Sail of Stone

by Ake Edwardson

  The lake turned its back on this landscape. On the western side you could reach the water after a comfortable and short walk; here you would have to jump thirty yards from pointed cliffs.

  They parked next to the little man-made lake, Loch Tarff. It stared up at the darkening sky like a blind eye.

  They got out. Winter shivered in his coat. He noticed that Steve was shivering.

  To lie here without clothes would have meant death for them too. To be naked in this nakedness.

  Macdonald studied the sketch that Craig had drawn. Craig had offered to come along, or to send someone who had been along then, but they had declined.

  Macdonald pointed to the left of the motionless surface of the water. They stepped through rough grass over a small hill and down on the other side into a hollow that was shallow and wide.

  “He was lying here,” said Macdonald, crouching down.

  “And he walked here, in other words,” Winter said, looking off across Loch Tarff; he could glimpse the ridiculously narrow road to the left and a bit of the water of Loch Ness, which was now as black as the sky would be soon.

  “That hasn’t been proven,” said Macdonald, who was still crouching. “They found his clothes out in the open below Borlum Hill and up here, but we don’t know that he put them there himself, do we?”

  “No.”

  “Now we know that someone else was with him in Fort Augustus.”

  “Do we?”

  “It was Axel Osvald who was sitting beside Johnson in the car. Whoever Johnson is.”

  “Anyone could have been sitting beside him,” Winter said.

  And Johnson could be anyone, he thought.

  Macdonald grunted and changed position but kept crouching.

  “What did you say, Steve?”

  “Do you want to believe this, or what?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That it’s a crime.”

  “I hope it’s not a crime,” Winter said.

  Macdonald grunted again. Maybe it was in Gaelic. He got up. It was as though the darkness was falling at one hundred miles an hour now. Winter could see Macdonald’s teeth and the shape of his head. Steve mumbled something and turned around, toward land, toward the Monadhliath Mountains. Aviemore, the skiing paradise, was on the other side of the chain of mountains. But there was no paradise here, only wind and cold. Winter felt the tip of his own nose become cold. He had no gloves. His fingers started to become cold.

  “Why this place?” Macdonald said now, as though to himself. He started to walk away, quickly.

  “It is a crime,” he said as they stood next to the car. “The question is what kind.” He opened the car door. “It could be worse than we thought.”

  “You don’t need to think out loud, Steve,” Winter said, and climbed in on his side.

  Angela came out of the bathroom. Winter was lying crosswise on the bed with his head at an uncomfortable angle.

  “Is that an acrobat trick?” she said.

  “I have to get the blood back into my head,” he said.

  She sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “Yes, you seemed a little sluggish during dinner.”

  “I did?”

  “You and Steve both did, to be honest.”

  Winter lifted his head and sat up.

  “Like we said, it was a strange feeling to be up there this afternoon, in the mountains.”

  “Mmhmm.”

  “I’m sorry if I ruined dinner.”

  “No, no, it was nice.”

  Winter climbed up from the bed and walked over to the console table and poured out a little whisky from the bottle he’d bought at the airport. He lifted the bottle but Angela shook her head.

  Winter drank the whisky, which was a Benrinnes. He saw his own face in the mirror. It still looked frozen from the wind on Murligan Hill. He rubbed his chin. He saw Angela’s amused face in the mirror. He made an ugly face. He thought of Old Man Macdonald. Steve had told Angela and Sarah about him during dinner, and about other strange things having to do with the clans in Scotland. It was, as Steve had said earlier, mostly very sad stories. But many of them were also senseless, comical.

  Winter turned around.

  “So we get to see Dallas, then,” he said.

  She nodded.

  “But you two will get there first,” she said.

  He and Steve would leave early in the morning. Angela and Sarah would wait for Steve’s sister, Eilidh, and the three women would leave around lunchtime.

  “It’s funny,” said Angela, “when I hear the name Dallas, or read about it, I immediately think of the name Kennedy.” She waved a finger. “I think I’ll take a whiskey after all, a small one.” Winter took a glass from the table. “But of course this is a different Dallas. Proto-Dallas, as Steve said.”

