Whitout second thought as is his habit, Freddy larson takes on the task to solve the mystery. The fact that the police failed to find anyone despite divers and helicopters overshadows by the worry caused by hesitation between sausage or meatballs for lunch. The seemingly hopeless case alerts Robin Webster's intellectual powers and Chief Inspector Robertson reluctantly reopens the old files...

'Blasted Fog!'

The skipper rolled his head round to find a spot on the windscreen where he could see the jetty he was approaching with his ancient motor cutter. Each attempt to clean the pane had rubbed the salt and bird's dung to a lesser film. As was his habit every time the fog thickened, he decided to buy a detergent next time he filled up. Above the windscreen was a manually operated wiper, since long without its rubber and nowadays producing but a thin line with the metal point. He jerked it to and fro a couple of times.

To his surprise a considerable piece of gull's dung fell off and opened up a peephole, the size of a matchbox. He leant quickly towards it and registered the jetty growing larger in the fog only twenty yards from the stem.

Cursing from behind his teeth, he turned and gave the reverse gear a heavy kick. A shiny spot on the bar informed of previous contacts with his shoe. The boat slowed down but kept proceeding towards the jetty. At the absolutely last moment he shifted the helm and pulled the throttle to its maximum. Shaking and rattling the diesel engine increased its number of revolutions; the propeller beat the water to froth. The peeped again through the little hole but the boat had sheered and all he could see was water and heavy mist. The supply of caustic swearing stored up during a long life at sea proved useful as he wrenched the control lever to force it back into neutral position. The oaths were absorbed by the deafening clamour.

Panting after the effort, he firmly grabbed the rudder and, as the rusty hull bumped on to the wood construction he congratulated himself to yet another successful landing. The jetty head's gradual change into pulpwood was to him anatural process. In the old days, when all the jetties had been wooden, the owners had pursued him with routine complaints and ridiculous talk of involving the police.

The memory drew a smile. He had been in the habit of finishing the accusations as morbid and exaggerated touchiness. In case of indemnity demands, he had also perfected a way of tapping people on the shoulder and, to point out he appreciated a good joke, burst out boisterously laughing. His skin was a sthick as the boat's sheet metal and just about as sensitive. He worked with the rudder and the gas handle to keep the boat from drifting astern. Nowadays they built the jetties of concrete and made them resemble fallen down tank obstructions. The solid blocks had buckled his stem to the shape of a stamped beer can. He was seriously thinking of claiming damages.

The only passenger on board, a tall thin man in a trench coat and black cap had - increasingly concerned - been following the unstable voyage from his foredeck position. Since it was as difficult to look through the dirty pane from the outside, he couldn't confirm his misgiving that the skipper had been struck with cordial arrest. He searched a better angle with stretched neck and screwed up eyes, but saw nothing but a diffuse shadow inside the wheelhouse.

Just as he had made up his mind to investigate more closely, the boat unexpectedly resumed its original course and bumped on to the jetty. The thrust made him loose his balance and tottering like a drunk he groped about in the air for support. As he fell forward to land in a silly position with his hands on the deck, he reflected ironically that the performance wasn't favoring his dignity. He was grateful for the abscense of other audience than the rough skipper.

The stern kept moving to the side as the propeller pressed the blunt stem against the jetty. The man got up with some difficulty and reached grimacing for his back. Like many tall, lanky people suffered from permanent pain in the lower spine. But in spite of this, his state of mind was embarrassment rather than anger. The indignation in his face was the attitude he thought expected when he received the captain's apology.

The skipper didn't possess this required affection for his fellow beings. Neither by behavior nor expression did he show any sign of repentence as he stepped out on the deck. Certainly, he had observed the tall fellow's exercise through his peephole but, as a self-appointed gentleman he didn't think it possible to commit such a breach of etiquette as to point out somebody's lack of familiarity with the sea. His division of mankind was simple: sailors, the superior class, and fussy, helpless landlubbers. Unconcerned and grinning, he lifted off the tailgate to let the passenger ashore.

The man in the trenchcoat accepted his defeat with a resigned shrug. He took a huge stride to reach the old jetty planks with his enormous shoes. His cap, dropped on the deck during the unintentional gymnastics, was crumpled and he slapped it against his thigh before putting it back on his head.

