‘Were there any good—’ Vendela began, but Max interrupted her; he hadn’t finished yet.
‘And nothing but a dried-up sandwich before I was due on stage, even though my contract states that they’re supposed to provide dinner. I didn’t even get a glass of wine... Bread and water, that’s what they expected me to get through an entire lecture on!’
‘But what about the audiences?’ Vendela asked. ‘Lots of people turned up, didn’t they?’
‘About three hundred each night,’ Max said quietly. ‘I’d been hoping for five hundred... none of the venues was full.’
‘But that’s still a good number,’ said Vendela, ‘and it’ll be even better when the book comes out.’
Max emptied his glass and stood up. ‘Any post?’
‘Just a few letters,’ replied Vendela, following him into the kitchen.
She looked around for Aloysius, but the dog had hardly shown himself since his master came home. Ally could tell when Max was in a bad mood.
Max picked up the pile of post and started to flick through it. ‘So what else has been happening here?’
‘Not much,’ said Vendela. ‘I planted a bit more ivy at the front, and carried on with the lilac hedge. And I’ve planted three robinias at the back.’
‘Good, they’ll provide a good screen in time.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
Max picked up a note from the worktop. ‘What’s this?’
Vendela saw that he was holding up the note from Per Mörner.
‘Thanks a lot for the stone!... Per.’ Max read out. ‘What stone? And who’s Per?’
She stared back, not knowing what to say.
‘It’s from our neighbour,’ she said eventually. ‘You know, Per Mörner. His daughter had lost her lucky stone. I helped them to find it.’
‘Oh? So where was it, then?’
‘Outside their cottage,’ said Vendela, unable to look Max in the eye.
It was a lie, but she couldn’t tell him the truth; she couldn’t tell him she had asked the elves for help.
‘So you’ve been meeting our neighbour,’ said Max. ‘Is that why you haven’t been answering the phone?’
Vendela blinked and didn’t answer. What could she say?
‘So what did you and Per do when you met up?’
‘Nothing... not much,’ Vendela said quickly. ‘But he likes exercise, so we went out for a bit of a run. Up the coast.’
‘I see,’ Max said calmly and slowly. ‘So you’ve been exercising together.’
‘That’s right.’
She clamped her teeth together to stop herself from laughing nervously.
44
Jerry and his granddaughter Nilla were both in Kalmar hospital now, but on different wards. Per spent all weekend shuttling between his father and daughter, sitting by their beds.
His steps were heavy as he made the journey — and each time he had to pass the maternity unit, with parents-to-be and new parents constantly coming and going. When they opened the door, the sound of bright voices and cheerful shouts from small children who had just become big brothers or sisters came pouring out, mingled with the thin cries of newborn babies.
Per hurried past as quickly as possible.
Nilla’s ward was unbearably quiet. The nurses moved silently along the corridors and spoke to each other in muted voices.
Before Dr Stenhammar left for the weekend he had given Per and Marika a time and date for Nilla’s operation: ten o’clock in the morning on 1 May. He was being optimistic; so far no vascular surgeon had agreed to carry out the operation.
Almost two weeks to go, Per thought. Plenty of time.
The blinds were drawn in her room. She was lying in bed with her lucky stone and her earphones.
He sat next to her, holding her hand. They talked quietly.
‘They said they’d find someone,’ she said. ‘So I’m sure they will.’
‘Of course they will,’ said Per. ‘And everything will work out fine... You’ll be home soon.’
His smile felt stiff, but he hoped it looked reassuring.
‘I’d better go and see Granddad,’ he said.
‘Say hello from me.’
She was more sympathetic than her mother. Since Per had cut Marika off when she called his mobile, she had hardly spoken to him. They had met just once, in the doorway of Nilla’s room on Saturday, but she had barely glanced at him.
‘Shame about Gerhard,’ she said as she walked past. ‘Hope he’s OK.’
Do you really? Per directed the thought at her back as she went in to see Nilla, and the next moment felt thoroughly ashamed of himself.
Jerry didn’t wake up.
His room was small, and the closed blinds transformed the sunshine outside into small glowing dots. Per sat in the darkness beside him during Saturday and Sunday, long hours when very little happened. The nurses came and went, changing his drip. They looked at him, patted his hand, and went out again.
Jerry had been sent for X-rays and put in plaster on Friday evening; half his face and his right arm and leg were covered in bandages. Those parts of his face that were visible were bruised and battered, but Per knew that the most serious bleeds were in the brain.
He had been moved from the emergency department to intensive care, and then to his own room off a ward. This could have been interpreted as a positive sign, but in fact the opposite was true, as a nurse made clear to Per.
‘Just don’t expect any miracles,’ was all she said.
Jerry had been moved to a room of his own because there wasn’t much they could do. He lay in a torpor, muttering to himself and opening his eyes occasionally. He was asleep for most of the time.
Per sat by the bed, remembering that Jerry had failed to turn up when his mother Anita lay dying of kidney failure ten years earlier. He hadn’t even phoned. Three days before her death he had sent a Get Well Soon card by post. Per had thrown it away without showing it to her.
Then he tried to remember when he had been closest to his father during the almost fifty years they had known one another. As a child? No. And not as an adult, either. He couldn’t recall one single hour of closeness — so perhaps this was it.
I ought to say something about his life, Per thought. I ought to tell him what I think of him. Get it all off my chest and then I’ll feel better.
But he said nothing. He just waited.
When he went down to get some lunch on Saturday he saw the headline in one of the evening papers in the little shop:
So the news was out at last. Sex and violence in one headline — that was pure gold for the press. Per bought the paper, but didn’t learn anything new. It simply said that the police were investigating an arson attack on a property owned by ‘the notorious porn director Jerry Morner’, and that two bodies had been found in the house. Next to the article a black and white picture from the seventies showed a smiling Jerry holding a copy of Babylon up to the camera. It didn’t mention the fact that he was in hospital — merely that he was unavailable for comment.
Inspector Marklund turned up at the hospital at about three o’clock on Sunday afternoon, and Per met him outside the door of Jerry’s room.
‘I’m on my way back to Växjö,’ Marklund said quietly. ‘How is he? Has he said anything?’
‘He hasn’t come round yet... They think he’s suffered brain damage.’