‘But like I said, don’t expect me to be able to cover all of this so-called research. And if he was in fact on to something, unlikely as that may be, we must be talking about old data. Didn’t Stuub retire years ago?’

‘He did, but apparently he had access to the university’s equipment and facilities for five years after leaving. Docent emeritus, according to the woman I talked to at the university.’

‘I see. But that’s still several years ago. Why would he have sat on his results until now? No, never mind, don’t answer. That’s for you to figure out.’

‘So you’re going to take a look at it straight away?’ Karen says as meekly as she is able.

‘I intend to eat two slices of toast, drink one cup of coffee and read the newspaper first, unless you mind.’

‘Thank you, Kneought. Call me as soon as you know anything. And like I said, I’m not expecting—’

Kneought Brodal has already hung up.

Chapter 66

66

Karen studies the flat grey stone marking her father’s place in the family tomb.

Fisherman

Walter Eiken

1939–2002

Third row from the top, second marker from the left. To the right of it are two more flat grey stones: Aino Eiken, who survived her son by four months, and Johannes Eiken, who held on for three more years. Dad, Grandma and Grandpa, to date the last people to be interred in the Eiken family tomb. But there’s room for more in front of the large iron anchor standing guard over the generations. Fishermen, fishermen’s wives and a pilot related by marriage. It could have been any one of the countless anchor-topped family tombs here at Gudheim Cemetery.

Karen straightens up and lets her eyes follow the gently sweeping slope of the promontory. A handful of visitors are moving between the headstones, seeming to talk quietly with one another. At the far end, before land gives way to sky and sea, she can just make out the monoliths of the ship setting, forty-two ten-foot stones in a semicircle facing the east. Perhaps that imposing sight is what made the Noorlings decide not to bother with upright headstones; there’s not a single one in the Gudheim Cemetery, only rows of anchors of varying sizes, watching over rows of horizontal, flat stone markers engraved with the names of lost sons and daughters. Names and dates, no poems such as those on the headstones on Heimö and Frisel. No ‘loved, missed’. Why waste words on stating the obvious?

‘Don’t for a second think I’m going in there,’ Eleanor Eiken had told her daughter after her husband’s marker had been installed. ‘You go wherever you want, but I plan on being buried in Langevik. Or in Ravenby with Mum and Dad, but not on Noorö. Promise me!’