Sail of Stone

by Ake Edwardson

  Winter heard a sound from somewhere else in the house, and he turned his head.

  “The cat,” said Osvald. “You’re not allergic, are you?”

  “I don’t actually know,” said Winter. “I’ve never had a cat.”

  “You’ve petted one, right?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “I actually never have,” said Winter. It was the first time he’d considered this, and it was really pretty ridiculous. A man over forty who’d never petted a cat in his entire life. He needed a place in the country.

  “Now’s your chance,” said Osvald, bending down and grabbing a small, thin, coal-black shorthaired cat under its stomach and holding it out to Winter, who tickled its chin and stroked its head, and that was that. Osvald put the cat down, which took a lithe leap over the doorstep.

  “We had that one’s ancestor when, oh, that summer when you and Johanna had a little something going on,” said Osvald.

  “I was never here then,” said Winter.

  It was true. He could have stood in that room more than twenty years ago and seen the same sea then as he did now, the same angular boulders. This house had been the Osvald siblings’ parents’ home. Erik had taken over, and his father had moved to the annex, and Johanna had her own little house farther up, closer to the school.

  “Have you spoken with Johanna?” asked Osvald.

  “Yes. Have you?”

  “Of course I’ve spoken with her. What do you mean?”

  “I mean since you came back. If you’ve heard anything more about the trip home.”

  “We chatted this morning,” said Osvald. “The doctor there, the pathologist I guess he’s called, is supposed to analyze something. But I’m sure you know that.”

  It depends, thought Winter. I haven’t heard anything today.

  “Do you know what it’s about?” Osvald repeated.

  “I haven’t heard anything this morning,” said Winter.

  “That’s not what I meant.” Osvald looked at him with those pale eyes that reminded him of a blue sky in January, with a faint light around the pupils. They were like everyone’s eyes here. They were exposed to the open light, and no fisherman could wear dark glasses and still retain his honor. Only tourists wore sunglasses on the islands in the southern archipelago. “I mean, the reason he died.”

  It was the first time they’d mentioned Axel Osvald.

  “I only know what they said before,” said Winter. “That it was a heart attack.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “I did then.”

  “That’s not what I asked,” said Osvald.

  “What’s the alternative?” said Winter.

  “That’s a question for you, isn’t it?” said Osvald. “You’re the detective.”

  “But if I were to ask you to think about it.”

  “I haven’t gotten that far yet,” said Osvald. “I’m not sure that I will get there, either.” He began to walk to the door, stopped. “What is the point of it?”

  “I don’t actually know,” said Winter.

  “But you don’t seem to have completely accepted that explanation,” said Osvald.

  “Did something happen one time when your father traveled to Scotland? When he was looking for clues, or information about what happened to John?”

  “He wasn’t looking for clues,” said Osvald.

  “No?”

  “Not that kind of clues. We had all accepted that Grandpa went down with that ship. With the Marino. He was trying to find information about how it happened. He wasn’t looking for Grandpa, or anything.”

  “Did he tell you all of this?”

  “Is that so much?”

  “Did he tell you what you just said?” Winter asked again.

  “More or less,” said Osvald. “That’s what he was thinking, anyway.”

  “Then it must have been an enormous shock when that letter came.”

  “I don’t know,” said Osvald.

  “Weren’t you at home?”

  “Yes and no. But I think he, Dad, I think he still believed that nothing new had really happened. That it was more, well, the circumstances.”

  “Which are pretty unclear,” said Winter.

  “You could say so.”

  “How much did he find out about that, then?”

  “What people knew in general. The boat goes out and doesn’t come home.”

  That was probably the fastest way that the event could be summarized, thought Winter.

  “But not all of the old crew was along on that last trip,” said Winter.

  “No, which was lucky for them.”

  “But why not?”

  “There are different explanations depending on who you ask,” said Osvald. “And now there’s no one to ask anymore.” He took another step. “I’ll go get those letters now.”

  36

  Bergenhem kept the truck under surveillance. The two men who had gotten out and were standing next to it seemed to be doing the same, or waiting for something or someone.

  One of them, the older one, looked at his watch.

  Bergenhem had parked on the cross street on the other side of Fastlagsgatan, among a row of cars that were all past their prime. His own unmarked service car would actually have stood out if it weren’t so dirty.

  He was communicating via a secure radio with the operative commander, who had changed location. It sounded like he was chewing when he answered. Hamburger. There was an echo, feedback.

  “We’re inside the premises,” said command, “the warehouse.”

  “I ended up in Kortedala,” said Bergenhem.

  “Where’s the truck?”

  “It’s parked fifty yards in front of me.”

  “Good. It probably contains stolen goods.”

  “I think it’s empty. I think they’re picking something up.” He saw one of the men, the younger one, light a cigarette. “What should I do?”

  “Keep them under surveillance for the time being.”

  “How does it look in there?” asked Bergenhem.

