BooksBarbecue
Back Bad Apples
Chapters (65)
  1. 1
  2. 2
  3. 3
  4. 4
  5. 5
  6. 6
  7. 7
  8. 8
  9. 9
  10. 10
  11. 11
  12. 12
  13. 13
  14. 14
  15. 15
  16. 16
  17. 17
  18. 18
  19. 19
  20. 20
  21. 21
  22. 22
  23. 23
  24. 24
  25. 25
  26. 26
  27. 27
  28. 28
  29. 29
  30. 30
  31. 31
  32. 32
  33. 33
  34. 34
  35. 35
  36. 36
  37. 37
  38. 38
  39. 39
  40. 40
  41. 41
  42. 42
  43. 43
  44. 44
  45. 45
  46. 46
  47. 47
  48. 48
  49. 49
  50. 50
  51. 51
  52. 52
  53. 53
  54. 54
  55. 55
  56. 56
  57. 57
  58. 58
  59. 59
  60. 60
  61. 61
  62. 62
  63. 63
  64. 64
  65. Acknowledgements

‘He visited Visberg to look at Wimmer’s clock museum, apparently. One of the finest collections of organic clocks in the world.’

‘What’s an organic clock?’

He beckons me over to look at his screen and then he switches tabs.

‘Antique clocks made out of organic materials,’ he says. ‘Bones and human tendons, that kind of thing.’

‘Okay.’

‘Guy visiting, Dutch guy, watchmaker himself, used to work for a big Swiss brand, he made some kind of official complaint on a horology forum. That forum no longer exists. This Dutch guy’s social media no longer exists. His blog no longer exists. It’s like he’s been wiped from the surface of the Earth.’

43

I ask Sebastian to research deeper into the complaint against Hans Wimmer. To find the missing blogger. I tell him not to hesitate to contact the police if he comes across something important and can’t reach me. A murder and an ongoing abduction case. Time is of the essence.

The drive to Visberg feels longer than ever. Away from the motorway and the pulp mill and the police force. Away from the transport connections to the outside world. If Visberg still had its train line I’d be a lot more comfortable about the place. As it is, I feel like I’m strapped into a capsule, about to launch into deep space.

My dash reads four degrees.

A woman walks out of Svensson’s Saws & Axes carrying a brand-new petrol chainsaw. She waves to the guy in the shop and loads the saw into her Honda.

As I approach Visberg hill I take in the enormity of the elk forest. A mountainside smothered with pines as tall as church steeples. Sure, it’s divided by a twisty road and that adds a veneer of safety, an illusion of civilisation, but it’s just Utgard on a slope. Square mile after square mile of elk-infested pine insanity. A maze designed by some architect of chaos to maintain the darkness within.

I turn on my heated seat.

The outer fringes of the woods look like an army assembled. A line of warriors from a different age, commanded to hold their ground, come what may. Stand still until you’re told to charge.

Someone’s propped the white bike back up and I’m happy about that.

Past the cross, over the old tracks, up on top of the summit. The bee spins and people buzz around the square walking their hunt dogs and drinking strong Swedish coffee from their own personal ICA thermos mugs. I pull over outside the Hive. There are four municipal gardeners in dark green uniforms and they’re jet-washing the apple sludge from the pavements and raking up the layer of organic filth from the grass. The sun is shining on the Konsum side of the square. The clock outside Wimmer’s Clocks is still not working.

I get out and notice the crowd outside the dental surgery.