The Sand Trail to Berth Four

The ticket office at Harbour Point is a wooden hut with one window facing the quay and one facing the water. Aksel has run it for six years. He knows the timetable by heart, the price of every crossing and the exact sound the cash drawer makes when it is closed properly. That is why the numbers bother him so much.

For three weeks, the last ferry of the evening, which leaves from berth four, has gone out with one more passenger than the tickets sold. The count at the gangway says thirty-seven. The till says thirty-six. And every morning, Aksel opens the cupboard where the spare ticket rolls are kept. One single ticket has been torn off the end of a roll, very cleanly, as if with a ruler.

"It is not much money," Marit says on Tuesday, as she hangs her coat on the hook. She works the afternoon shift and keeps the books. "Seven pounds a night. Maybe a hundred and fifty so far."

"It is not the money," Aksel says. "Only two people have keys to this hut. One of them is me. And I know I have not been selling tickets to myself."

"Then it is me?" Marit says, with a small laugh.

"No. Which is exactly what bothers me." He rubs his forehead. "Somebody is getting in, taking one ticket and walking onto the ferry with a smile. And I cannot work out how."

Marit puts down her pen. She has a way of going very still when she is thinking, like a cat at a mouse hole.

"Then we stop guessing and we catch the footprints," she says. "We do not need to sit up all night. We need to see who walks in."

They make their first plan that afternoon, between the departures. It is a simple plan. Marit buys a bag of white chalk dust from the hardware shop across the road. After the last crossing, she will spread a thin layer of it over the floor between the back door and the ticket cupboard. In the morning, whoever has been creeping around will have left a clear print of every step.

At half past nine, with the quay empty and the boats rocking quietly at their ropes, Marit carries out the plan. She sprinkles the dust with a kitchen sieve, in a smooth, even carpet, from the back door to the cupboard and under the window. Aksel watches from the doorway with his arms folded.

"It looks like a freshly made bed," he says.

"Do not step on it," Marit says. "Not even by accident."

They lock up at ten, and they walk home in opposite directions, pleased with themselves.

The plan collapses at seven the next morning. Aksel unlocks the hut, switches on the lamp and stops in the doorway. The floor is clean. It is not merely clean; it is shining. A faint smell of lemon hangs in the air, and in the corner, a mop is leaning against the wall with a bucket underneath it.

"No," he says out loud.

Marit arrives at eight. She takes one look at the floor and puts her hand over her eyes.

"The night cleaner," she says. "Nobody told her about the chalk. She comes at midnight, and she has done the whole building."

"So every footprint is gone," Aksel says. "And the ticket?"

He opens the cupboard. The roll has been torn again, as neatly as ever. Behind his back, Marit makes a small sound, somewhere between a groan and a laugh.

"Whoever it is," she says, "they have a better schedule than we do."

All morning they argue about what to do next. Aksel wants to fix a camera above the door. But the camera would cost more than the stolen tickets and would take a week to arrive. Marit wants to tell the harbour manager. But the manager will certainly say that it is nothing, and he will ask why two adults are losing sleep over a handful of paper.

It is late in the afternoon when Aksel sees the bucket.

It hangs on a hook beside the back door, an old fire bucket, painted white and stamped with the word SAND. It was retired years ago because the bottom has rusted through. There is a hole in it about the size of a coin. Aksel takes it down and turns it over. A trickle of dust runs out through the hole, as thin and steady as water from a tap.

He stands there for a long time, watching the dust fall onto the floor, and an idea arrives in his head.

"Marit," he says. "What would happen if we used this?"

"It has a hole in it," she says. "It is rubbish."

"Exactly. It is a hole that leaks slowly and evenly. I fill it and hang it on a string from the ceiling hook, right above the cupboard door. Then anyone who opens that door will knock it, and it will swing. A sand bucket that swings and leaks will draw a line on the floor." He draws an invisible circle in the air with his finger. "Not chalk. Real sand, heavy enough to hold a print. And this time nobody will be allowed to clean up after us."

"She will mop it at midnight," Marit says.

"Not if we ask her to skip the hut tonight," Aksel says. "We tell her the floor is being treated."

Marit thinks about it. Then she smiles slowly.

"It is a terrible plan," she says. "Let us do it."

That evening they fill the bucket to the brim with sand from the old bin on the quay. Aksel climbs onto a chair and ties the handle to the ceiling hook with a length of fishing line. Then he sets the bucket swaying, just enough to test it. Sand spills in a pale curve across the floorboards and stops when the swinging stops. Marit ties the other end of the line to the cupboard door, so that the first person to open it will set the bucket moving.

They lock up at ten again, and this time Marit has a word with the night cleaner, who agrees to skip the hut. Then they go home.

At seven the next morning, Aksel unlocks the door very slowly.

The bucket hangs motionless from the ceiling, almost empty. A broad arc of sand lies on the floor beneath it. In the middle of the arc, as clear as a signature, there is a footprint.

Marit comes in behind him and kneels down.

"It is bare," she says. "A bare foot. And it is wet."

There is a second print beside it, and then a third. The line of prints leads across the floorboards, from the window that faces the water, to the cupboard, and back again. Aksel follows them with his eyes to the windowsill. The glass is shut and locked from the inside. Under it, on the wooden ledge, lies a thin trail of seaweed.

"That window has not been opened for years," he says.

"Then they did not need to open it," Marit says quietly.

She bends lower over the last print, the one nearest the sill, and she goes quiet. Beside the print of the large foot, half hidden under the edge of the sand, there is another. It is much smaller. It is the print of a child's foot, and it is pointing in the opposite direction, towards the sea.