The Living and the Dead in Winsford (29 page)

But what lines? I ask myself. I have no idea. In any case I have noted down the names I’ve already used, so that I don’t risk repeating the same mistake twice. Names? It occurs to me that there’s no reason why the password should be a name. It could just be a word, any word at all.
Doubt. Bunker. Raven
.

It doesn’t even need to be a word in any language: a combination of letters or letters and numbers would be sufficient. How on earth could I possibly hit upon the correct combination? How could I imagine that I knew my husband so well that I could work out what password he would choose from hundreds of thousands of possibilities?

Presumptuous.

Presumptuous and stupid.

But I must open that document – it seems more of a burning necessity with every hour that passes. I don’t know why. Or do I?
At Dawn
.

Is there a short-cut? How would a Lisbeth Salander approach the problem?

A silly question. Lisbeth Salander would already have solved it. For an ordinary person it’s a question of finding a Salander.

Or somebody of her calibre, at least. Or half of it. A tiny fraction of it.

Alfred Biggs?

Margaret Allen?

Mark Britton. That thought feels like a lump of ice in my throat. No, not Mark Britton, as . . . as Mark Britton has no part to play in this business. I’m not at all sure where he does have a part to play, whatever I mean by that, but in any case I don’t want to involve him in Greece or Morocco.

On the other hand – during today’s walk alongside the East Lyn River, a pleasant and quite dry route that I could walk five times a week – I have started to toy with another thought involving Mr Britton. So far it is no more than an undeveloped foetus, maybe I shan’t develop it any further, but it’s that experience in Hawkridge that lies at the bottom of it.

Hawkridge together with the other things. The hire car and the pheasants. But as I said, I don’t want to spell it out yet, nor even to think about it. We go to bed instead, my dog and I; we switch off the light and lie there under the covers, listening to the wind and another sound that comes whining over the moor. I don’t know what it is, it’s the first time I’ve heard it: a metallic, almost mournful noise; I can’t decide if it’s coming from an animal or from something else.

Something else? What might that be? It’s two miles down to the village. One to Halse Farm.

The curtains are not quite tightly closed, as usual. I roll over onto my side, with my back towards the moor. Place the pillow over my head so that all sounds are eliminated. I think about Synn. About Gunvald. About Christa and about Gudrun Ewerts.

About Martin.

Rolf.

Gunsan.

People I have met during my life. One more week, and it’s the shortest day of the year.

*

We wake up late on Friday. I feel sluggish and listless. If I didn’t have a dog to think about I would presumably stay in bed all day.

No, that’s not true. If I didn’t have a dog I would kill myself. I would become the third case of suicide in Darne Lodge – perhaps Mr Tawking could turn the place into a tourist attraction on that account. Our names on a plate on the wall; but I have forgotten the names of my predecessors. Selwyn something, and the man with the Belgian name. Maybe he could include Elizabeth Williford Barrett on the other side of the road, I remember her name because we pass her grave nearly every day. It occurs to me that I still haven’t found out who she was, and why she is lying where she is. Maybe I can ask about that at the computer centre: I remind myself to pay a visit there later today. Perhaps I can ask about the password as well, if there is some way of getting round it. In principle, that is: I could make it seem that it’s one of my own documents and I’ve simply forgotten what the password is because it’s so long since I thought it up . . .

As I lie there in bed it also occurs to me that I haven’t heard a squeak from Mr Tawking since we sorted out the rental contract and I received the keys to Darne Lodge. That was some six weeks ago. Shouldn’t he have been in touch to ask how things were going? Or at least to check that I hadn’t burnt down his house?

All the thoughts and questions have gradually scraped the sluggishness out of my body, and I get up. It’s a quarter past ten. Eight degrees and patches of blue sky here and there. I haul Castor out of bed and tell him he’d better get a grip – a missus shouldn’t need to wake up her dog.

He doesn’t understand what I’m talking about, but a quarter of an hour later we are out on the moor in the sunshine. And so the unhealthy pallor of those worrying thoughts is transformed into the healthy tan of decisiveness.

