The Voices Beyond: (Oland Quartet Series 4) (36 page)

‘OK.’

Kent stared at her for a long time, then he glanced down at the wooden box again. ‘I’ve seen this before.’ He pointed at the double cross burned into the bottom. ‘This is our house mark. My grandfather had one exactly the same; all three Kloss brothers had a snuff box made of apple wood. But Sigfrid’s and Gilbert’s are on a shelf in my kitchen. Edvard’s was missing – until now.’

He weighed the box in his hand and added, ‘Sigfrid, my grandfather, always carried his box with him. I assume Edvard did the same.’

‘So what does that mean?’

‘It means that Edvard Kloss had this box with him when he died. And that Aron Fredh was there, and took it.’

In the silence that followed, Lisa considered asking how Edvard had died – whether Aron Fredh had murdered him, perhaps – but she decided to say nothing.

Kloss was beginning to look quite pleased. ‘At least he’s on the run now. We’re watching the chalet, so he can’t come back there.’

‘Maybe he’ll leave the island,’ Lisa said.

Kloss didn’t reply. Lisa was relieved when he got to his feet and moved towards the door. She still remembered the slap he had delivered, and she couldn’t relax when Kent Kloss was around.

‘So we’re done?’ she said.

Kloss stopped in the doorway. ‘Not exactly.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We haven’t finished yet.’ Kloss was smiling, but the hunted look was still in his eyes. ‘Keep working,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

He walked out and shut the door behind him.

Lisa stayed where she was, feeling the walls of the caravan closing in on her. The heat was oppressive; it felt as if some kind of explosion were imminent.

There wasn’t a sound. It was quarter past ten, and the sun had gone down; a white half-moon was drifting slowly across the Sound, occasionally veiled by thin, wispy clouds. The heat along the coast had been swept away by a cool sea breeze this evening.

Jonas was lying in his little chalet, listening to voices chatting and laughing on the coast road. Boys’ voices, but deeper than his own.

It was his brother, Mats, and their cousins. They were down on the ridge with some of their friends from other houses in the village. They all had their bikes and mopeds with them; the older boys met up in different places every evening – down by the restaurant or the jetty, or up by the main road.

Jonas had given up trying to keep tabs on them. He was lying on his bed on top of his very own secret: the gun he had found in the bunker. He still hadn’t told anyone about it, not even his dad.

He didn’t know if he could trust his father.

Or whom he could trust, in fact.

The laughter outside continued. Jonas ought to get to sleep, but it was impossible. The air inside the chalet was too warm, and he felt wide awake. Eventually he sat up, reached under the mattress, felt the butt of the gun and pulled it out.

It was big and heavy. He felt as if he had grown in stature, just from holding it.

He tucked the barrel into the waistband of his trousers at the back, then pulled on his shirt. He left it loose, just like the gangsters in films did to hide their guns.

Then he went out into the night.

It was dark, but still mild in spite of the breeze. Dry summer air, with the scent of flowers and herbs.

He could see the group of boys over on the ridge, still laughing. He walked through the garden in front of Villa Kloss, picking his way among a series of marker posts that had been driven into the ground; someone was obviously planning a building project. He crossed the coast road, feeling the gun rubbing against his back with every step he took.

As he got closer, he could see that there were five boys in the group. He recognized Mats, who was sitting on his bike. His brother seemed to have grown taller since midsummer, as did Urban and Casper.

The boys fell silent as he approached.

‘It’s your kid brother,’ someone said.

Nobody said hello, but they all turned to look at him.

Perhaps this was the moment to produce the gun, but Jonas didn’t do that. He just went over and stood between Mats and Casper, as if he were one of the gang.

The boys resumed their discussion; apparently they had been talking about girls.

‘Of course they ought to shave,’ someone said.

‘Under the arms, anyway.’

Someone laughed. ‘And in other places!’

‘I shave under my arms, too,’ Mats said firmly. ‘I mean, you can’t have a girl lying with her head on your arm if you haven’t shaved there … She’d feel as if she had a grizzly bear in her face!’

They were all laughing now. Jonas had nothing to say; he was an outsider.

But he did have one advantage.