  Winter nodded and poured out a half inch.

  “But Kennedy is also the name of a Scottish clan, isn’t it?” she said, and took the glass.

  42

  Halfway to Nairn, Macdonald pointed to a road sign: Cawdor Castle.

  “Do you know your Shakespeare?” he asked.

  Winter saw the sign.

  “Give me a minute.”

  Cawdor, Cawdor, Cawdor. Thane of Cawdor.

  “Macbeth,” said Winter.

  Macdonald tipped the hat he didn’t have.

  “Do you believe that story, too?” asked Winter.

  “Not about the castle,” Macdonald said, “even if it is from the early thirteen-hundreds. But I believe the myth.”

  “That was a true tale of murder,” said Winter.

  “You could say that I grew up near two monsters,” Macdonald said, “Nessie and Macbeth.”

  “How has that affected you?” asked Winter.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  They drove between fields that breathed sea. Winter looked to the right, across the river Nairn.

  They drove through Nairn, which was built of brown granite. The sound of gulls was intense. The sky was blue; there were no clouds. The city was next to the sea.

  “This is the best place for sun in Scotland,” Macdonald said. “We came here to swim sometimes when I was a child.”

  They continued on the A96 toward Forres. Winter saw the clouds inland.

  How far is’t call’d to Forres? What are these

  So wither’d and so wild in their attire,

  That look not like the inhabitants o’ the earth,

  And yet are on’t?

  Macdonald swung through two roundabouts and parked on High Street in front of Chimes Tearoom. They got out of the car.

  “This is the street of my youth,” said Macdonald. “Forres was the closest I got to a city.” He looked around. “It isn’t much more than this street.”

  Fraser Bros. meats on the other side of High Street displayed a sign for “Award Winning Haggis.” Winter knew that haggis was the national dish of Scotland, a hash made of sheep stomach and oatmeal. He had refrained from eating it thus far.

  “Great chieftain o’ the puddin’-race!” said Macdonald, who noticed his gaze.

  Winter smiled.

  “Robert Burns,” said Macdonald. “Ode to a Haggis”:

  Fair fa’ your honest sonsie face,

  Great chieftain o’ the puddin’-race!

  Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,

  Painch, tripe, or thairm:

  Weel are ye wordy of a grace

  As lang’s my arm.

  “I wish we had poetry like that in Sweden,” said Winter. “Poetry in honor of hash.”

  “Then let’s have coffee,” said Macdonald, and they stepped into Chimes and sat down at one of the tables in the window. A woman their age came up and took the order from Macdonald: two caffe lattes and two slices of Dundee cake. She had short, dark brown hair and an open face. She lingered at the table.

  “Isn’t that Steve?” she said.

  “Yes …,” said Macdonald, suddenly getting up. “Lorraine.”

  She reache
d up and gave him a hug.

  “Long time no see,” she said.

  “Very long,” said Macdonald.

  She turned around and saw that the line was beginning to grow at the counter, where her coworker was raising an eyebrow.

  “I have to work,” she said, throwing a quick glance at Winter.

  “A Swedish friend,” said Macdonald, turning toward Winter.

  Winter got up and extended his hand. They greeted each other. She gave Macdonald another smile.

  “Will you be here this afternoon?”

  “I’m sorry, Lorraine. We’re on our way to Aberdeen.”

  “Ah.”

  She turned around and walked quickly to the counter. Macdonald and Winter sat down. Winter saw a note to the right of the counter: “One person needed for washing dishes and pots, Wednesdays and Fridays 11–2.”

  Macdonald cleared his throat discreetly.

  “Old flame,” he said.

  “Mmhmm,” said Winter.

  “Like you and Johanna Osvald.”

  “Did I tell you about that?”

  Macdonald didn’t answer. He looked around, looked out through the window. People went into Fraser Bros., came out with prize-winning haggis.

  “It’s been quite a few years since I was here last,” said Macdonald.

