A golf bag was leaning against one of the tractors.
Winter saw the club handles sprawling against the cow shit on the tires. Maybe not a common sight on a farm in backwoods Sweden. But here. People played golf the way the Swedes took nature walks. Along the roads in Scotland, Winter had seen many golfers, men, women, in tweed, in rags, old, young, healthy, disabled, in wheelchairs, like something out of P. G. Wodehouse’s golf stories. And now—golf clubs and manure. A man stepped out of the barn. He had on a cowboy hat.
“This is it,” Macdonald said, turning off the ignition, and Little Milton was cut off in the middle of another relationship problem.
Lucinda Williams was cut off in the middle of an attempt at consolation. Blue is the color of night. Halders turned off the CD player when the telephone jangled out a ring that he’d forgotten to turn down.
“The guys are here now,” said Aneta.
“Good.”
“Something else has happened.”
“What?”
“Forsblad’s sister just called.”
“She has your number?” asked Halders.
“I gave it to her.”
“Hmm.”
“The important thing is what she said. She said that she wants to talk to me about ‘things you don’t know.’”
“She probably wants to back her brother up,” said Halders.
“She also asked if I had seen Anette in the past few days.”
“And?”
“If I knew how she looked,” said Aneta.
“What does that mean?”
“That means that I’m going to her place to hear what she has to say,” said Aneta.
“Have you looked for her? Anette?”
“No one answered at any of the numbers.”
“Ask one of the guys to drive you to Älvstranden,” said Halders.
“I will.”
“And to wait there for me while you’re chatting with the gal.”
“I’ll ask.”
“Who’s there?” asked Halders. “Let me have a word with someone.”
“Bellner is standing next to me and eavesdropping,” said Aneta. “Ask nicely.”
“Of course, what do you think?” said Halders, waiting to hear Bellner’s voice.
“Listen up, Belly, if it isn’t too much fucking trouble,” Halders said when Bellner had said hi in his pleasant voice.
Susanne Marke looked jumpy, or maybe it was the light, which never seemed to be natural this close to the river and the city lights on the other side. The light moved across her face like nervous twitches of her skin. In the window behind her, Aneta could see one of the Denmark ferries passing. It looked like it was only ten yards away.
“Anette called me,” said Susanne.
Aneta was still standing in the hall. Bellner and Johannisson were going to wait in the stairwell, at least for the first few minutes. The door was standing open.
“Are you alone?” asked Aneta.
“Alone? Of course I’m alone.”
“What did she want?”
“Her dad had hit her,” said Susanne. “Again.”
“Her dad?”
“Yes.”
“And … again?”
“Didn’t you realize that’s what’s going on?” said Susanne.
“Why didn’t you say so before?” asked Aneta, who was still standing in the hall.
“She didn’t want to. Anette.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where’s Anette now?”
“Down by the sea,” said Susanne.
“Alone?”
“Yes, what the fu … what do you think?”
“Where’s her dad, then?”
“In town.”
“Where in town?”
“I don’t know. But he’s not down there. That’s why she drove there.”
“Drove there? How?”
“In my car,” said Susanne. “She borrowed my car.”
“Where’s your brother?”
“I don’t know.”
“He wasn’t along in the car?”
“No, no.”
“It’s important that you tell the truth, Susanne.”
“The truth? The truth? What do you know about the truth?”
“I don’t understand,” said Aneta.
“You think that Hans was pursuing Anette, but you don’t know anything.”
“Tell me the truth, then.”
“Hans may have his different sides, maybe he can seem stra … seem wei …”
Aneta watched the light come and go on the woman’s face.
Why has Anette herself been so quiet?
There’s something else. Something more. A different silence.
“I called down there. She didn’t answer,” said Aneta.
“She’s there,” said Susanne.
46
After their overnight visit with Macdonald’s uncle, they drove into Aberdeen before lunch. The city gleamed in its light granite, which became darker as you got closer.
They drove directly to the train station. Sarah and Angela’s train to Edinburgh would be leaving in twenty-five minutes. It had been Sarah’s suggestion.
“Angela really has to see Edinburgh and you two are about to go in the other direction.”
“It’s wild and beautiful on the north coast,” Macdonald had said.
“Maybe we can meet up again there,” Angela had said. “And I’m happy to go with Sarah down to Edinburgh.”
“Civilization,” Sarah Macdonald had said.
“Let’s say two days max,” her husband had said. “Maybe we can meet up again in Kingussie.” He had explained to Winter and Angela: “Good place up at the top of the Highlands. There’s a train from Edinburgh via Perth up to there. Doesn’t even take two hours.”
Winter and Macdonald drove directly to force headquarters on the other side of Union Street. It was right across from the Aberdeen Arts Centre and was flanked by two churches.
Police Inspector Marion McGoldrick received them on the seventh floor. She was thin, very small, and she had a determined chin, dark eyes, and a sharply tailored uniform. She was another old acquaintance of Steve Macdonald’s.
“Now’s the time to use them,” he had said the day before.