Two e-mail messages of a certain importance. Or at least, they need an answer. The first is from Bergman to Martin:

Hi! I had dinner with Ronald Scoltock from Faber & Faber yesterday evening. We got round to talking about you, and he seemed to be very interested. He would like to get in touch with you, and perhaps even pay you a visit. As I understand it he has a house in Marrakesh. Is it okay if I give him your e-mail address? Keep your nose to the grindstone, I hope all is going as it should. Greetings to your wonderful wife, of course. Eugen

I think it over for a while before replying that we would prefer not to have any visits at the moment, that I (Martin) am in the middle of a spell of very intensive work, and that perhaps it would be best if we were to make contact with Scoltock after the New Year.

The other message is from Violetta di Parma:

Dear Maria, I’m feeling very much at home in your house. It really does feel like a privilege to be able to live here. I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch sooner, but everything has been working as it should, so there has been no reason to contact you. I’m extremely busy as well, but that is stimulating and so I’m not complaining. The only thing I wonder is whether I ought to forward post to you. There has been quite a lot, in fact, and perhaps you ought to take a look at it, to be on the safe side. But I don’t have your address. If you let me know what it is I can send you everything without delay.

A Merry Christmas! There is no snow yet here in Stockholm, but it seems to be in the air. It’s very cold and windy in any case. I hope all is well with you – no doubt it’s much warmer down there where you are!

With best wishes from Violetta

I recall that I had promised to send her our address as soon as we had settled down in Morocco, and that it really was high time I did something about it. There shouldn’t be any invoices to pay in the post that had been delivered to Nynäshamn: we changed everything to direct debits before we left, but of course you never know . . . In any case, I must answer her message, and the best response I can come up with is to ask her to forward post to
Holinek, poste restante, Rabat
. I explain that this is the safest way to proceed, add that we are in fine shape, are pleased that she feels at home in our house, and that we send her our very best wishes for a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

I don’t attempt to read any news on this occasion either, and since Margaret Allen seems to be rather busy at her own computer I decide not to take up with her that business of solving the password problem. I merely thank her for the tea, and say that I shall probably call in again before Christmas.

‘Surely you’re not going to spend Christmas all alone up there?’ she asks, looking somewhat worried.

I tell her that I shall probably be going to visit a friend in Ilfracombe, but that in any case I have my dog to keep me company. That makes her smile, and she gives Castor a pat on the head.

‘I’d like to read one of your books, I really would.’

‘If you can hang on for another fifty years, no doubt one of them will appear in English translation.’

We leave Winsford Community Computer Centre, and walk down to the war memorial to collect the car and drive back to Darne Lodge and spruce ourselves up before dinner at Heathercombe Cottage.

Just as we are about to get into the car, a silver-coloured Renault drives past. It turns off to the left at the crossroads, in the direction of Exford and Wheddon Cross. I have time to see the logo saying it is a Sixt rental car, but not to catch the registration number.

And nothing more of the driver than a glimpse of his outline from behind. It is a man, that is quite clear, but that’s about all that can be said.

For a brief moment I toy with the thought of following him, but drop it almost immediately. Instead that vague plan about spinning a yarn to Mark Britton suddenly takes on a new reality.

35

It was Jeremy who opened the door.

He must have been sitting there waiting for us, as I didn’t have time to knock. Quite a slim young man, an inch shorter than me – he had seemed bigger than this when I saw him in that upstairs window.

He looked hard at me with his dark, almost black eyes – a little worried, perhaps, but not threatening as I had feared he might be. The inspection took five seconds. Then he looked down at the floor and took a pace backward so that I could go in. He was wearing black, scruffy jeans, big fluffy slippers and a multicoloured jersey with the name Harlequins embroidered on the chest.

‘That used to be his favourite rugby team,’ explained Mark who appeared in the kitchen doorway.

‘I see. Rugby.’

Used to be? I thought. When he was twelve?

‘Welcome. I think he wants you to shake hands and introduce yourself.’