For some reason, the skipper kept waiting on the deck, smiling and nodding. The stranger assumed the little lout was expecting a verdict on his imaginative landing technique.

'It was an unusual way of approaching a jetty, wasn't it?'

The captain extended his grin and ran chubby fingers through his gray and uncombed hair. Any speech, not including clear insolencewas interpreted as covert credit.

'It wasn't the first time, you know.'

The tall man glanced at the jetty head's sprawling splinters.

'I took it you had been here before.'

The irony was wasted. Winking and chuckling, the skipper replaced the gate, strode into the wheelhouse and kicked in the reverse gear. As the boat went astern, he leant through the the door opening and cupped a hand round his mouth.

'Two hours then!'

He eludicated with two fingers in the air like a victory sign. The stranger raised his hand to confirm that the message was received.

The gesture drew his attention to the palm, decorated with a layer of dark gray filth after his encounter with the deck. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and rubbed energetically. The deck was probably last cleaned twenty years back. His eyes followed the little cutter until it vanished in the mist. It looked solid enough tocross the Atlantic.

The captain's casual clumsiness drew a smile to his thin lips. It struck him that even the lout's nature might include a portion of instinctive charm or at least unintended humor. A persistent stain of tar wouldn't come off . He spat on the handkerchief.

When the sound of the clattering diesel engine was lost in the distance and stillness had settled on the lonely landing place, his lean face with its sharp blue eyes changed and the smile died. The sea was calm and gloomy, the surface reminiscent of liquid lead. The fog - a moment earlier thickening and thinning in intervals - became more compact as the wind slackened. Despite the trenchcoat and a warm sweater underneath, he shivered with cold. He turned up the coat collar and pulled it tight.

He was taken aback by a sudden feeling of ill omen, as if the atmosphere was vibrating. There was no call for such an emotion; he felt perfectly relaxed. He looked around with a tense expression, as if the sensation was audible or visible in the air.

To get rid off it, he filled his lungs, closed his eyes - felt unexpectedly dizzy and wobbled for a moment. He opened his eyes again. Having no idea what was causing the emotion he decided to blame it on the oxygen surplus. His disposition was far from emotional.

He composed himself and began the scrutiny of the old landing stage that was the reason for his trip. At the worst spots the timber was soft. Fragments had fallen off and left lighter wounds that over time would assume the darker gray shade of the moldering surrounding. Absentmindly, he kicked loose a small splinter and ground it to powder with his shoe. It didn't take a particularly penetrating intelligence to recognize that the final phase of decay was approaching. It surprised him that his friend, the robust skipper hadn't finished it a long time ago.

On the nearest rock were a few square yards of flat surface, a rare circumstance in the hilly archipelago. It housed a small windshield consisting of three wooden walls, a roof covered with tarred felt and a narrom bench. The capacity of the shed was three avarage-size adults but, as it was facing the sea, they would normally find better protection at the back. Judging from remaining fragments, the original color was white.

The tall man's city shoes weren't fit for the terrain. To avoid slipping he walked with utmost care up the wet rock-face. His funny, somewhat strutting way of moving had once brought down upon him a nickname that nobody had adred call him to his face. He wasn't the kind that joined in when he himself was the object of laughter. The manner of walking happened to be a family characteristic; his two brothers and his father also moved in that particular way.

Stiff with cold he sat down on the bench, put one of his long thin legs upon the other and began a thoughtful examination of the barren environment.

Between the gravel road that led to the landing place and the jetty's timber was a narrow concrete structure. The cement surface was slovenly worked, at some spots sunken and cracked. He understood this must be the spot his brother Matti had built. For some reason he thought it strange that the islanders hadn't mended it during the twenty-five years since construction day. For a long while, he rested his half-closed, contemplating eyes on the fundament.

As he hadn't seen the place before - he knew it from a relative's detailed description - he couldn't explain why he had pictured an alteration beyond recognition. He didn't know why he had expected a solid concrete jetty that would have wiped out all traces of the existing construction. Or the place deserted and forgotten in favor of a better choice for a landing stage. All of the jetties he had observed from on board the taxi-boat had been made of concrete. Then of course, most of the islands were considerably larger than this one.

