“I’ll be back in a while,” she said.
Then she went out and closed the door.
Everything went very silent in the drawing room.
Gerlof stood still for a few moments, then went over to a chair by the wall. It was several yards away from Martin, but Gerlof knew he hadn’t the strength to drag it over to Martin, so he sat down on it where it was.
“There we are, then,” he said. “We can have a little chat now.”
Malm was still staring at him.
Gerlof noticed that the drawing room was free of maritime reminders, in contrast to the hallway and his own room at the home in Marnäs. There were no pictures of ships here, no framed charts, no old compasses.
“Don’t you miss the sea, Martin?” he asked. “I do. Even on a windy day like this, when you shouldn’t go out. But I’ve still got this...” He held up his briefcase. “I used to have all my papers in here when I was out at sea, and it’s still more or less in one piece. And I wanted to show you something...”
He opened the briefcase and took out the memoir about Malm Freight, then went on:
“You’ll recognize this, I’m sure. I’ve often looked at it and learned a lot about all your ships and your adventures at sea, Martin. But there’s a photograph here which is particularly interesting.”
He opened the book at the page with the photograph from Ramneby.
“This one,” he went on. “It’s from the end of the fifties, isn’t it? Before you bought your first Atlantic ship.”
He looked up at Martin Malm and saw that he had managed to capture the old shipowner’s attention. Malm was staring at the picture, and Gerlof could see his right hand twitching, as if he wanted to raise it and point at the picture.
“Do you recognize yourself?” he asked. “I’m sure you do. And the ship? That’s Amelia, isn’t it? She used to lie beside my Wavebreaker at the quay here in Borgholm.”
Martin Malm was staring at the picture without speaking. He was breathing heavily, as if there weren’t enough air in the room.
“Do you remember where it was taken, this picture? I mostly took engine oil to Oskarshamn when I was sailing around Småland, but this is further south, isn’t it?”
Martin didn’t reply, but he still hadn’t taken his eyes off the old photograph Gerlof was holding up. The row of men on the jetty stared back at him, and Gerlof noticed that Martin’s chin had begun to tremble uncontrollably again.
“It’s Ramneby sawmill, isn’t it? There’s no caption, but Ernst Adolfsson recognized the place. When this picture was taken, it was still possible to make a living sailing just one cargo ship. Just about, anyway...” Gerlof pointed at the picture again. “And this is the owner of the sawmill himself, August Kant. The brother of Vera Kant in Stenvik. You knew August pretty well, didn’t you? You two did quite a bit of business together.”
Martin tried to get out of the wheelchair to move closer to Gerlof. At least that’s how it seemed; his shoulders were twitching and he was panting, his legs tensing against the footplates of the wheelchair. He was still staring at the photograph, and he opened his mouth.
“Frr-shoff,” he said in a thick voice.
“Sorry?” said Gerlof. “What did you say, Martin?”
“Frr-shoff,” said Martin again.
Gerlof looked at him in confusion, and lowered the book with the picture from the sawmill. What had Martin said? Free something, it sounded like.
Or had he perhaps said a name — Fridolf?
Or Fritiof?
Puerto Limón, July 1963
Nils waits anxiously for over an hour in the darkness beneath the palm trees with his back to the beach. The mosquitoes are swarming around him. He waves them away and thinks of Öland, what it was like to wander over the alvar, free and without a care in the world. At the same time he is constantly listening, but nothing is to be heard from the beach down below.
Finally someone approaches in the sand behind him.
“That took a while, but he’s sleeping now,” says Fritiof.
“Good.”
Nils goes back down to the beach with Fritiof. Borrachon the Swede is slumped by the glowing fire like a sack of coal, his head sagging, his hand on the last wine bottle.
“Good, you can get going now,” says Fritiof.
“Me?”
“Yes, you.” Fritiof stares at him. “It’s been hard enough for me keeping this drunken lout awake for the whole journey. You can take over now.”
Nils looks down at Borrachon, but doesn’t move.
“He’s worthless, Nils,” says Fritiof. “He’s valuable only to us.”
Nils still doesn’t move.
“Do you think you’ll go to hell for this?” asks Fritiof.
Nils shakes his head.
“You won’t,” says Fritiof. “You’ll be able to go home.”
“It’s here,” says Nils.
“What is?”
“Hell,” says Nils. “Hell is here.”
“Good.” Fritiof nods. “Then it’s time for you to leave it.”
Nils nods wearily, then he bends down and grabs hold of Borrachon’s arms. The man mumbles in his sleep, but offers no resistance. Nils drags him off through the sand, away from the fire, and down toward the dark sea.
“Look out for sharks,” warns Fritiof behind him.
The water is lukewarm and the waves broad but powerless. Nils backs right out into the Caribbean, dragging Borrachon’s body with him.
Suddenly it moves. Borrachon coughs as the foam swirls over his face, and he begins to struggle. Nils grits his teeth, moves back a couple of yards more until the water is up to his thighs, then pushes Borrachon beneath the surface. He closes his eyes and begins to count: One, two, three...
The man flails wildly with his arms, desperately trying to get his head above water. Nils holds him firmly, thinks of Öland and keeps counting.
... forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty...
It feels as if it takes an hour before the body stops moving in the water. Nils remains where he is, rigid, holding it beneath the surface. All trace of life must be gone, nothing must remain. If he waits long enough, perhaps Borrachon won’t turn up in his dreams, as the district superintendent has done.
“Is it over?” calls Fritiof from the beach.
“Yes.”
“Well done, Nils.” Fritiof wades out into the water, bends down to Borrachon, lifts one arm, and lets it drop. “Well done.”
Nils says nothing. He stays where he is, feeling the pull of the waves, while Fritiof drags the body to the water’s edge, and suddenly he thinks of his little brother, Axel.
It was an accident, Axel, I didn’t mean it... Killing makes those who are already dead come back, stronger than ever.
Fritiof plows back up the beach, wiping his brow with his shirtsleeve. He breathes out.
“Good, that’s done,” he says, turning to Nils. “Okay, now you can tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
Nils walks slowly out of the sea and stands in front of him.
“About the treasure you hid. Where is it, Nils?”
The body of the man from Småland is lying between them on the beach. Nils senses that Fritiof has the upper hand now, but he refuses to give in.
“In that case, what’s your name, Fritiof Andersson? Your real name?”
The man in front of him doesn’t reply.
“If you take me home,” says Nils eventually, “I’ll get you the goods.”
“It’ll take a while,” says Fritiof, waving away a mosquito. “I’ll take care of everything, but it’ll take a while. One step at a time. The body has to be taken to Öland first... it has to be buried and forgotten, as far as possible. Then you can come home. You do understand that?”