Depths - By Henning Mankell & Laurie Thompson Page 0,64

no sound.

'What was the name of the rating standing guard? The one who didn't dare go with you?'

'Lothar Buchheim. He was the same age as me.'

Sara Fredrika was waiting impatiently.

'What did he say?'

'The man he killed was a bosun called Lothar Buchheim. He was a bully. In the end he went too far.'

'You don't kill people. Should I kill every Finnish bastard who comes here and tries to rape me? Or the men from the islands in the inner archipelago who think that a widow is a bloody whore who ought to be taken in hand and made to work?'

He was surprised by her language. It reminded him of that night in Copenhagen.

'I can't have a murderer in the house,' she said. 'Even if he can't cope with the war.'

'We have to protect him.'

'If he's a murderer, shouldn't he be sentenced?'

'He's already doomed. They'll hang him. We must help him.'

'How?'

'I'll take him with me when I've finished my work.'

Sara Fredrika looked at Dorflinger. Tobiasson-Svartman realised that he had misunderstood the situation.

The pair had become close. Dorflinger had been on Halsskär for a month. Sara Fredrika did not want him sentenced. She wanted to keep him. Her anger was not genuine.

He moved his stool closer to Dorflinger.

'I've told her what you said. I've also told her that I intend to help you. You're a marked man as a deserter from the German Navy, but I'll help you.'

'Why? You are also in the navy.'

'Sweden and Germany are not at war with each other. You are not my enemy.'

He could see that Dorflinger was doubtful. He smiled.

'I'm not sitting here telling you lies. I'll help you. You can't stay here. When I've finished my work you can come with me. Do you understand what I'm saying?'

Dorflinger said nothing.

Tobiasson-Svartman knew that he had understood. But he did not yet dare believe that it was true.

CHAPTER 97

During the night he slept next to the fire.

The deserter had hidden himself inside his overcoat, halfway under the bunk where Sara Fredrika was curled up with furs pulled over her head.

Tobiasson-Svartman slept deeply, then woke up with a start. He thought he could hear breathing that he recognised, his father's.

The dead, he thought. They're getting closer and closer. My father is also here, somewhere in this cottage. He is watching me without my being able to see him.

His watch told him that it would soon be dawn. He got up gingerly and went outside.

It was cold. He followed the path down to the inlet.

When dawn broke he discovered a seabird frozen into the ice. Its wings were spread, as if it had frozen to death just as it was about to take off.

He observed it for some considerable time, then walked on to the ice and broke its outstretched wings, bending them back against its body. Now the bird was resting, its attempt to escape was over.

He continued, following the route he used to row and approached the spot where the Blenda had been anchored. Thick cloud drifted in from the east. He had measured the precise distance to the ship and stood on the ice in the exact same place where the rope ladder had hung down. The clouds were dark, and it started snowing. He contemplated Halsskär. The grey rocks, interspersed by patches of white, looked like a shabby overcoat spread out in a field.

He had left his telescope on top of his luggage. It was a modern model, with double lenses that could be adjusted by sliding a cylindrical ring in a clockwise or anticlockwise direction. If the ring had been moved he could be certain that Sara Fredrika had taken the telescope and kept him under observation.

He was in the middle of a vast stretch of ice. Directly underneath him the distance to the bottom of the sea was forty-nine metres. He knew the precise depth at every spot on all sides.

For a fraction of a second he hoped the ice would break, that it would be all over. All this pointless searching for a place where there was no bottom, where every measuring device had to accept defeat.

Then he felt that Kristina Tacker was standing at his side. She leaned forward and whispered something in his ear, but he could not hear what it was.

He went on over the ice. The surface was rough, there were ridges that looked like seams on a garment. He went to the place where they had sunk the body of the dead sailor, and paused over the