He felt uncertain as he confirmed that the site perfectly fitted the relative's description. He wondered if his desire for a change emanated from aversion to confront a place so strongly connected with his lost brother. This was the last place where Matti had been observed.

On the other hand, he had to admit that the intact appearance favored his investigation. It would help him make sure that the next six months went by as smoothly as the previous twenty-four and a half years.

Like the rest of the family, Willy Erikson was convinced that brother Matti was alive and that he only stayed out of police reach until the legal limit ran out. Willy was grateful to the Swedish legal system that allowed even murderers to go free after a quarter of a century. The Erikson family took for granted that Matti was preparing for a triumphant return. That's why they hadn't reported him missing. Willy smiled at his fantasy picture of the reunion.

His bright eyes focused on the parts of the surroundings that were visible in the mist. He tried to imagine that time had stopped when his brother had left the scene. His fantasy had worked the image of the landing place for so long that he sensed he had actually been here. Every little detail his relative had described was there like in a frequently performed play. Not even the fragile windshield, behind which he assumed Matti had enjoyed his lunch, had been swept away with one of the many winter storms. He looked down at the foundation and pictured Matti's powerful arms laboring with a wheelbarrow full of cement.

His smile died as the ill-omened feeling unexpectedly returned in the shape of an almost physical atmosphere of doomsday. There was something uncanny about the place, something that squeezed his heart. He had no idea what it might be. If it hadn't been necessary to be familiar with the geography of the location, he would have regretted the impulse to come to the lonely island. The stech from rancid seaweed and the clucking from the planks of a moored skiff strengthened the sense of desolation.

The talkative skipper had informed him that the island was deserted during the winter season. To avoid intrusive and prying questions, he had abruptly told the rude individual that the purpose of the trip was to revive memories of the youth.

It actually had become his and the entire family's memory over time. Matti's last known dwelling place had been transformed into sort of a cult site to his brothers and his father. For future recollection and the record he decided again that everything perfectly fitted his elder relative's vivid description.

The ghostlike sense in the air hadn't been mentioned. Perhaps the relative had feared to be accused of superstition or he didn't have the power to feel it.

Brother Matti had phoned his uncle that last afternoon and told him he had met a girl who had invited him to the evening's dancing on the island. That had been the last sign of him. To keep his relatives up north informed, the uncle had mailed cuttings about the young islander Johnny Krombach's disappearance. A girl's name had been mentioned, the lost youngster's fiancee. Willy took for granted this was the girl Matti had been talking about.

As circumstantially as he had sat down, the tall man got up from the bench. The fog rolled in from the sea and enveloped the decomposing landing-place. The chill was of the kind that finds its way inside the clothes, through the skin and into the marrow of the bones.

On the other side of the rock with the windshield was a bathing place. There, too, the islanders had filled a couple of clefts with cement. He assumed it was done to help people find a spot where to spread a blanket and to keep children from falling into the large holes. His concentrated eyes drifted for a moment among the concrete blocks. They looked older, slightly yellowish in comparison with the jetty's foundation. Matti's occupation of the time made him ponder upon a connection between all of the cemented surfaces, but he couldn't decide what that could be.

A glance at the watch told him there was still an hour and a half until the motor cutter would return to pick him up. He decided upon a walk on the gravelled village road to memorize the buildings' positions and look for the name Krombach on the letterboxes. He slithered cautiously down the rockside to the road. The gravel crunched under his huge feet as he set off.

If the fog had been less dense or he had been more observant, he would have realized it was not true that the island was completely deserted during the winter. He would have noticed that at least one of the islanders had stayed in the barren region. He might have discovered the old man, who with a grim, contemptuous expression on his aged face had followed all of the stranger's movements in the fog.

But he didn't glance in that direction as he passed him at a distance of only a few yards.He didn't expect anyone to hide between the small red-painted boathouses. He had no idea that pale, malignant eyes scrutinized his features.

Least of all he would have guessed that the old man too had waited for almost twenty-five years...