  “We’ve found half of Gothenburg’s household goods,” said the commander, whose name was Meijner. “It’s practically IKEA in here.”

  Bergenhem smiled.

  “The guys found the same thing up in Tagene,” said Meijner.

  “So Hisingen finally has an IKEA,” said Bergenhem.

  “Looks like it.”

  Bergenhem watched the men move around their truck, if it was in fact theirs, and converse as though they were trying to make a decision.

  “Is the stuff definitely stolen?” he said.

  “We’ve already identified a lot of things here,” said Meijner.

  “Okay.”

  A car drove up behind the hangar of apartments and parked behind the truck. An older man got out. Bergenhem wrote down the license number.

  The three men seemed to be carrying on a discussion about something that lacked a solution. The man who had just arrived pointed up and then in a different direction. One of the truck men, the younger one, shrugged his shoulders. His older friend started to climb into the truck. The newcomer made some sort of circular motion with his hand.

  Everything seemed to be a misunderstanding.

  The newcomer looked around and then went through the front door.

  The truck started, spewed clouds of diesel fumes, the worst kind. Bergenhem was forced to make a decision. He started the car as the truck passed. The younger man was driving. The older one was talking on a cell phone.

  Bergenhem swung out and followed them south. Three hundred yards and he met Aneta Djanali. He saw that she saw him. He even had time to see her start punching in the numbers. His phone rang.

  “Obviously I missed something,” she said.

  “Here we go again,” said Bergenhem.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing. They never went in.”

  “No?”

  “Another guy showed up.”

  “Explain
.”

  They passed the police station again. It seemed deserted. There were no cars outside and no one was going in or coming out, or being led in or out. Bergenhem pondered whether this one had also closed for good, like the one down in Redbergslid.

  “Well, another guy showed up, an older guy, and he went into the building and the others left.” Bergenhem turned left. “It was the same entrance as before.”

  “Is he there now?” Aneta asked.

  “I assume so. That was five minutes ago. He parked the car outside. I wrote down the number. Do you need it?”

  “I’ll get it later,” she said. “Bye.”

  “Aneta!” Bergenhem shouted before she hung up. “Don’t say anything about the truck.”

  “Of course not.”

  “I’ll call later.”

  Bergenhem kept going, now to the south, on the same roads as before. Round-trip to Kortedala, he thought as he passed Olskroken and continued into the city on Friggagatan. At Odinsplatsen he saw the blue and white truck turn left, and he followed it over the river and through a green light and up onto Skånegatan and past the police station. The driver seemed to like passing police stations.

  Aneta parked behind Sigge Lindsten’s car.

  The elevator was up. She called it down and waited and listened to the wind that was whistling around like a spiral through the stairwell, up, down. It hissed like a voice.

  In the elevator she looked straight ahead at the wall where the mirror had been. She was staring into black circles made with paint that never went away, around and around, and she thought more had appeared since last time.

  The door to the apartment was open. She knocked, twice.

  Sigge Lindsten came out into the hall from the kitchen. He didn’t look surprised.

  “What is it now?” was all he said.

  “It’s still empty in here,” said Aneta.

  “Yes.”

  “No one has moved in after Anette?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” Aneta asked.

  “What does it matter?” said Lindsten. “And if someone had, can’t I do what I want? It’s mine, isn’t it?”

  “How is Anette?”

  “Fine, I think.”

  “Where is she?”

  “At home. But please leave her alone now.”

  “Forsblad hasn’t contacted her?”

  “No.”

  “‘And his sister?”

  “She hasn’t either.”

  “What do you think about his sister?”

  “Nothing. And perhaps now I could be allowed to continue what I’m doing?”

  “Why did you come here?” asked Aneta.

  Lindsten didn’t answer. He took a step backward and disappeared into the kitchen again. Aneta took a few steps into the hall and saw him standing in front of one of the cabinets. He quickly turned around when he saw her. There was something in his eyes that caused her to back up immediately and walk out into the stairwell and run down three flights, five flights, six, until she was down in the entryway. She felt surprised as she walked to the car. She felt cold. What had happened?

  Winter read the letters, one after another. They were short, written in stumpy handwriting from a young John Osvald to his young wife. They weren’t dated. But in the second one there was a reference to something that had been mentioned in the first one. Winter read it again. He looked up.

  “Did your dad tell you about these letters?”

  “No.”

  “Has he read them?”

  “They were in his bedroom. He must have taken them out to … well, there was a box there and it was on the shelf and it was still open, and I think he kept them in there.”

  “Are there more?”

  “We haven’t found any. And like I said, he never said anything.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why not? It was probably hard for him. I don’t know. You can see there’s a greeting for him in that second letter, and …”

  Osvald didn’t finish his sentence.

  “The second letter seems to have been written from a different location,” said Winter.

  “Yes, maybe.”

  Winter quoted: “We hope that we will have a better time here.”

  He looked up again.

  “They had moved.”

  Osvald nodded.

  “It was probably up to Peterhead,” Osvald said.

