Depths - By Henning Mankell & Laurie Thompson Page 0,29
not a word of it was true. Nothing he had written was genuine. It was all fantasy, empty poetry, nothing more.
It was as if something had come between him and Kristina Tacker. He knew what it was. Or, rather, who it was. It was Sara Fredrika, the woman who lived alone on Halsskär.
It was as if she was in his cabin here and now, with her skirt pulled up above her knees.
He went out on deck and gazed at Halsskär. It was hooded in darkness.
That was where he was heading for.
Late that night, just before midnight, Anders Höckert came across from the Svea and returned the main record book, which had been copied.
Tobiasson-Svartman handed him the letter he had written to his wife. Höckert invited him to join a game of cards that was in progress in the destroyer's wardroom.
He declined.
He lay awake. He was longing to be with the woman on Halsskär.
CHAPTER 49
The Svea weighed anchor during the night.
He was woken by the powerful vibrations as the destroyer backed away from the Blenda. The letter to his wife was on its way. The carrier pigeon was made of steel and instead of wings it had powerful steam engines.
CHAPTER 50
When he got up at dawn he was greeted by Lieutenant Jakobsson looking grim. He asked Tobiasson-Svartman to accompany him to the bows of the ship.
Lying among several large capstans was Sub-Lieutenant Welander. He was covered in vomit and smelled strongly of spirits. There was an empty vodka bottle between his feet. His hair was matted, his eyes bloodshot and when he tried to stand up he was incapable of maintaining his balance and fell backwards among the hawsers.
Jakobsson watched him in disgust.
'I suspected something like this,' he said. 'I could sometimes smell it, but he'd turn away and speak with his mouth almost closed. I've been waiting for the bubble to burst. Well, it has burst now. We'll let him lie here for the time being.'
They went to Welander's cabin. Beneath his bunk Jakobsson unearthed a collection of bottles, most of them empty, some unopened. He made a rough calculation.
'Sub-Lieutenant Welander has drunk a litre of spirits per day since he came on board. Only an advanced alcoholic can drink that much. He has done his job and not given himself away. But there are limits. He passed the alcoholic's meridian last night. Everything has fallen to pieces, he couldn't give a fig for his responsibilities or his reputation. He couldn't care less about his commission or his family. All he cares about is his damned bottles. It's tragic but not unusual. And very Swedish.'
They went back on deck. Jakobsson gave the order to carry Welander back to his cabin. They watched the sorrowful procession, with Welander's arms hanging limply between two strong ratings.
'He must leave the ship immediately, of course,' said Jakobsson. 'I'll send for the gunboat Thule to take him to port. But how are we going to resolve the business of his launch?'
Tobiasson-Svartman had started working on that problem the moment he saw the drunken officer sprawled among the hawsers. At the same time he was asking himself why he had not suspected that Welander was concealing his alcoholism behind a mask of correctness. He was irritated that Lieutenant Jakobsson had sharper eyes than he did.
He preferred not to wait for another naval engineer. One of the oarsmen in Tobiasson-Svartman's boat, Karl Hamberg, was older and more experienced than the rest. He could take over the responsibility until the soundings in this area were completed. The people in charge in Stockholm could come up with a successor to Welander for the next stage, the soundings at the approaches to Gamlebyviken.
Jakobsson listened to his proposals and gave his approval. Hamberg was a conscientious and energetic sailor from Öland. They called him in and explained the situation. He seemed to be honoured and not overawed by the responsibility he was being given.
Late that afternoon the Thule set sail from Slätbaken to fetch Welander. The crews of the launches watched with interest as Welander staggered over to the sister ship.
Tobiasson-Svartman could hear the oarsmen muttering contentedly among themselves. They made no attempt to conceal their Schadenfreude over the fact that an officer had been caught out.
Never again would Tobiasson-Svartman meet Sub-Lieutenant Welander. The thought scared him. It was like a cold wave hitting him from behind.
I will never learn how to cope with leave-taking, he thought. Never ever. Every leave-taking implies a threat.