I did as I was bidden. Jeremy’s hand was cold and dry, and he let go of mine after only a second: but nevertheless I detected something positive in his attitude. A feeling that he was at ease in the situation. That I was okay. Mark placed a hand on his shoulder.

‘You can go up to your room if you like. I’ll give you a shout when the food’s ready.’

Jeremy stood there and seemed to be thinking things over, then turned on his heel and went off upstairs. He had paid no attention to Castor at all, who had been sitting discreetly just inside the door, waiting his turn.

‘Welcome, both of you,’ said Mark and took my jacket. ‘Come into the kitchen and you can have a drink while I finish off the delicacies.’

He smiled, and patted his black apron to illustrate how seriously things were being taken. I thought a drink was exactly what I needed, and followed him along a short corridor that led into a large, cosy kitchen. A dark oak table in front of a mullioned window looked as if it could accommodate at least a dozen people; a fire was burning in a hearth, and it occurred to me that without much in the way of rearrangement one could shoot a cookery programme in here.

I told Mark I thought it looked lovely, and he threw wide his hands. ‘The heart of the house,’ he said. ‘I spent all the money I had on this when I moved in. The rest of the cottage is in nowhere near the same class, I’m afraid; but I’m glad you like it. I’m going to have a gin and tonic. What about you?’

‘A gin and tonic sounds splendid,’ I said, sitting down at one corner of the table. ‘But not too strong – I have to drive home eventually.’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Mark. ‘I’ve already taken care of that detail.’

I didn’t ask what he meant by that, presumably because I badly wanted a drink and a few glasses of wine.

‘With a kitchen like this you ought to have guests every evening,’ I said instead. ‘Especially if you’re as good a cook as you claim to be.’

‘You’re my first guest for a year,’ said Mark. ‘My sister was here with her husband and children last Christmas. Since then it’s just been Jeremy and me.’

He handed me a glass, and we sipped at our drinks.

‘Good.’

‘A donkey can make a gin and tonic. Has Castor had something to eat?’

I nodded and received a surprised look from my dog. He has a tendency to forget that he’s eaten the moment he finishes doing so.

‘He’s had his evening meal. But maybe you could give him a bowl of water?’

Mark stroked Castor and provided a bowl of water that he naturally turned up his nose at. Went and rolled up in front of the fire in passive protest.

The starter was scallops. Fried in butter with a pinch of cayenne pepper and a touch of black sauce that I would have called piquant, were it not for the fact that I can’t stand that word. But it was good in any case, just as good as I’d hoped it would be.

That’s what Mark and I had – Jeremy sat beside his father and ate fish fingers with chips and mayonnaise. ‘There’s no point in making fancy stuff for him,’ Mark had explained. ‘There are four or five dishes he condescends to eat, and they’re all in the same class as fish fingers. Preferably some yellow Fanta to wash it down, as you can see, but he only gets that on special occasions.’

Jeremy didn’t seem to mind Mark speaking about him like that. He was too busy concentrating on eating. Very carefully, almost scientifically, he cut up the fish fingers with his knife, speared a piece on his fork, added a suitably sized piece of potato, dipped it into the mayonnaise, tasted the result and then put it into his mouth. As he chewed away at length, he sat motionless with his eyes closed.

Then he washed it all down with a mouthful of Fanta. I tried not to look at him, and Mark noticed that. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘He eats like a robot. But he tended a bit that way even before the accident, so perhaps it has something to do with his personality . . . Whatever is left of it.’

I thought about that gesture Jeremy had made in the window. It didn’t seem at all appropriate to the impression I had of him now. But as I hadn’t mentioned it before, I didn’t bring it up now. I just felt surprisingly well disposed towards this boy who had never had a chance to learn how to behave in social circumstances. He looked so well groomed and harmless, and I wondered if he was always like this, and how much training he had needed in order to get him to behave in such a civilized manner. Lots of medication, perhaps? Good days and bad days?

‘He’ll leave us as soon as he’s finished this course,’ said Mark. ‘He never has a starter or a dessert.’