The Postcard Killers - James Patterson [87]
“The day before the Second World War broke out,” Jacob said. “I have a good memory for history, too. Where are we actually going?”
“Past Klockestrand,” she said. “It’s not far now.”
She slowed down and turned off to the right, onto a narrow dirt road.
“I thought we might need some expert help,” she said, driving up to a huge wooden building in a state of more or less complete ruin.
“What the hell is this place? The House on Haunted Hill?”
“Welcome to my childhood home,” Dessie said, switching the engine off.
Chapter 128
THERE WAS A FAINT light coming from a window on the ground floor, the sort of blue light that an old television set gives off.
Dessie wondered how many of her family were there. The house was a base for her uncles, the few who were still alive, and for a number of her cousins.
“Will anyone be awake at this time of day?” Jacob asked.
“Granddad,” Dessie said. “He usually sleeps during the day. At night he watches old black-and-white films that he downloads illegally from the Net. Are you coming in with me?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Jacob said, climbing out of the car.
The held each other’s hand as they walked up to the huge building.
The structure was an old-style farmhouse, with four chimneys, two floors, and a loft tall enough to stand up in. The red iron-oxide paint had peeled off decades ago and the wooden walls shone a grayish white in the early light.
Dessie opened the outside door without knocking and kicked off her shoes.
Apart from the sound from the television, the house was quiet. If anyone was here besides Granddad, they were sound asleep.
Her grandfather was sitting in his usual armchair, watching a film with Ingrid Bergman in it.
“Granddad?”
The old man turned around and took a quick look at her.
Then he went right back to the television screen.
“Drag åta dörn för moija,” he said.
Dessie shut the outside door.
“This is Jacob, Granddad,” she said, walking toward him, still holding Jacob by the hand.
Her grandfather hadn’t aged much, she thought. Maybe it was because his hair had been white for as long as she could remember, and his face had always had the same miserable scowl. He didn’t seem the least bit surprised to see her in his living room for the first time since her mother’s funeral. Instead, he just glowered suspiciously at Jacob.
“Vo jär häjna för ein?”
“Jacob mostly does rough work,” Dessie said, taking the remote and turning off the television.
Then she sat down on the table directly in front of the old man.
“Granddad, I want to ask you something. If I’m on the run from the police and haven’t got any money and want to hide out in Finland, what should I do?”
Chapter 129
THE OLD MAN’S EYES twinkled. He cast a quick, approving look at Jacob, straightened up in his armchair, and regarded Dessie with new interest.
“Vo håva jä djårt?”
“What language is that?” Jacob asked, bewildered. “It doesn’t sound like any Swedish I’ve heard.”
“Pitemål,” Dessie said. “It’s an almost extinct dialect from where he grew up. It’s further from Swedish than either Danish or Norwegian. This farm belonged to my maternal grandmother’s family. No one around here really understands him.”
She turned to her grandfather again.
“No,” she said, “we haven’t done anything bad. Not yet, anyway. I’m just wondering, purely hypothetically.”
“Sko jä håva nalta å ita?”
“Yes, please,” Dessie said. “Coffee would be good, and a sandwich, if you’ve got any cheese.”
The old man stood up and staggered off toward the kitchen. Dessie took the opportunity to go out into the gloom of the hall and crawl in under the stairs, where the only toilet in the house was situated.
When she got back, the old man had prepared some bread and cheese and had boiled water for instant coffee. He was sitting with his hands clasped on the wax tablecloth, his eyes squinting as he mulled over Dessie’s question.
“Å djööm sä i Finland,” he said. “Hä gå et…”
Dessie nodded and took a bite of the sweet bread and Port Salut.
Then she interpreted simultaneously for Jacob so he could follow.
Hiding