Marion McGoldrick was around thirty-five. There was a little pile of documents on her desk; she had done what she could. Macdonald suspected that she had done it on her own time. In Aberdeen there was no time for the police to mess around with favors during normal working hours.
“I hope I didn’t take up your free time, Mar,” said Macdonald.
“You did. But I don’t have anything else to do.”
“That’s too bad.”
“On the contrary, Steve. On the contrary.” She gave a quick toss of her thick black hair and smiled thinly.
“What have you found?” Macdonald asked, straight out.
“The accident,” she said, “but of course that’s no surprise.”
“And nothing new has popped up?” asked Macdonald.
“No,” said Mar. “The trawler was on its way in with its course set for the lighthouse at Kinnaird Head, I assume, and something happened somewhere, some unknown number of nautical miles northwest, and it went down. With everything.” She looked down at the paper. “Marino. Funny name. Usually boats have women’s names. Like Marina. Now there’s a classic name for a boat.”
“The crew had stayed here in Aberdeen before then,” said Winter.
“Yes. Lived on the boat in the harbor, mostly down in Albert Basin.”
“All of them?” asked Macdonald.
“Yes; apparently they were a gang who didn’t go around telling every Tom, Dick, and Harry that they were here. But the authorities registered them, of course, once they had ended up here on the other side of the minefield. I have the names here.”
She held out a piece of paper. Winter took it.
He read the names on the copy of an official docu
ment, written in neat handwriting: Bertil Osvald, Egon Osvald, John Osvald, Arne Algotsson, Frans Karlsson.
There were five of them, thought Winter. He knew that. But why weren’t there eight? A fishing boat in those days had a crew of eight.
“There were three of them along on the final journey, of course,” said Mar.
Winter nodded. Egon Osvald, Frans Karlsson, John Osvald.
Now Bertil Osvald was dead and Arne Algotsson was in his own world.
“But it wasn’t just those three who went out, was it?” asked Macdonald.
Mar made a little movement with both hands.
“There’s no information to indicate that any other fisherman hired the Marino,” she said. “A thorough investigation was done after the boat disappeared, of course, but no one else seems to have been along. And no next of kin made contact after the accident.” She put down the paper she was holding in her hands. “That says a lot right there.”
“And the boat was never found?” asked Macdonald. “I mean the wreckage.”
“No.”
“Maybe it isn’t a wreck,” Winter said, taking a step forward. None of them had considered sitting down in the little room. “Maybe you just uttered a Freudian slip, Steve.”
“Please explain, Chief Inspector,” said Mar.
“Maybe the Marino never went down,” said Winter. “Maybe they just disappeared. For some reason. Crime, revenge, I don’t know. Sailed in a different direction.”
“Rio de Janeiro,” said Macdonald.
“Haven’t you had that thought, Steve?” said Winter.
“They wouldn’t get away,” said Mar.
“No?” said Winter.
“Absolutely not. You have to understand that it simply wasn’t possible to hide a boat on the coast at that time, least of all a fishing boat, a trawler. There was a war. You can say what you want about the coast guard today, but at that time they took their duty seriously. It was just a fact that there were German U-boats in the water around here, and destroyers, and God knows what out in the North Sea, and we took it seriously.”
“But the smuggling did continue during the war,” said Macdonald.
“Not with the Germans,” said Mar.
“But it did continue.” Macdonald sat down suddenly but immediately got up again. “There were harbors. Secret harbors, or at least as secret as they could be for their purposes.”
“No one smuggled secretly back then,” said Mar.
“I call that a contradiction,” said Macdonald.
“The authorities knew everything,” said Mar. “Believe me, Steve. I know something about it because my grandfather was one of the worst. Or the best, if you look at it that way.”
“Best worst what? Coast guard or smuggler?”
“Smuggler,” she said, smiling. “Up in Sandhaven.”
“This sounds like The Godfather,” said Macdonald.
“He made good money at it,” she said. “That’s what it’s all about, right? He didn’t exactly smuggle for idealistic reasons, did he? Or because it was fun or something.” She tapped the thin bunch of papers as though to emphasize her words. “It’s always a question of money.”
“Mmhmm,” said Macdonald.
“You’re not convinced?” asked Mar.
“Who witnessed the accident?” said Macdonald. “There must have been some ship out there, right? Someone must have received a signal, right?”
“No,” she answered. “No to both questions.”
“A ghost ship,” said Macdonald.
“Was there anyone who checked the harbors right after the accident?” asked Winter. “To see if the trawler ended up somewhere?”
“The harbors were checked all the time,” she answered.
“So no one was looking for the Marino in particular? Or what if it changed names?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Which are the most notorious smuggling harbors along this coast?” asked Winter.
“It’s a secret,” she said, smiling, possibly ironically. “Otherwise they couldn’t do business, could they?”
“Okay, okay, Mar, I have faith in you and your grandfather and the authorities. Erik here does too. But answer his question.”