  Winter didn’t answer. Macdonald met his gaze.

  “I don’t know,” said Macdonald, “you almost get some sort of feeling of … shame when you come back. Like you’re guilty of something. Like you’re ashamed that you left here once, failed them, maybe. I don’t know if you understand this, Erik. If it’s even possible to understand.”

  “I’ve lived in the same city my whole life, Steve. I haven’t experienced what you’re experiencing.”

  Such different lives we’ve had, really, thought Winter. Macdonald came from a little one-horse town; he had taken his first independent steps on the streets of this small town. Winter was a big-city boy.

  Lorraine came with the coffee and the fruitcake, which was heavy with fruit.

  “How’s it going, Lorraine?” asked Macdonald.

  “It’s going,” she answered.

  “I see you need dishwashers,” Macdonald said, smiling.

  “If you’re in town on Wednesdays and Fridays, well …,” Lorraine said.

  Macdonald smiled again but didn’t answer.

  “Otherwise it’s pretty much like for everyone else here,” said Lorraine. “Divorced from a jerk of a guy and two half-grown kids to support.”

  “Who was the jerk?” asked Macdonald.

  “Rob Montgomerie,” she answered.

  Macdonald raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes, I know,” she said, smiling a smile that might have been acid, “but you weren’t here anymore, Steve, were you?”

  Macdonald suddenly looked guilty. Winter noticed that he lowered his eyes. Lorraine walked back to the counter. Macdonald watched her go.

  “Now I really feel guilty,” he said.

  “You knew that guy?”

  “He was a jerk,” said Macdonald. “Poor Lorraine.” Macdonald turned to Winter. “Sometimes it doesn’t matter how grown-up you are, there are people you will dislike your whole life.” He looked at Lorraine. “She must have been desperate.”

  “She’s gotten away from it,” said Winter.

  “I’m not sure,” said Macdonald. “Rob was a violent type.”

  As they left, Macdonald took Lorraine aside for a second.

  Winter waited outside.

  “That bastard has stayed away so far, anyway,” Macdonald said when he came out to the sidewalk.

  “You look like you’re back in high school,” said Winter.

  Which is true, he thought. When Steve comes back here he becomes the person he was then. That’s how time works.

  “There are a lot of wife beaters here,” said Macdonald.

  “Where isn’t there?” said Winter.

  Aneta Djanali was waiting in the room when they showed Sigge Lindsten in. It was an important distinction: He was shown into the room; he wasn’t brought into it.

  Halders cleared his throat and they started, and the tape recorder turned. Lindsten answered everything as though this had all been well rehearsed. But he didn’t know anything.

  Halders asked about various addresses on the outskirts of Brantingsmotet. Lindsten was the least-aware person in the world.

  “I’m going to tell you more than I need to,” said Halders. “Stored in those warehouses I just mentioned are stolen goods from burglaries of many houses around Gothenburg.”

  “I see,” said Lindsten.

  “Headquarters,” said Halders, “on the way out to the fences and buyers.”

  “It seems things like that are becoming more and more common,” said Lindsten.

  “Like what?” Halders asked.

  “Thefts, and organizations, or whatever they’re called.”

  “That’s right,” said Halders. “A large organization.”

  “But what does this have to do with me?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you one more thing,” said Halders. “We followed a truck that was leaving those crammed warehouses on Hisingen, and it drove through the entire city to Fastlagsgatan in Kortedala and stopped outside entrance number five, and guess who arrived shortly thereafter and spoke to the driver?”

  “No idea,” said Lindsten.

  “It was you!” said Halders.

  “Why, that’s a surprise,” said Lindsten.

  “And one more thing,” said Halders. “The truck had stolen license plates.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Maybe it was the truck that was stolen?” said Lindsten.

  “And the plates weren’t stolen?” Halders quickly looked to the side, at Aneta. “Is that what you mean?”

  “It was just a thought,” Lindsten said, shrugging. “Who were they, then?”

  “Who?” asked Halders.

  “The guys in the truck,” said Lindsten.