  “Did they have a ‘better time’ there, as he writes?”

  “I don’t know, Erik. As far as I know, there’s no one who knows.”

  “Listen to this,” Winter said, reading out loud again: “That thing you heard about before isn’t what you think. You must believe me.” He looked at Osvald. “He’s referring to something he’d written about earlier, apparently. Or to something she’d heard about.”

  “Maybe,” said Osvald.

  “Your grandmother … didn’t she ever talk about it?”

  “Not that I remember. We were little when she died.”

  Like your mother, thought Winter. Both of the women in the Osvald family had left children and husbands behind. Now the children only had each other; everyone else was gone. Two brothers disappeared in the sea off Scotland, almost within sight. Now the children’s father had died there, too.

  Erik Osvald had his own family, his wife and son. Johanna Osvald had her brother. He thought about what she must be thinking about up there in Inverness. He wasn’t sure that she’d still be there when he arrived.

  Osvald sat motionless, as though he were meditating, with his eyes on the cliffs outside the window. Did he sit like this every week when he was home? A week out there, a week in here.

  “I’m flying up tomorrow,” said Winter.

  “What?”

  “I’m flying to Inverness tomorrow.”

  “What are you saying?” Osvald said, and he appeared to give a start. He took his eyes from the window.

  “Are you surprised?” Winter said.

  Osvald scratched the thin hair above his forehead, an unconscious movement.

  Winter waited. A flatbed moped drove by outside; the noise swung around the house and bounced across the cliffs.

  “Is it Johanna?” Osvald said with his hand still on his head.

  “Sorry?”

  “Is there still something between you and Johanna?”

  “Do you mean that would be the reason I’m going there?”

  “What other reason is there?” said Osvald.

  That caused Winter to become silent for a second.

  “Did you go mute?” said Osvald.

  The moped drove by again, from the other direction. Some seabirds cried out again. Winter thought he could hear the bellowing of a boat from the archipelago lines.

  “There are two reasons,” said Winter, “and they’re probably connected.”

  Bergenhem followed the truck. It was easier than ever. Skånegatan was wide and straight. The radio crackled. He answered and yielded at Korsvägen. The truck continued onto Södra Vägen toward Mölndalsvägen.

  “The plates on that vehicle are stolen,” he said to Meijner.

  “Oh, fuck.”

  “Why did they drive to the warehouse only to turn around?” said Bergenhem.

  “They probably got a call and were rerouted,” said Meijner.

  “That could be.”

  “Should we send some cars and bring them in?” said Meijner.

  “Don’t we want to know where they’re going?”

  “Yes,” said Meijner.

  “This is probably a big operation you’re in charge of, right?”

  “Very big,” said Meijner. “Very, very big.”

  “Then we might mess something up if we crack down on these rascals now,” said Bergenhem.

  “Your assessment of this whole thing is quite correct,” said Meijner. “Continue surveillance according to orders but do nothing, and stand by for further orders.”

  Bergenhem shook his head and smiled to himself.

&nbs
p; “And give me the number on those plates, Bergies.”

  “Talk to Aneta Djanali at CID,” Bergenhem said, and hung up.

  They were on Mölndalsvägen now, passing the south entrance to the Liseberg amusement park. The road was still wide and straight. At Sörgården it changed names to Göteborgsvägen. The truck passed the Krokslätt factories. Bergenhem tried to keep four cars between him and the truck.

  They continued up onto Kungsbackaleden. Bergenhem checked the gas. All cars that were taken out were supposed to have full tanks. This one didn’t; it must have been somewhere else just before he got it. But it would last another sixty miles, maybe seventy.

  They drove through Kållered. At the southern exit the truck swung to the right, and Bergenhem had time to follow; he watched it turn right again and drive around the parking lot and park outside IKEA.

  Bergenhem parked. The men had gone in, two people among hundreds.

  Bergenhem opened the car door and sat there. It smelled like gas in the parking lot. It smelled like grilled hot dogs.

  He had grilled hot dogs with Krister over the weekend. On Stora Amundö, not so far from here. Well, pretty far.

  They had talked about everything.

  Martina thought he was working. He didn’t think she would call and check. Sometimes he had the feeling she didn’t care anymore.

  She looked away. She always looked away.

  This isn’t working, he had thought as he drove to Linnéplatsen to pick up Krister.

  He had said it out there, on the cliffs. The sea around them was full of sails.

  This isn’t working anymore.

  Don’t you want friends? Krister had said.

  I don’t want to sneak around with them, he had said.

  You don’t need to sneak around, Krister had said.

  But I do. Martina. I’m sneaking around. I’m lying about periods of time.

  Tell her.

  What should I say?

  You would know best, Krister had said.

  The hell I would, he had thought.

  He had seen Krister four times.

  Nothing had happened.

  Everything was confusion.

  Maybe it was him and Martina. Maybe that was the problem. Their so-called relationship. Maybe they should go talk to someone. Maybe it was that simple and that complicated.