Gerlof understood.
“But I’m the only one who knows,” he said. “Nobody else. Not John, or my daughter.”
Ljunger smiled at him, amused. “It’s very noble of you to take all the credit, Gerlof,” he said. “And I believe you.”
“Did you kill Vera Kant too, Gunnar?”
“No, no. She fell and broke her neck on the stairs, so I’ve heard. I’ve never killed anyone.”
“You killed Ernst Adolfsson.”
“No,” said Ljunger. “We had a discussion, Ernst and I. It turned into a minor quarrel.”
“He threw one of his sculptures down into the quarry during the quarrel, didn’t he?”
“He did, yes. And then I gave him a little push and he fell and pulled one of the big stone sculptures down with him. It was an accident, just as the police assumed.”
“You killed Nils Kant,” said Gerlof.
“No.”
“Then Martin did,” said Gerlof. “And Jens? Which of you killed my poor Jens?”
Ljunger wasn’t smiling any longer. He looked at his watch.
“Did Jens bump into you out on the alvar?” Gerlof went on in a louder voice. “Why didn’t you let my grandson live? He was five years old... he was no threat to you.”
“Let’s leave this depressing topic, Gerlof. I have to go now, anyway.”
And it was no doubt true — Gunnar Ljunger had a packed schedule. Killing Gerlof was just one item on his agenda for the day.
Gerlof closed his eyes against the cold and the rain. He wouldn’t be able to stay on his feet much longer. But he had no intention of falling to his knees in front of Gunnar Ljunger, that was beneath his dignity.
“I know where the gemstones are,” he said.
He took one step back toward the car, leaning on his cane. If he got close enough, he might be able to whack it with his cane and put a serious dent in the shiny bodywork.
“The gemstones?”
Ljunger was staring sharply at him, his hand resting on the door handle.
“The soldiers’ spoils of war. I’ve got them and I’ve hidden them. Help me into the car and we’ll go and get them.”
Ljunger merely shook his head, smiling once more.
“Thanks for the offer,” he said. “I asked Nils about them several times, but actually it was mainly Martin who wanted the stones, not me. There isn’t even any guarantee they’re worth anything. For me, Vera’s land was enough... One mustn’t be too greedy.”
And with that he quickly opened the door and got in.
The car engine didn’t even roar, it simply hummed into life, expensive and perfectly tuned.
Ljunger put the Jaguar into reverse and the car glided slowly backward along the gravel track, just as Gerlof managed to take the final step forward and raise his cane.
Too late. Christ!
Gerlof stood there alone on the meadow, helpless. He slowly lowered his cane and watched the car, and with it his overcoat, disappear out of reach.
Ljunger was sitting comfortably at the wheel, not even looking at Gerlof; he’d twisted his head so that he could reverse rapidly along the track. Up by the ridge where the railway line had been, he swung the car around and headed off.
Still further away, almost at the main road, the Jaguar stopped briefly. Gerlof narrowed his eyes against the icy rain and saw Ljunger open the door and hurl out his briefcase, then his overcoat. Then he closed the door and drove off. The sound of the engine died away.
Gerlof remained where he was, with his back to the rain. The bitter wind whistled in his ears.
He was thoroughly soaked and frozen, and would never be able to make it back up to the main road, or to Marnäs. And Ljunger knew that perfectly well.
He lifted one foot and moved his unsteady body in a semicircle, turning himself around with small, wobbly steps. The shoreline was gray and desolate.
The old garden Ljunger had pointed out was perhaps fifty yards away. He might just be able to make it that far, and then the stone wall would give him at least some protection from the wind.
“Go on, then, do it,” he muttered to himself.
Gerlof began to move. One step at a time, with the cane as a trusty support each time his own legs betrayed him. He held his free arm across his wet shirtfront, as a feeble shield against the wind.
The gravel track beneath his feet was hard and firm, built from crushed limestone many years ago. Gunnar Ljunger’s car had left no trace on it, and if there were tire tracks further back in the muddy puddles on the road, the rain would soon obliterate them. It was as if Ljunger had never been there, as if Gerlof had come here under his own steam.
“The police do not suspect any crime.” That’s what it would no doubt say at the end of the item in Ölands-Posten when they found him frozen to death out here.
The sky above him darkened.
One step at a time. Gerlof raised a trembling hand and wiped cold drops of rain from his forehead.
As he slowly got closer to the shore, he could hear the waves more and more clearly, splashing rhythmically onto a narrow strip of sand below the meadow. Further out, above the open water, a solitary seagull hovered in the wind. It wasn’t the only sign of life, because several nautical miles out to sea Gerlof could make out the blurred gray silhouette of a big cargo ship on its way north. But he could have waved and yelled at the ship for all he was worth — nobody would have seen or heard him.
He’d never been to this little meadow by the shore before, at least not that he remembered. Gerlof longed suddenly for Stenvik’s steep coastline, barren and beautiful. Here on the east coast of Öland, the landscape was too flat and overgrown for him.
The gravel track suddenly came to an end, and a narrow path continued through the grass. Nobody had walked there for quite some time, because the grass was tall and difficult to move through, at least for Gerlof, who could hardly lift his feet. From time to time a particularly strong gust of wind slammed in off the sea, making him stagger and almost fall. But he kept on going, one step at a time, and at long last he reached the apple tree. That distance of just a few yards had taken almost all his strength.
It was a miserable tree, spindly and twisted by the harsh winds from the sea. The branches didn’t have a single leaf left on them, and offered no protection, but Gerlof could at least lean back against the rough trunk and catch his breath for a while.
He felt in his right trouser pocket. There was something hard in there, and he took it out.
It was Gunnar Ljunger’s black cell phone.
Gerlof remembered. He’d picked up the little phone from the space between the seats when Ljunger had got out and was walking around the car. Just before Ljunger dragged him out of the car, he’d managed to slip it into his pocket.
But stealing the phone was no help, because Gerlof had absolutely no idea of how to make a call. He tried keying in some numbers — John Hagman’s number — but nothing happened. The cell phone was dead.
Slowly he put it back in his pocket.
Should he be grateful for the fact that Gunnar Ljunger had allowed him to keep his shoes? Without them he wouldn’t have been able to move at all.
No, he wasn’t grateful. He hated Ljunger.
Land and money — that was what this whole thing was about. Martin Malm had got money for new ships. And Gunnar Ljunger had got lots of land around Långvik to rape and exploit.
Vera Kant had been lied to for years and years, just like Nils.
And so had Gerlof, of course.
Gerlof now knew more or less everything about what had happened; that had been his goal all along, but it was no longer enough. He wanted to tell other people, to tell John and the police. Most of all, he wanted to tell Julia.