The Quarry (31 page)

Per turned and was out of the police station in three strides.

He stood on the pavement looking around, blinking in the sunshine. A few cars went whizzing by along the street to his right, but there wasn’t a soul in sight.

Jerry had disappeared.

Kalmar was a labyrinth. Per had always thought it was just the right size, and easy enough to find your way around, but right now the town seemed like a confusing tangle of streets and pavements.

There was no sign of Jerry anywhere.

Per dashed over to the wide junctions at either side of the police station, then ran all the way around the block, but there was nothing. He switched on his mobile and tried to call Jerry. No reply.

After that he gave up and went back to reception. Lars Marklund was waiting just inside the door. He looked at his watch and asked, ‘Is there a problem?’

‘My father’s disappeared,’ said Per, his heart in his mouth. ‘I need to drive around and look for him.’

He turned away, but Marklund called after him, ‘Hang on! You can’t just go rushing off … Let’s have a description.’

Per stopped and came back, forcing himself to calm down.

Marklund took out a notebook and together they ran through Jerry’s appearance, height, and what he was wearing.

‘Good,’ said Marklund. ‘We’ll put out a call.’

Per hurried to the car. He started the engine, but didn’t set off. He clutched the wheel like a lifebuoy and tried to think – where could Jerry go? To a bar? To the bus station?

It was pointless, he would just have to search at random.

He pulled away and started to search, block by block. He turned left, then left again, scanning the streets around the police station. He met several cars and saw groups of schoolchildren on their way home, and mothers with buggies, but there was no sign of Jerry.

He was heading north towards the motorway when his phone began to ring in his pocket. He slowed down and got it out. ‘Hello?’

‘Where have you been, Per? I’ve been calling you for ages.’

It was Marika. Per could feel his guilty conscience like a weight on his shoulders, but he kept on staring through the windscreen. ‘With … I’ve been in a meeting.’

He still didn’t want to tell her he’d been interviewed by the police, and Marika didn’t ask any more questions. ‘You have to come to the hospital,’ she said.

‘I haven’t got time right now, Marika,’ said Per, gazing around. Still no Jerry. ‘I’ll be there in a little while, but at the moment I have to—’

She interrupted him. ‘I’ve been talking to Stenhammar.’

‘Stenhammar?’

‘Nilla’s doctor, Per. Don’t you remember?’

‘Yes, of course … What did he say?’

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

‘What is it, Marika?’

‘It’s a tumour,’ she said quietly. ‘A particular kind of tumour … It isn’t growing quickly, but it has to be removed.’

Per slowed down and closed his eyes briefly. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘But we knew that, didn’t we?’

Marika’s voice was still quiet. ‘It’s right next to the artery.’

Per didn’t understand. ‘Next to the artery?’

‘Yes. It’s wrapped itself around the main artery. The aorta.’

‘What does that mean?’

Marika fell silent again, then spoke even more quietly. ‘Nobody’s prepared to operate.’

‘But … they have to,’ said Per.

Marika didn’t reply.

‘They
have
to,’ said Per.

‘Georg and I spent half an hour with Stenhammar. He’s spoken to several vascular surgeons, but he says none of them is prepared to risk it.’

But they have to
, thought Per.
Otherwise there’s no hope
.

‘Marika, I’m out in the car, there’s something I have to do for Jerry … But I’ll call you back soon.’

She started to say something, but he switched off the phone. He put his foot down. He had to find Jerry. He’d think about all the other stuff later, but first he had to find Jerry.

No hope for Nilla
, he thought.
But there has to be hope
.

He gazed blankly out through the windscreen. Nilla …

But they have to operate, they just have to!

He was on his way out of the town now. He passed a petrol station, followed by a grassy area on both sides of the road, with a viaduct crossing over it. There were fewer cars here.

He had almost reached the motorway. Best turn back.

Per looked up at the viaduct, a hundred metres away, and on the other side of the barrier he saw a dark-coloured car. It had stopped on the carriageway. The passenger door opened, and someone got out.

An old man in a grey coat, stooping. Per suddenly realized it was Jerry.

The car started to reverse; Jerry stood still. He seemed to be looking around, lost and confused. Then he started shambling forwards.

Per braked and stopped the car; he’d found Jerry, but couldn’t get to him. He was on the wrong carriageway. How could he get up on to the viaduct? The area was completely unfamiliar to him.

In the end he started to reverse. He was just about to do a U-turn and take the entry slip for the motorway, in defiance of the traffic regulations, when he saw that the car that had dropped Jerry off had stopped reversing. It was moving forwards instead.

Per realized it was picking up speed. It was a red car, he could see now – possibly a Ford Escort. Was it the car from the quarry? The driver was wearing a cap, and was nothing more than a dark shadow behind the wheel.

The car was coming up behind Jerry on the viaduct, but instead of slowing down and sticking to the middle of the road, it was speeding up.

Per was a hundred and fifty metres away, perhaps two hundred. He stopped the car, opened the door and yelled: ‘Jerry!’

But Jerry kept on walking, his head lowered against the wind.

Per got out of the car and cupped his hands: ‘Dad!’

Jerry seemed to hear him. He turned his head, but by that time the car behind him was no more than ten metres away. It didn’t stop. On the contrary, the driver put his foot down.

Jerry looked like a rag doll as the car hit him.

The front of the car knocked his legs from underneath him and lifted him off the ground. Per could only watch as Jerry’s body flew up over the bonnet and was thrown forwards like a blurred shadow, his arms outstretched and his coat flapping.

His father spun around in the air and landed heavily.

‘Jerry!’

The car had slowed down after the collision; Per could see that the windscreen was cracked.

He left the door of the Saab open and started to run up the slope, up towards the viaduct. His shoes slithered and skidded on the grass.

Jerry slowly raised his head from the tarmac. He was bleeding, but still conscious. Then his head sank down again.

The car that had mown him down stopped by the side of the road ten or twelve metres ahead of him; Per saw the driver turn his head and look back, then the car sped away. Faster and faster.

It was a hit-and-run.

Per slipped again on the grass. He battled his way up the slope and fumbled in his pocket for his mobile – then remembered he’d left it in the car.

He jumped over the barrier and landed two metres away from Jerry, just as the car that had hit him joined the motorway.

Per bent over the body on the tarmac. ‘Jerry?’

So much blood. It was pouring from his nose and forehead, running between his broken teeth.

‘Dad?’

His father’s eyes were open, but his whole face was scraped raw, and there was no response. Per looked around in despair for someone who might help him.

The red car accelerated south and disappeared up the motorway. The last thing Per saw was water spurting over the windscreen.

‘That was just the pits,’ said Max. ‘It was absolutely terrible.’

‘Don’t think about it,’ said Vendela.

After she had settled Max in an armchair and poured him a whisky, she began to massage his neck and shoulders. She leaned forward and said quietly, ‘Max, there are those who are worse off than you.’

He took a slug of his whisky, closed his eyes and sighed. ‘Yes, but there was the same level of incompetence wherever I went … Wrong directions, hotel rooms with hairs in the bath – and then the local radio station that had forgotten they’d booked me for an interview. They’d
forgotten
!’ He shook his head. ‘And every time I walked on to a new stage, there was a bloody spotlight shining straight into my eyes. I couldn’t even
see
the audience!’

‘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.

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.