The Voices Beyond: (Oland Quartet Series 4) Read Free

better take a look.’
    The Kloss brothers stood in silence as Bengtsson removed the screws and lifted the lid.
    Lazarus had spent four days in his grave, Gerlof recalled. ‘Lord, by this time he
stinks
,’ his sister, Martha, had said to Jesus as they stood before the stone.
    The lid was off now. Gerlof didn’t move closer, but he could still see the body, washed and arranged for its final rest. The arms were crossed over the big belly, the eyes were closed and there were black bruises on his face, possibly from the wall that had killed him. But Edvard Kloss was smartly dressed; the corpse was wearing a black suit made of thick fabric.
    ‘If you dress the deceased as well as you speak of him, he will have a smile on his face when he is lying in his coffin,’ Gerlof’s grandmother used to say.
    But Edvard Kloss’s mouth was no more than a narrow, straight line, his lips hard and dry.
    Dr Blom opened his leather bag and bent over the corpse; Gerlof turned away, but he could hear the doctor muttering to himself. A stethoscope rattled against the stone floor.
    ‘No heartbeat,’ the doctor said.
    There was silence, then came Gilbert’s voice, sounding strained:
    ‘Open a vein so we can be absolutely sure.’
    That was enough for Gerlof. He went out into the sunshine and stood in the shade of the church tower.
    ‘Now will you have a beer?’
    Bengtsson came over, carrying two fresh bottles.
    This time, Gerlof nodded and gratefully accepted a drink. The bottle was ice cold, and he raised it to his lips and drank deeply. The alcohol went straight to his head and slowed down his thought processes. He looked at Bengtsson.
    ‘Has this happened before?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Have you heard noises before?’
    The gravedigger shook his head.
    ‘Not personally, at any rate.’ He gave a tight little smile, took a swig of his beer and looked over at the church. ‘But of course the Kloss brothers are a bit different … I have a problem with that family. They just take whatever they want. All the time, all over the place.’
    ‘But Edvard Kloss …’ Gerlof said, struggling to find the right words. ‘He can’t have …’
    ‘Calm down,’ Bengtsson broke in. ‘This isn’t your problem.’ He had another drink, and added: ‘In the old days, they used to tie the hands together. When someone died, I mean, so that they’d lie still down there in the coffin. Did you know that?’
    Gerlof shook his head and didn’t say another word.
    After a few moments the church door opened, and Gerlof and Bengtsson quickly hid the bottles of beer. Dr Blom stuck his head out and waved them over.
    ‘I’ve finished.’
    ‘And he’s …’
    ‘He’s dead, of course. No sign of life whatsoever. You can put him back where you got him from.’
    The interment was repeated. The coffin was carried out of the church, the ropes were slipped underneath and it was lowered into the grave. Gerlof and Bengtsson started shovelling earth into the hole once more, clutching their spades with a certain amount of grim determination; they were feeling a little unsteady after the beer. Gerlof looked around for Aron Fredh, but both the boy and the man with the limp had disappeared.
    Everyone gathered around the grave, including Dr Blom, who was holding tightly on to his leather bag.
    The earth thudded against the coffin lid.
    Then the sound came again: three sharp raps from down in the ground. Quiet but clear.
    Gerlof froze in mid-movement, his heart pounding. Suddenly, he was completely sober, and frightened. He looked across at Bengtsson on the other side of the mound of earth; he, too, had stopped dead.
    Sigfrid Kloss looked tense, but his brother, Gilbert, seemed to be absolutely terrified. He was staring at the coffin as if mesmerized.
    Even Dr Blom had stiffened at the sound. Gerlof realized the scepticism was gone, but the doctor shook his head.
    ‘Fill in the grave,’ he said firmly.
    The priest was silent for a moment, then he nodded.
    ‘There’s