  “Who said there was more than one?” said Halders.

  “I was there, wasn’t I?” Lindsten smiled a smile that had to be called sly, thought Aneta. “And I was there. And I remember that a truck was parked outside the door when I came out, and I told them that they couldn’t park there, and then they asked directions to somewhere and then they left.” He inhaled through his nose twice. “I don’t know if your witness heard what we said, but if he did then he can confirm that.”

  “They were waiting for you,” Halders said.

  Lindsten made a gesture that might have expressed resignation to dealing with the feeble-minded person across from him.

  “I’m going to tell you one more thing,” said Halders.

  “Why should I listen to all of this?” said Lindsten.

  “In one of the warehouses on Hisingen we found what we believe is the entirety of Anette’s belongings from the apartment in Kortedala,” said Halders. “We have checked the lists from the record carefully. We have been there. And there are a few framed photos.”

  “That’s good news,” said Lindsten. “Is that why I’m here? To identify the things, or whatever it’s called?”

  “Most of the stuff in that warehouse was all helter-skelter, but Anette’s things were placed very neatly on their own behind separate screens. Everything was very neat when it came to your daughter’s belongings.”

  “I’m thankful for that,” said Lindsten.

  “Why do you think that was?” asked Halders.

  “No idea,” Lindsten answered. “I’m just glad that her things might have turned up.”

  Lindsten went on his way to Brantingsmotet in a marked car. Aneta and Halders followed.

  Lindsten recognized the things as Anette’s.

  He signed some papers.

  They waved good-bye out on the pavement.

  Inside it was like a hangar with odds and ends and furniture and kitchen appliances and the devil and his grandma.


  “There’s more than I expected,” said Aneta.

  “There are more warehouses like this one,” said Halders.

  “My God.”

  “What is it that I’m not getting here?” said Halders.

  “And me,” said Aneta.

  “Lindsten’s daughter is subjected to threats and suspected assault by her husband. The neighbors report it. She doesn’t want to file a report, which is all too tragically familiar. She flees to her home. Her apartment is cleaned out under the supervision of Detective Inspector Aneta Djanal—”

  “Please,” Aneta interrupted.

  “—Djanali, and that very apartment is then sublet to Moa Ringmar of all people, and she moves in and moves out quick as fuck when she learns about the history of the place. At the same time, Gothenburg’s Finest are working on a large operation to crack a gigantic theft ring with an IKEA-class warehouse on Hisingen, and a truck leaves from there, maybe on a mission, maybe not, and it drives straight to Anette’s apartment but before anyone goes into the building Sigge Lindsten comes out and calls it off.”

  “What is it he calls off?” said Aneta.

  “That’s my question, too,” said Halders. “One guess is that they were going to clean out the apartment again. But the guys in the truck didn’t know it was already empty. Eventually someone tells Lindsten that they’re on their way there and he shows up and explains the situation and the thieves take off again.”

  “He could have just called,” said Aneta.

  “Maybe he didn’t dare.”

  “Was he already so suspicious? Of us?”

  “He’s not dumb,” said Halders. “And he probably didn’t think Bergenhem was tailing the truck.”

  “So Lindsten rents to people who are then robbed of all they own.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why not,” said Aneta.

  “That is what we were thinking when we brought him in just now, isn’t it?”

  “And others are doing the same thing?”

  “Yes, or they have good contacts among the landlords.”

  “Mmhmm.”

  “Then of course there’s the question of why, in that case, he stole his own daughter’s belongings.”

  Aneta thought. She thought about her short encounter with Anette Lindsten, about Hans Forsblad, about his sister, who seemed as nuts as her brother. About Sigge Lindsten, about Mrs. Lindsten, about all those people, all of whom seemed extremely dangerous, no, not dangerous, peculiar, evasive, like shadows who got tangled in their lies. They disintegrated, became something else, someone else. She saw Anette’s face again. The broken cheekbone that had healed but didn’t look like it once had, and never would. Her eyes. A nervous hand up in her hair. A life that in some ways was over.