“Most notorious? Well, Sandhaven, like I said. The Bay of Lochielair. Pennan probably has the longest history.”
“Pennan?” Macdonald looked like he was remembering something. “Pennan …”
“It’s always been a special village,” said Mar. “The cliffs there are red, of course, and people painted their houses red and the road was already red, so the village was invisible from the sea. And then of course it’s under a giant outcropping, so it’s invisible from land as well.”
“Pennan …,” repeated Macdonald.
“Is it far from here?” asked Winter.
“Oh, fifteen or so miles west of Fraserburgh,” answered Mar. “The coastal road toward Macduff. But like I said, you might miss the village.”
“Local Hero!” Macdonald shouted.
Winter jumped. Macdonald had solved his problem.
“Have you seen the film Local Hero, Erik?” he asked, turning to Winter.
“Uh, yes. Wasn’t it in the eighties?”
“It was filmed in Pennan,” said Macdonald. “Bill Forsyth wanted to have a really creepy place, and he chose Pennan!”
“When you say it like that …,” said Mar McGoldrick.
“We’ll do it on the way back,” said Macdonald.
Mar held the paper in her right hand again.
“You might as well take this. There’s a little more about what happened, what they did. They sailed up to Peterhead and stayed there for a while, and then they went on to Fraserburgh. And then it was over.”
“What happened with those two who survived, or whatever you call it?” asked Winter.
“They stayed here for a while and then they were just gone,” she said.
“How did that happen?” asked Winter.
“It was probably like when they came here,” said Mar. “Daredevils from Scandinavia who went through the minefields for the money. Presumably another gang like them came in and sold the load off quickly and sneaked out again, and then these two Swedes were probably along on board. We don’t know, no one knows. Suddenly they were gone.”
They parked at the church north of Broad Street, which ran down to the fishing harbor. There was a tight forest of masts there.
“No problem for a boat to hide,” said Macdonald, nodding toward the harbor.
They walked down the street and passed the Fishermen’s Mission. The building looked relatively modern, but it was an optical illusion.
The hall smelled like smoke and damp clothes.
They knew now that the Osvald brothers and the two other fishermen from Donsö had gotten some help from the Royal National Mission to Deep Sea Fishermen, which had been here in Peterhead since 1922.
A large photograph in a frame was hanging in the lobby. It was black and white and depicted a fishing boat that seemed to have guns mounted on it. There was a caption:
TRAWLERS AT WAR.
A man looked up from behind something that resembled a pulpit. They hadn’t seen him back there.
“Can I help you?” he said, and he got up slowly. They saw that he was an old man. He looked as though he’d been sitting here since the war. He must have been the one who put up the photo of the war trawler, Winter thought.
“Can I help you?” the old man repeated.
They walked up to the pulpit and explained who they were. The man introduced himself as former assistant superintendent Archibald Farquharson.
“I sneak over here and sit sometimes, for old times’ sake,” he said.
“You must have seen many people come and go,” said Macdonald.
“Indeed I have,” said Farquharson.
“We’re looking for information about some Swedish fishermen who might have been here during the war,” said Macdonald.
“I was here,” sai
d Farquharson. “Well, not here exactly, but at the Mission.”
“We’re looking for information about a John Osvald,” said Winter.
“I remember John,” said Farquharson.
“Sorry?”
“We were the same age. I remember him more than his brothers. He had two brothers, right?” Farquharson quickly rubbed his hand over his old-man’s cheeks. “Terrible about the accident.”
They asked him about the accident. He didn’t know any more than anyone else. Nothing about reasons, wreckage, deaths.
“I’ve thought about it on occasion. About John.” Farquharson suddenly looked past them toward the door. “It’s a little odd; a few times during the years I’ve been sitting here and looked over at that door and it was as if … as if John Osvald were about to walk in. Strange, isn’t it? It probably has to do with that mysterious catastrophe. That no one knew. Like a ghost ship, right?” He looked at the two policemen. “And then, a few weeks ago or so, I see him walk in through that door!”
47
Winter and Macdonald turned around at Farquharson’s words, as though John Osvald would be standing there to prove them right. But no one was standing in the door, which was closed and painted a kind of sea blue. There were remnants of yellow on the door frame. Yellow and blue are Scotland’s colors just as much as white and blue, Winter thought.
He turned around again and tried to read Farquharson’s face. The old man wasn’t confused. He seemed certain, but without emphasis. It was merely a statement.
“I think he saw me,” said Farquharson.
“We should probably start at the beginning,” said Macdonald.
“It’s as though time doesn’t change anything,” said Farquharson. “It’s more like it sharpens things. Like appearances, for example. People’s facial features.” The man’s eyes flashed. “Only the essentials are left.”
Winter took out the photograph of Osvald, the one where he was half in profile. When he looked at the photograph he felt the same frustration as before, as though he were holding something there in his hands that he should be able to make use of. Something he had seen and yet not seen.
“Mmhmm,” said Farquharson. “That’s him, all right.” Farquharson looked up. “That’s the Swede.”
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