The Voices Beyond: (Oland Quartet Series 4) (32 page)

‘We have important news,’ the lieutenant says. ‘More enemies have been unmasked in the south, both in the towns and in rural locations. More than ever.’ He leans across the desk. ‘This is a huge conspiracy, involving thousands of people.’

‘Kulaks?’ asks the guard next to Vlad.

‘We have got rid of the Kulaks,’ Fajgin replies. ‘These enemies are even more dangerous. They are Trotskyites. Intellectuals. Fanatics.’

‘Is this war?’ someone else asks.

‘Yes. This is war. But not on the streets. These enemies hide, they try to blend in and look like us. Be like us. Then they strike, through sabotage and disturbances. Or murder, which is what they did to Kirov.’

The guards stand in silence.
Kirov.
They all remember the murder of Sergei Kirov, the leader of the Leningrad Party organization, two years ago. Kirov was both popular and respected, one of the few leaders who could challenge Stalin. Suddenly, he was dead, shot by a madman.

Fajgin rests his clenched fists on the desk and goes on. ‘They have a plan, drawn up by the traitor Trotsky. He is directing them from outside our country; they are ready to die for him.’

Trotsky.
So many names for Vlad to keep in his head. Wasn’t Trotsky a friend of Stalin? Evidently not.

Fajgin gives a little smile for the first time, and points to a folder in front of him. ‘And, believe me, they will die. We have lists of those who are on their way here by train, and details of how they will be dealt with … The Trotskyites will have their own building here in the camp.’

There have been punishment blocks with barred windows for a long time in the camp, and this is where many of the new prisoners from the south end up when the trains deliver them. The new block that is built behind them is different. It is called the Sty, even though there are no pigs in the camp. It is a long, low building with thick timber walls, and it is right next door to the crematorium. The innermost room has a sloping floor.

The new arrivals are sorted into two categories, according to Fajgin’s list: the first or second category. The second is the largest group; they are set to work in the brigades.

Those in the first category remain in camp. They are allocated a special platoon of guards, who are issued with new Mausers. Vlad is not selected for this group; he still has his old Winchester and continues to spend the long shifts patrolling the fence.

But he knows what is going to happen inside the Sty.

The work is carried out at night.

A wind-up gramophone begins to play patriotic marching music when a Trotskyite is taken into the innermost room. The music is very loud, virtually drowning out any other sounds.

However, sometimes Vlad is on duty outside the Sty, and he hears the shots echoing through the timber walls. The shots come at regular intervals, every night.

Not everything has been thought through; they should have added another door or some kind of hatch at the back of the Sty. As it is, all the bodies have to be transported to the crematorium through the front door, long after midnight, when the summer night is dark enough.

In the mornings, grey smoke rises from the chimneys.

But there are too many enemies this year; the trains just keep on coming.

The number of Trotskyites swells to a flood. Summer turns to autumn, and the emaciated rag dolls are all over the camp, staggering around.

In September, Vlad and a dozen or so other guards are summoned to Commandant Polynov’s office, where Fajgin is also waiting. Fajgin’s chin is up, but Polynov’s head is drooping. He looks very old; his face is swollen, with dark hollows under his eyes. He finished off his wine collection long ago.

Vlad also notices that the portrait of Jagoda has been removed. Stalin’s picture is still there, but there is another face beside him. A younger man, with an expression as merciless as Jagoda’s.

‘Our commissariat has a new leader,’ Polynov says quietly, nodding towards the portrait. ‘His name is Comrade Ezhov. Jagoda has been arrested … he was caught reading Trotskyite literature.’

The commandant sighs. ‘The putrefaction is spreading. We need more firing squads.’

He picks up a bottle of vodka and takes a long swig. He is very drunk.

‘We will be getting more work,’ he goes on. ‘A lot more work. All of us. We have to clear it … cleanse it from … from …’

He falls silent, as if he has lost his way. Fajgin takes over.

‘The Sty and the crematorium are no longer adequate when it comes to dealing with Category One prisoners, and we cannot start piling up corpses inside the camp. We have to find a better solution, so we are going to organize a special place for our most dangerous enemies, the Trotskyites. We are going to clear the ground and prepare a gravel pit for them deep in the forest, where no music will be necessary.’

