To the left of the doorway stood a lacquered veneer chest of drawers, a reproduction of a piece by Georg Haupt, and that was anything but untouched. Per remembered it from his childhood; it had three drawers which were always locked — but they were open now.
Broken open. Someone had taken a screwdriver or chisel and hacked their way through the wood surrounding the black keyholes, then ripped out the locks. The papers and documents Jerry had kept in the drawers had been pulled out and strewn across the floor.
The bedroom was beyond the living room. The blinds were drawn; it was as dark and silent as the rest of the apartment. A painting of a naked woman with enormous rounded breasts hung above Jerry’s water bed.
Per took three steps towards the doorway and listened again. He could see that the bed was unmade, with the duvet and pillows in a heap. But there was nobody in it.
The apartment was empty.
He turned and went slowly back downstairs.
Out on the street cars and buses were passing by, and an elderly man and woman were walking along arm in arm just a short distance away. Life was carrying on as normal, and Per tried to calm down. He went over to the car and opened the passenger door. His father looked at him. ‘Prince, Pelle?’
Per shook his head. He stood by the car, staring over at the door of Jerry’s apartment block. It remained closed.
‘Jerry, when you left for Ryd last weekend, did you close the front door of your apartment?’
Jerry coughed and nodded.
‘You closed it and locked it — are you quite sure?’
Jerry nodded firmly, but Per knew he had forgotten things before. Since the stroke it was almost routine that everything he had said and done the previous day was completely forgotten.
‘The door was open when I went in, and a chest of drawers has been damaged... I think you’ve had a break-in. Unless you did it yourself?’
Jerry sat in silence, his head bowed.
Per had to make a decision. ‘OK... let’s go back up and see if anything’s been stolen. Then we’d better contact the police.’
He leaned down and helped his father out of the car. ‘Jerry,’ he said, ‘did anyone else have a key to your apartment?’
Jerry got to his feet unsteadily and appeared to consider the question before replying with a single word. ‘Bremer.’
35
Per reported the break-in to the police in Kristianstad, even though Jerry was unable to determine whether anything had actually been stolen from the chest of drawers or not.
‘Jerry, what’s missing?’ he’d asked several times. ‘What have they taken?’
But Jerry had simply stood there looking at the piles of documents, as if he no longer remembered what they were. When Per leafed through the papers that had been left behind they seemed to consist mostly of old rent bills and bank statements.
So where was everything else? Surely there ought to be contracts for all the models Jerry and Bremer had filmed over the years? Signed agreements where the young women certified that they weren’t too young, and that they were doing this of their own free will?
He couldn’t find anything like that, and looked at his father. ‘Do you remember what you kept here, Jerry? Was it anything important?’
‘Papers.’
‘Important papers?’
‘Doc—’ Jerry stopped; the word was too difficult.
‘Documents? From Morner Art?’
‘Morner Art?’ Jerry seemed to have forgotten the name of his company.
When Per called the police, all he could do was give them vague information about the break-in. They noted it down, but didn’t come out to investigate.
‘It’s a bank holiday,’ said the police officer. ‘We have to prioritize emergencies. But thank you for reporting it; we’ll keep our eyes open.’
At about nine o’clock, Per rang Nilla at the hospital to say goodnight.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Not too bad.’ Her voice was quiet but audible. ‘A bit better than yesterday... I’m still on a drip, and I’ve had loads of injections.’
‘Good,’ Per said quickly. ‘And I’ve found your lucky stone.’
‘Have you? Where was it?’
‘On your bed,’ said Per, without going into detail. ‘I’ll bring it next time I come to see you. Any news?’
‘No... except there are a couple of new people on the ward,’ said Nilla. ‘There’s a boy called Emil.’
Her voice suddenly sounded more cheerful when she said his name, so Per asked, ‘Is he the same age as you?’
‘Nearly. He’s fifteen.’
‘Good. Ask him if he wants to play Ludo.’
Nilla laughed and changed the subject. ‘Did you get my thought message tonight? At eight o’clock?’
‘I think so... there were lots of pictures in my head, anyway.’
‘So what was I thinking about, then? What did you see?’
Per looked out at the sky above the town and took a chance. ‘Clouds?’
‘No.’
‘A sunset?’
‘No.’
‘Were you thinking about your friends?’
‘No, I was thinking about bats.’
‘Bats? Why?’
‘They fly around outside the hospital in the evenings,’ said Nilla. ‘They flap across the sky like black rags.’
‘Don’t you watch the birds any more?’
‘Yes, during the day. But at night when I can’t get to sleep, I watch the bats.’
Per promised to come and visit her the next day, and they said goodbye.
It was a bit late to set off home by that stage, and Per’s cottage was empty in any case, so he stayed over with Jerry.
Before he went to bed he fastened the security chain on the front door.
Staying overnight in the apartment in Kristianstad felt strange, but he had slept on the long leather sofa as a teenager, when Jerry was living in Malmö. As he settled down on it, the memories came flooding back.
His mother had often given him a talking-to before he went to stay with Jerry: ‘If he’s got some woman there you don’t have to stay over, you can come home... or I’ll come and fetch you. You don’t have to put up with that sort of thing.’
‘No, Mum.’
But of course his father had had a woman staying from time to time. Several, in fact. Per had often wondered if he had any undiscovered half-siblings somewhere in southern Sweden; it wouldn’t have surprised him.
The door to Jerry’s bedroom had been closed, but as Per lay on the sofa he had been able to hear his father and the women, of course. By that time he was a teenager and less innocent than when he met Regina, and he knew what Jerry did, but the nights were still a torment.
It doesn’t matter, Per had thought. Love isn’t important.
And now? Now he was thinking about Nilla and Jesper. And for a brief moment he actually saw Vendela Larsson’s big eyes in the darkness before him.
Then he fell asleep.
When he woke up it was Monday morning — Easter Monday.
There was no glamour in Jerry’s kitchen. The table was covered in brown grease marks. Dirty cups and plates were piled up on the draining board, and there was nothing but coffee and crispbread for breakfast. And Jerry’s cigarettes, of course.
Per topped up his father’s coffee cup and said, ‘I’ll be off soon, Jerry. I need to get back to Jesper and Nilla.’
Jerry looked up.
‘But not you,’ said Per. ‘You’re staying here. You’ll be all right here, won’t you?’