him until everything has calmed down. No doubt he’ll have to stay out of the way here in Småland for the rest of the summer, but he’ll just have to put up with that.
He has to wait again, for far too long. At last he hears steps approaching the barn. Nils raises his head, smiling, and takes a step forward — but it isn’t his Uncle August. It’s just the boy with the cap again.
Nils looks at him. “Wasn’t he in the office... the boss?” he asks.
“Yes.” The boy nods. “But he doesn’t want to come.”
“Doesn’t want to?” says Nils uncomprehendingly.
“I’m to give you this,” says the boy.
He is holding a small white envelope in his hand.
Nils takes it, turns his back on the boy, then opens it.
There is no letter in the envelope, just three bills. Three one-hundred-krona bills, folded up.
Nils closes the envelope and spins around.
“Was that all?” he asks.
The boy nods.
“The boss didn’t say anything... He didn’t send a message?”
The boy shakes his head. “Just the letter.”
Nils lowers his eyes and stares at the bills.
Money, that’s all he got. Money to get away, and it’s a very clear message.
His uncle doesn’t want anything to do with him.
He sighs and looks up again, but the boy is gone. Nils catches a glimpse of him as he disappears around the corner of the barn.
Nils is alone again. He’ll have to manage on his own.
So he has to get away. Where to?
Away from the coast, first and foremost. After that, something will turn up.
Nils looks around. The insects are humming, the scent of lilac fills the air. Everything is green, the dark rich green of summer. To the northeast he can see a little strip of blue water.
He will come back. They might be able to chase him away right now, but he will return. Öland is his island.
Nils looks at the water for one last time, then turns and strides back into the safety of the fir trees in the forest.
16
A broad path made of large limestone slabs led up to Martin Malm’s big white house; Julia looked at the building and thought of Vera Kant’s house in Stenvik. It was about the same size, but of course this one had been painted and was well looked after, and somebody lived here. But who lit a candle in Vera Kant’s house late at night? Julia couldn’t stop wondering — had she really seen the light at the window?
She held on to Gerlof’s arm as they opened the heavy iron gate and made their way over the rough stones. Maybe he was supporting her as much as she was supporting him, thought Julia, because she was feeling nervous now.
For her, this was a meeting with Jens’s murderer. If Martin Malm had definitely sent the sandal, then he must be the murderer — whatever reservations Gerlof might have.
The path stopped at steps leading up to a broad mahogany door with an iron nameplate that said MALM. In the middle of the door beneath a small stained glass window was a bell, shaped like a little key.
Gerlof looked at Julia. “Ready?”
Julia nodded, and reached out toward the bell.
“Just one more thing,” said Gerlof. “Martin had a brain hemorrhage quite a few years ago. He has good days and less good days, more or less like I do. If this is a good day, we can talk to him. If not...”
“Okay,” said Julia, her heart pounding.
She twisted the bell and a muted but prolonged ringing could be heard from inside the house.
A shadow appeared behind the glass panel after a moment, and the door opened.
A young woman was standing in front of them. She was small and blonde and slightly wary.
“Hello,” she said.
“Good afternoon,” said Gerlof. “Is Martin home?”
“Yes,” said the girl, “but I don’t think he—”
“We’re good friends,” said Gerlof quickly. “My name’s Gerlof Davidsson. From Stenvik. And this is my daughter. We wanted to call on Martin.”
“Okay,” said the girl. “I’ll check.”
“Could we come into the warmth in the meantime?” asked Gerlof.
“Of course.”
The girl stepped back.
Julia helped Gerlof over the threshold and across the marble floor of the hallway. It was spacious, with dark wooden panels on the wall, showing off framed photographs of old and modern ships. Three doors led off into the house, and a wide staircase led to the upper floor.
“Are you a relative of Martin’s?” asked Gerlof when they had closed the front door behind them.
“I’m a nurse from Kalmar,” the girl said, shaking her head and walking toward the middle door.