Gerlof was posing in the churchyard, leaning on his stick in front of a clicking camera. He wasn’t entirely comfortable with the situation, but it had been his decision. It was all in a good cause, he told himself.

The plan was to lure Aron Fredh from wherever he was hiding.

He looked up at the photographer, who was also a reporter. Bengt Nyberg was a veteran on the local paper, which carried stories about most of the things that happened in the north of the island.

‘I noticed you wrote about the gastroenteritis outbreak,’ Gerlof said.

Bengt looked quite pleased. ‘Yes, down at the Ölandic. I think they wanted to keep it as quiet as possible, but it was a bit of a scoop for me. Hundreds of people were affected … The whole of their sewage system was knocked out by the amount of use their toilets were subjected to.’

‘But you didn’t come down with it yourself?’

‘No, I avoided the water. And it seems to have been very localized … They think it was in the pipes in the complex itself, that some kind of parasite got into the system.’

‘Dear me,’ Gerlof said. ‘And right in the middle of the high season.’

‘Yes, it’s bad news for the Kloss family,’ Bengt said. ‘But good for the other campsites.’

They fell silent. Gerlof gazed around the churchyard, at the neatly mown grass and the rows of gravestones around the church. He had been visiting this place for seventy years, and many new graves had appeared. His wife and all of his older relatives had ended up here.

He turned his attention back to the reason he was here, and the story he wanted to tell. ‘It happened somewhere around here. I can’t say exactly where, but I know we were standing fairly close to the wall.’

Bengt took a few more pictures of Gerlof pointing dramatically at the graves with his stick. Then he lowered the camera. ‘So which grave was it?’

‘I don’t remember. I dug quite a lot of graves that summer. But it was in this area …’

He was lying, of course, but he didn’t want to name the Kloss family in the newspaper. He didn’t think Kent Kloss would appreciate that.

‘But I remember what I heard,’ he went on. ‘Three sharp knocks, then three more … And that was when we stopped filling in the grave. We brought the coffin back up and called Dr Blom. He turned up on his bike, but there was nothing he could do.’

‘He was dead?’ the journalist asked. ‘The man in the coffin?’

‘As dead as a doornail.’

Gerlof looked around again. It was just as warm and sunny today as it had been all those years ago; it was a strange feeling. As if a whole lifetime hadn’t passed at all. He remembered exactly where they had stood, the priest, the doctor, the Kloss brothers, and Bengtsson the gravedigger slightly behind the others. And Aron Fredh, further away.

Nyberg took one more picture and jotted something down in his notepad. He seemed satisfied, and looked up at Gerlof. ‘Well, that’s certainly a hair-raising story … A summer mystery.’

‘So are you going to write about it?’

‘Yes, I’ll put something together. It won’t be very long, but we’ll have a picture and a short article. Material like this is very useful when it comes to filling an empty column.’

‘And when will it be in the paper?’

‘I don’t know,’ Nyberg said. ‘Tomorrow, with a bit of luck, although we’re not exactly short of news this month, even though it is holiday time.’

Gerlof assumed he was talking about the deaths of Einar Wall and Peter Mayer the previous week. He leaned forward. ‘You’re welcome to say that I’d like to hear from any witnesses.’

‘Witnesses?’

‘Yes, anyone else who remembers the knocking. Anyone who was in the churchyard that day. They can get in touch with me.’

Bengt Nyberg nodded, without asking who Gerlof thought these witnesses might be, after some seventy years.

They parted company at the church gate, after Nyberg had revealed what the headline was likely to be. It was less than subtle:

G
ERLOF
S
TILL
H
AUNTED BY
K
NOCKING FROM THE
G
RAVE

You could call it sensationalism, but Gerlof was still pleased when he opened the paper two days later. The article was in a prominent position, and he thought plenty of people would read it. He knew that everyone else who had heard the sound of knocking on that day was long dead.

Everyone except himself, and possibly Aron Fredh.

A settled stomach was what everyone needed. Lisa felt pretty good this morning; the sun was shining and life felt better. She should have known it wouldn’t last long.

