The man whom Nils has begun to think of as the Ölander. He has never said where he’s from, but Nils has listened carefully, and thinks he can detect a faint Öland accent when the man speaks. He has realized the man knows the island well. Did Nils meet him there?
“Come in, come in.” The Swede smiles and leans back against the wall, nodding toward a bottle of West Indian rum on the bureau. “Drink, Nils?”
“No.”
Nils closes the door behind him. He’s given up drinking alcohol. Not completely, but almost.
“Limón is a wonderful town, Nils,” says the man on the bed, and Nils can hear no hint of sarcasm in his voice. “I was out for a stroll today and I found a genuine brothel, purely by chance, hidden in some rooms behind a bar. Wonderful women. But of course I didn’t indulge, to put it politely... I had a drink and left.”
Nils nods briefly and leans against the closed door. “I’ve found somebody,” he says. “A good candidate.” He still feels uncomfortable speaking Swedish out loud after eighteen years abroad. He fumbles for the right words. “He’s from Småland too.”
“Good, that’s good,” says the Swede. “Where? In Panama City?”
Nils nods. “I brought him with me... The border controls have got stricter, I had to bribe my way through, but it went okay. He’s in San José now, in a cheap hotel. He’s lost his passport, but we applied for a new one at the Swedish Embassy.”
“Good, good. What’s his name?”
Nils shakes his head. “No names,” he says. “You haven’t told me yours.”
“All you have to do is look it up downstairs,” says the man on the bed. “I signed the register. You have to do that.”
“I’ve read it,” says Nils.
“And?”
“It said Fritiof Andersson,” says Nils.
The man nods with satisfaction. “You can call me Fritiof, that’ll be fine.”
Nils shakes his head. “That’s just a name from an old song about a sailor — I want to know your real name.”
“My name isn’t important,” says the man, staring at him. “Fritiof will do very well. Don’t you think?”
“Maybe.” Nils nods slowly. “For the time being.”
“Good.” Fritiof wipes his chest and forehead with a sheet. “Now, we’ve got a few more things to talk about. I’m going to—”
“Did my mother really send you?”
“I’ve already told you that.”
The man on the bed doesn’t appear to appreciate being interrupted.
“She should have sent a letter with you,” says Nils.
“That’ll come later,” says Fritiof. “You got money, didn’t you? That was from your mother.” He takes a swig of his drink. “But right now we have other things to discuss... I’m going back home in two days. You won’t hear from me for a while. But I’ll be back when everything’s ready, and that’ll be the last time. How long will it take, do you think?”
“Well... a couple of weeks, maybe. He has to get his passport and travel down here,” says Nils.
“Fine,” says Fritiof. “Keep an eye on him and do everything by the book. Then you’ll be able to go home.”
Nils nods.
“Fine,” says Fritiof, wiping his face again.
Someone laughs down on the street, a motorbike roars past. All Nils wants to do is open the door and get out of this stinking room.
“How does it feel, by the way?” asks the man, leaning forward.
“How does what feel?” says Nils.
“I’m a little curious.” The man who calls himself Fritiof Andersson is smiling among the filthy sheets. “I’m just wondering, Nils, purely out of curiosity... How does it feel to kill someone?”
24
Gerlof and John drove across the Öland Bridge, past Kalmar, then north along the coast of Småland. Neither of them said much during the journey.
Gerlof was mainly thinking about the fact that it had become much more difficult to leave the home in Marnäs — Boel had questioned him closely this morning about where he was going and how long he was going to be away. In the end she had hinted that perhaps he was too healthy to stay on at the home.
“There are many elderly people with severe mobility problems in the north of Öland who would like to get a room here, Gerlof,” Boel had said. “We have to make sure we’re prioritizing correctly. All the time.”
“Quite right,” Gerlof had said, and set off, leaning on his cane for support.
Didn’t he have the right to care? When he could hardly move ten yards without help? Boel should be glad he got out into the fresh air sometimes, along with old friends like John. Shouldn’t she?
“So Anders has gone off, then,” said Gerlof eventually, when they were just a few kilometers from Ramneby.
“Yes,” said John.
He always drove at the speed limit, and a long line of cars had built up behind them.
“I assume you told Anders the police were looking for him,” said Gerlof.
John remained silent behind the wheel, but he nodded.
“I don’t know if that was such a good idea,” said Gerlof. “The police tend to get annoyed when you don’t want to talk to them.”
“He just wants to be left in peace,” said John.
“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” said Gerlof again.
“Did you speak to Robert Blomberg when you were in Borgholm last week?” John asked. “The car salesman, I mean.”
“I saw him,” said Gerlof. “He was in the showroom. We didn’t speak... I didn’t really know what to say.”
“Could he be Kant?” said John.
“If you’re asking me straight out... I’ve thought about it, and I don’t believe he could,” said Gerlof. “It seems unlikely that somebody like Nils Kant would come back from South America with a new name, and manage to blend in in Borgholm with a new life.”
“Maybe,” said John.
A few minutes later they drove past the yellow sign telling them they were entering Ramneby. It was a quarter to eleven in the morning. A flatbed truck carrying a load of newly felled timber thundered past them.
Gerlof had never been to Ramneby before, either by car or boat. The village itself was no bigger than Marnäs, and they were soon on the other side of it, turning off for the sawmill.
There was a closed steel gate at the sawmill, and a parking lot outside it where John left the car.
Gerlof took his briefcase and they walked over to the wide gate and rang the bell. After a while there was a scraping noise from a small loudspeaker next to the bell.
“Hello?” said Gerlof, unsure whether he should be talking to the bell or the loudspeaker, or perhaps to the sky. “Hello... We wanted to visit the wood museum. Could you open the gate?”
The loudspeaker remained silent.
“Did they hear you?” whispered John.
“I don’t know.”
Gerlof heard a cawing noise behind him; turning his head, he saw two crows perched in a leafless birch tree beside the parking lot. They kept cawing, and Gerlof thought they sounded different from the crows on Öland. Did birds have different accents too?
Then he noticed someone approaching on the other side of the gate, an elderly man in a cap and a black padded jacket, moving almost as slowly as Gerlof himself. The man pressed a button on the other side, and the gate swung open.
“Heimersson,” said the man, extending his hand.
Gerlof shook it. “Davidsson,” he said.
“Hagman,” said John.
“We wanted to visit the wood museum,” said Gerlof again. “I called yesterday...”
“That’s fine,” said Heimersson, turning to show them the way. “It was a good thing you did. The museum is really only open in the summer. Including August. But if you call in advance, it’s usually fine.”