It felt strange to sit and talk to a stranger after such a long time alone, but it was all right. Just as quietly as the others who had sat at the table, without giving his name, he asked for some particularly good advice. And he wanted Max to do something for him — something important. Max listened and nodded.
“Two days,” he said.
That was the time he needed to carry out the important task.
“I’ll give you twenty-five kronor,” said Nils.
“Thirty-five would be better,” the young man said quickly.
Nils thought about it. “Thirty, then.”
Max nodded and leaned forward. “We won’t meet here again,” he said, even more quietly. “We’ll meet in a park... a good park I often use.”
He told Nils where to find it, then got up and quickly left the café.
And now Nils is standing in the park, waiting. He’s been here for half an hour, walked round and checked that the park is completely empty, and found two different escape routes in case something should go wrong. He never told his new acquaintance his name, but he’s sure Max quickly realized that Nils is wanted by the police.
The young man comes straight up to him without glancing around or signaling to any unseen observers.
This doesn’t make Nils relax, but he doesn’t run away either. He stares at Max, who has stopped a yard or so in front of him.
“Celeste Horizon,” he says. “That’s your ship.”
Nils nods.
“She’s English.” Max sits down on a rock among the trees and takes out a cigarette. “But the captain is Danish, his name’s Petri. He wasn’t particularly interested in who was coming aboard, he just wanted to know about the money.”
“We can talk about that,” says Nils.
“They’re loading timber at the moment, and she sails in three days,” says Max, blowing out smoke.
“Where to?”
“East London. They’ll unload the timber there, then go on to Durban to pick up coal, then on to Santos. You can go ashore there.”
“I want to go to America,” says Nils quickly. “To the USA.”
Max shrugs his shoulders. “Santos is in Brazil, south of Rio,” he says. “Get another ship from there.”
Nils thinks about it. Santos is in South America? That might be a good starting point for more travels, before he comes back to Europe.
He nods. “Fine.”
Max gets up quickly. He reaches out his hand.
Nils places five heavy two-krona pieces on his palm. “I want to meet this Petri first,” he says. “You’ll get the rest later. You can show me where to find him.”
Max smiles. “You’re going ‘on the lump,’ as they say.”
Nils stares uncomprehendingly at him, and Max goes on:
“Men looking for work come to the docks early in the morning and wait for the day’s jobs. Some get work, some have to go back home. You’re to go down and stand with them early tomorrow morning... then you’ll be picked to join the Celeste Horizon.”
Nils nods again.
The young man quickly stuffs the coins in his pocket.
“My name’s Max Reimer,” he says. “What’s yours?”
Nils says nothing. Hasn’t he paid to avoid questions? The pulse in his neck begins to throb a little faster as his anger slowly stirs to life.
Max smiles pleasantly at him; he doesn’t appear to feel threatened.
“I think you’re from Småland,” he says, crushing his cigarette under his heel. “That’s what it sounds like when you talk.”
Nils still doesn’t say anything. He knows he can flatten Max — Max is smaller than him, and it would be easy. Knock him down and give him a good kicking. Use a heavy stone to finish him off, then hide the body in the park.
It would be very easy.
But what about afterward? Max might come back at night, just like the dead district superintendent.
“Don’t ask too many questions,” he says to Max, and starts walking away through the park, toward the docks. “You might not get your money.”
18
Lennart didn’t call.
Julia sat there waiting in the summer cottage for several hours. It got to eight-thirty on Tuesday evening, then nine o’clock, but he never rang.
By this time Julia had finished off the bottle of red wine; it wasn’t difficult. And the temptation to go inside Vera Kant’s house had become so obsessive that it didn’t actually matter whether Lennart turned up or not.
She thought about phoning Gerlof and telling him what she was intending to do, but decided against it. She couldn’t do any more packing or cleaning to make the time pass. She was restless and curious.
Darkness and silence pressed against the walls of the cottage. At a quarter to ten Julia finally stood up, slightly tipsy, but more determined than drunk.
She put an extra sweater on under her coat, and thick socks. There was an old brown woolly hat in the wardrobe by the front door; she tucked her hair inside it and glanced at herself in the hall mirror. Had the furrows of anxiety etched on her forehead smoothed out slightly since her conversation with Lennart?
Maybe — or then again, it could be the wine.
She put her cell phone in her pocket, picked up the old paraffin lamp, and switched off the light in the cottage. She was ready.
Just a quick look.
The evening had turned clear and cold, with only a faint breeze in the trees. When she came out onto the village road, the darkness closed around her instantly, but she could see glimmering points of light on the mainland.
She stopped after a few moments, listening for noises among the shadows: rustling leaves or creaking branches. But there wasn’t a sound — nothing was moving.
Stenvik was deserted. The gravel crunched faintly beneath her feet as she made her way down to Vera Kant’s house.
There she stopped again. The gate glowed pale and white in the moonlight, and it was closed as usual. Julia slowly reached out and touched the cold iron latch. It was rough with rust, and was stuck fast.
She pushed. The gate groaned slightly, but didn’t open. Perhaps the hinges had rusted up.
Julia put the paraffin lamp on the gravel, stood close to the gate with both hands on the top, and lifted it up and inward. It moved a few inches before sticking again. But now she could squeeze through the opening.
The intoxication from the wine was holding her fear of the dark at bay, but only just.
The garden was surrounded by tall trees and was full of black shadows. Julia stood still, allowing her eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. Slowly she began to discover details in this new darkness: a winding path made of limestone slabs that led further into the garden like a silent invitation, a round well lid beside the path, covered in leaves and patches of black mold, and overgrown grass everywhere. On the far side of the well stood a rectangular woodshed, the roof of which seemed to be on the very edge of collapse, like a badly erected tent.
Julia took a tentative step into the dark garden. And another. She listened, then took a third step. It was getting more and more difficult to move forward.
Her cell phone suddenly started bleeping; the ringtone made her heart jump. She hastily pulled the phone out of her coat pocket, as if it might disturb someone or something in the darkness, and pressed the reply button.
“Hello?”
“Hello... Julia?”
It was Lennart’s calm voice on the other end.
“Hi,” she said, making an effort to sound sober. “Where are you?”