About an hour after she had woken up, she went down to the shore. The rocks were warm beneath her feet. She carried on out on to the jetty, right to the very end, and jumped in without hesitating. The sandy seabed was soft and the water was warm, over twenty degrees, and she stretched out with a sigh of pleasure. Closed her eyes, floated along, chilled out. No worries.

She swam back and forth not far from the jetty until a large group of children arrived for their swimming lesson and started splashing around. She got out and went back to the campsite.

When she saw her caravan, she realized something was wrong.

It was moving. The door was ajar, and it was rocking slightly.

Lisa slowed down but kept on walking. She remembered an old saying: Don’t go knocking if the trailer is a-rocking.

But if a caravan was rocking when it ought to be empty, surely you should check it out?

Lisa didn’t knock, she simply opened the door.

‘Hello?’ she said quietly.

It was dark inside, and she couldn’t see properly after being out in the sunshine, but she clearly heard a voice: ‘Hello, Summertime.’

It was a male voice. It sounded calm, but Lisa’s stomach turned to ice. Something was wrong. She didn’t climb the steps into the caravan but leaned forward and stuck her head around the door so that she could see as far as the bedroom area.

A tall figure was sitting in the middle of her narrow bed.

Kent Kloss, wearing white shorts and a red top. He nodded to her, and she realized that he had opened her bag.

Her DJ bag. Kloss was slowly going through her vinyl LPs. He hadn’t got very far yet, but he was making steady progress.

‘Come on in!’ he said with a smile. ‘Make yourself at home!’

Lisa stepped inside, but this certainly didn’t feel like home. The caravan was hot and cramped and seemed to be quivering around her. She dropped her beach bag and gave him a quick smile in return.

‘Hi, Kent … How did you get in?’

He was still smiling. ‘I have a spare key. We own this caravan – don’t you remember? We allow you to live here, as our employee.’

The last sentence sounded slightly threatening. Lisa didn’t quite know what to do, so she nodded.

‘I wanted to see if everything was OK,’ Kent went on. ‘So I came in, and I was curious. I love old dance music, so I thought I’d have a look at what you’ve got.’

‘Fine by me,’ Lisa said. ‘Those are the LPs I play over at the club … I’ve got nothing to hide.’

His response was instant. ‘Haven’t you?’

She shook her head, moved a step closer.

Kent carried on flicking through the records, then suddenly jerked his head towards the bed beside him. ‘And what about all this?’

Lisa looked down and saw a small pile at the foot of the bed. Wallets and purses, which of course she recognized. And the mobile phones next to them.

Her entire haul from the May Lai Bar was lying on the bed for all to see. Kloss had already found it.

‘They were among the records,’ Kent said. ‘I presume you were hiding them?’

Lisa didn’t say a word.

I can explain
– that was probably what you were supposed to say under the circumstances.

She knew she looked guilty. She didn’t have a chance, but she made an attempt to sound both honest and bored. ‘Oh, those … I found them in the bar. People lose all kinds of stuff in there. I asked if anyone owned them, but no one came forward. So I brought them back here … but maybe someone saw me in the club and misunderstood.’

Kent Kloss stared at her. ‘You’re right, someone did see you. It was Emanuel, one of our security guards. He saw you pick up a mobile phone from a table on Tuesday night.’

Lisa took another step towards him. ‘I found that one, too.’

‘I’m sure you did. And now I’ve found you.’

Kent Kloss got to his feet. Perhaps he was just irritated; he moved closer to her.

‘I’ve met all sorts over the years,’ he said. ‘Campsite security guards who steal from chalets, bartenders who help themselves out of the till, light-fingered cleaners in hotel rooms … I know the score.’

Lisa was aware of a strong smell emanating from him, but it wasn’t aftershave. Kent stank of booze, and there was a menacing glint in his eye.

‘Are you working for him?’ he said quietly.

‘For who?’

The slap came without warning, striking her hard and fast across the nose and cheek, and she staggered backwards. She stumbled over her beach bag and ended up on the floor. The caravan was rocking like a ship on stormy seas.

Kloss didn’t wait for her to recover. ‘Is that what you’re doing? Are you spying on us?’

Lisa blinked, felt her nose. ‘Who would I be spying for?’ she said, trying to get up.