He took a step forward and stood next to cousin Casper. He fumbled behind his back and got hold of the gun.

‘Look what I’ve got,’ he said quietly to Casper.

He pulled out the gun. He had intended to hold it up so that everyone could see, but it was too heavy, so he just held it in front of him, with the moonlight shining on the barrel.

Once again, they all turned to look at him, and the conversation about girls came to an abrupt end.

‘It’s a gun,’ he said, in case anyone hadn’t realized.

A hand reached out, but he moved the gun away. ‘I found it,’ he said.

‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ Mats said.

Jonas shook his head – he was in control. He would just press the trigger a little bit, a little bit more …

Suddenly, a bright light swept over the group. ‘What’s all this?’

There was a familiar voice behind the light: Uncle Kent’s. He must have come up from the shore; he was carrying a torch.

Jonas lowered the gun. He would have hidden it behind his back, but it was too late; Uncle Kent had already seen it.

‘Give it to me.’

It wasn’t a polite request. He was already holding out his hand, and he took the gun off Jonas.

Kent drew him aside and leaned closer. Jonas could smell alcohol on his uncle’s breath.

‘It looks real. Where did you find it?’

What could Jonas say?

‘Down in the dip,’ he said eventually.

‘And whose is it?’

‘Don’t know.’

Kent pushed the gun into his waistband, just as Jonas had done.

‘Show me, JK,’ he said. ‘Show me exactly where you found it.’

The boys were all looking at him now; he was definitely the centre of attention. There was nothing to say; he set off along the ridge and down the stone steps. Kent followed him, lighting the way with his torch.

When they reached the dip, Jonas turned north and led Kent to the door of the bunker. It was closed and locked.

‘It was here,’ he said.

‘By the door?’

Jonas shook his head. ‘The bunker was open.’

Kent shone the beam of his torch on the rusty metal door and the padlock.

‘So someone has a key …’ he muttered. ‘Unless they’ve changed the lock.’

He went over and tugged at it, but it didn’t move.

‘There was someone inside,’ Jonas said. ‘It sounded as if he was digging.’

‘Digging? Someone was in there digging?’

Jonas nodded, and Kent stood in silence for a moment, then straightened up. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Good. Let’s go home.’

Kent turned and made his way back to the stone steps. The gun was still tucked in his waistband, as if it belonged to him now.

Trapped and frightened …
The Homecomer had dreamed the old dream again, the nightmare about a little boy being forced to crawl in beneath the barn wall.

‘
In you go
,’ Sven had growled, sweaty and stressed in the forest. ‘
Get in there and fetch his money.
’

Into the darkness. Aron had crawled in over the cold earth, in beneath the hard wooden wall. Past the nails reaching out for him. One of them had scratched his forehead, but he had kept on going.

Towards the body.

Edvard Kloss, his real father, who was lying there underneath the wall.

Trapped. Motionless.

Aron had felt something hard in Edvard’s trouser pocket: a wooden snuff box. He took it, and fumbled in the other pocket, where he found a fat wallet and pulled it out.

At which point the body twitched. There was a whimpering sound, and a hand closed around Aron’s arm.

Edvard Kloss was still alive.

Aron had panicked in the darkness. He raised the hand holding the wooden box and struck at the body. Hit his father on the head, on the temple, several times. Over and over again.

Edvard fell silent, and the hand around Aron’s arm lost its grip.

The Homecomer woke in the car with a start.

His father was gone. He was alone.

The morning sun was finding its way through the birch trees and had reached the car, but its rays did not warm the Homecomer. He remembered too much.

They had found the chalet where he was staying at the Ölandic; he had got away with only his rucksack, nothing more. He had had to leave his shoes, clothes and two guns. And Kloss had stolen Sven’s snuff box.

He couldn’t go back. Nor could he sleep in the car any longer – his old bones were too stiff. If this was his last week on the island (and that was how he felt), then he needed to be well rested.

He needed a proper bed.

He had to find a new hiding place, somewhere in or near Stenvik.

It was seven o’clock, and the summer’s day had begun. Cars and trucks were starting to zoom past along the main road.

The Homecomer started the car. He pulled out of the car park and headed north.

Right now, he was on the run, but it was only temporary.

