‘At that moment a cold wind came from above and a sinister figure with enormous black wings enveloped her. It was Narahdarn the bat, whom Baiame had entrusted with guarding the holy tree. The woman fell to the ground and ran back to her cave where she hid. But it was too late, she had released death into the world, symbolised by the bat Narahdarn, and all of the Ber-rook-boorn descendants would be exposed to its curse. The yarran tree cried bitter tears over the tragedy that had taken place. The tears ran down the trunk and thickened, and that is why you can find red rubber on the bark of the tree nowadays.’
Andrew puffed happily on his cigar.
‘Gives Adam and Eve a run for their money, doesn’t it.’
Harry nodded and conceded there were a number of parallels. ‘Perhaps it’s just that people, wherever they live on the globe, somehow share the same visions or fantasies. It’s in our nature, wired into the hard drive, so to speak. Despite all the differences, sooner or later, we still come up with the same answers.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ Andrew said. He squinted through the smoke. ‘Let’s hope so.’
9
A Sea Nettle Jellyfish
HARRY WAS WELL down his second Coke when Birgitta arrived at ten minutes past nine. She was wearing a plain white cotton dress, and her red hair was collected in an impressive ponytail.
‘I was beginning to worry you wouldn’t come,’ Harry said. It was said as a joke, but he meant it. He had started worrying the moment they agreed to meet.
‘Really?’ she said in Swedish. She sent Harry a mischievous look. He had a feeling this was going to be a great evening.
They ordered Thai green curry with pork, chicken with cashew nuts cooked in a wok, an Australian Chardonnay and Perrier water.
‘I must say I’m pretty surprised to meet a Swede so far from home.’
‘You shouldn’t be. There are about ninety thousand Swedes in Australia.’
‘What?’
‘Most emigrated here before the Second World War, but quite a lot of young people left in the eighties with unemployment on the rise in Sweden.’
‘And there was me thinking Swedes would be missing their meatballs and the midsummer dancing before they’d reached Helsingør.’
‘That must be Norwegians you were thinking about. You’re crazy, you lot! The Norwegians I’ve met here started yearning for home after a few days, and after two months they were back in Norway. Back home to woolly cardigans!’
‘But not Inger?’
Birgitta fell quiet. ‘No, not Inger.’
‘Do you know why she stayed here?’
‘Probably the same reason as for most of us. You go on holiday, fall in love with the country, the climate, the easy lifestyle or a man. You apply to have your permit extended. Scandinavian girls don’t exactly have a problem getting jobs in bars, and suddenly it’s such a long way home and it’s so simple to stay.’
‘Is that how it was for you, too?’
‘More or less.’
They ate in silence for a while. The curry was thick, strong and good.
‘What do you know about Inger’s last boyfriend?’
‘As I said, he popped by the bar one night. She’d met him in Queensland. On Fraser Island, I think it was. He looked like the version of hippy I thought had died out long ago, but is alive and well here in Australia. Long braided hair, colourful, baggy clothes, sandals. Like he’d walked in off Woodstock beach.’
‘Woodstock’s inland. New York.’
‘But wasn’t there a lake they swam in? I seem to remember that.’
Harry ran a closer eye over her. She was sitting hunched over her food, concentrating. The freckles were bunched in a cluster over her nose. She was pretty, that was Harry’s opinion.
‘You shouldn’t know that kind of thing. You’re too young.’
She laughed. ‘And what are you – past it?’
‘Me? Well, some days I might be. It comes with the job – somewhere inside you age all too quickly. But I hope I’m not so disillusioned and jaded that I can’t feel alive now and then.’
‘Oh, poor you . . .’
Harry had to smile. ‘You can think what you like, but I’m not saying that to appeal to your maternal instinct, even though that might not have been a bad idea. It’s just the way it is.’
The waiter passed the table and Harry took the opportunity to order another bottle of water.
‘You’re a tiny bit damaged every time you unravel another murder case. Unfortunately, as a rule there are more human wrecks and sadder stories, and fewer ingenious motives, than you would imagine from reading Agatha Christie. At first I saw myself as a kind of knight dispensing justice, but at times I feel more like a refuse collector. Murderers are generally pitiful sorts, and it’s seldom difficult to point to at least ten good reasons why they turned out as they did. So, usually, what you feel most is frustration. Frustration that they can’t be happy destroying their own lives instead of dragging others down with them. This probably still sounds a touch sentimental . . .’