After six long years, Aron is back in Leningrad as a new man: Vladimir Nikolajevitch Jegerov. Back by the wide bay leading out into the Baltic Sea – the bay that was the gateway to the new country for Aron and Sven.

Back then, they stayed in a hotel, but now Vlad is living in the barracks while he waits for a single room of his own.

Vlad the soldier has not brought very much with him when it comes to mementoes of the long, hard years in the north. A Party membership card, a uniform, a few minor scars on his face and a torso pitted with the marks left by scratching countless mosquito stings and louse bites. And his name and citizenship, of course. It has become Aron’s name now, his whole identity: Vlad Jegerov. The Swede within him is carefully locked away.

The old concrete buildings in Leningrad are not as tall as he remembers them. The city seems low, stretching out along the banks of the shining River Neva, but new palaces exuding power have been built in honour of Stalin.

Vlad’s workplace is not as beautiful as the palaces, but it is substantial and impressive. It is Kresty Prison, a red-brick five-storey building surrounded by a wall four metres high and built in the shape of a huge cross. On each floor the corridors run straight through the prison, with rows of cell doors on each side. There are thousands of prisoners behind those doors, twenty or thirty men in each cell. Very little noise seeps out, and it takes a death scream to persuade the guards to open them.

The cellar is also soundproofed. That is where Vlad will be working, in the innermost interrogation room. The air is thick with the smell of sweat and blood and cheap cleaning products, and the doors are even more impressive.

The new colleagues Vlad encounters in the corridors are tall and grim-faced, but they have a certain style and elegance; they move gracefully in their dark-blue NKVD uniforms. They glance at his grey coat and worn boots and smile at one another. Vlad realizes he is a country bumpkin.

‘Come in, Comrade Jegerov.’

His new commanding officer, Captain Rugajev, welcomes him into his office and offers him tea and a piece of dried black pudding. The captain carefully studies the new guard’s Party membership book and other documents, giving Vlad the chance to look around the room.

He sees Stalin gazing into the future on the wall behind Rugajev, of course. To the right of his portrait is a poster featuring a Soviet worker dragging a long, venomous serpent out from under a stone, with the caption ‘We will eradicate spies and saboteurs!’

Eventually, Rugajev nods and hands back the papers. Then he smiles at Vlad’s scruffy uniform, just as amused as everyone else in Kresty. He gets to his feet.

‘Look in here, Comrade.’ Rugajev opens a cupboard, which is full of neatly pressed uniforms and shiny leather boots. ‘We were issued with new outfits in the spring as a reward for our hard work. Choose one that fits you.’

Vlad quickly glances along the row and picks out a uniform. Rugajev hands over a gun belt with a leather holster, and a brand-new pistol. A Mauser.

‘There is a great deal of night work here in Kresty Prison.’ The captain nods towards the portrait on the wall. ‘Our leader works late into the night, and so do we.’ Then he nods towards the picture of the worker and the serpent. ‘And that is our job, day
and
night. But you were hunting down our enemies up in the north, weren’t you, Comrade Jegerov? All the time?’

Vlad nods. He understands what the Mauser is for.

‘Can you type, Comrade?’

‘No, Captain.’

‘Then learn. You will be conducting many interrogations, and they must be documented and filed. Go and see Comrade Trushkin in the morning.’

Before he does anything, Vlad changes his clothes in one of the guardrooms. He takes off his old uniform and puts on his new black boots, billowing blue trousers with sharp, dark-red lines, a light-brown jacket, the leather gun belt with the Mauser in its holster and, finally, the wide peaked cap with a brown band around it and the red star in the centre.

He looks in the mirror and lifts his chin, like a sheriff. Now he fits in here. He is ready.

And there is a lot of work, just as Rugajev said.

The first prisoner Vlad interrogates is an emaciated, worn-down man who is fetched from his cell in dirty underclothes; he was arrested for crimes against Article 58 of the Soviet Penal Code, which is always used when charging enemies of the state.

Vlad positions himself on the cement floor just a metre away from the prisoner, his legs wide apart. Perhaps Rugajev has given him something simple to start with, because this man is already broken. Fear shines in his eyes when he is placed in the interrogation chair.