Åke Edwardson - Sail of Stone

“But still,” said Johanna.

“It was on their way home from one of those trips that it happened,” said Osvald.

There was no wind when Winter came up on the bridge. The Magdalena wasn’t moving.

“Do you want to take a look in the pilothouse?” asked Osvald.

Winter saw screens everywhere, telephones, faxes, technology, lamps, switches.

“Looks more or less like dispatch at the central police building,” he said.

“Most of it is to keep an eye on the coast guard,” said Osvald, smiling. “Especially the Norwegians.”

Winter nodded and smiled back.

“That’s the big threat to the fishing industry today,” said Osvald. “We have so many borders across the sea today, there are so many lines out in the sea today. You can’t cross the zones, but lots of times the fish swim all over the place, crossing borders, and it’s frustrating, you know, if you know that there’s fish a nautical mile away and people from other countries are sitting there pulling them up while we Swedes are spinning our wheels at the border.”

Osvald did something with one of the levers on the dashboard. Winter heard a sound like a winch.

“And then it’s tempting to go over to that side, and then you have to turn off the satellite transmitter,” said Osvald. He looked at Winter. “You understand?”

Winter nodded.

“You won’t say anything to them, right?”

“The Norwegian Coast Guard? I don’t have any contacts there,” said Winter.

“They’re not nice,” said Osvald, smiling again. “Three inspectors can suddenly be standing in the pilothouse. Their mother ship, a big coast guard boat, it’s seven nautical miles away because they know that all fishing boats have a range of six nautical miles on their radar, and they’ve driven a little dinghy up from the back at thirty knots, and they’ve snuck up alongside and snuck up on the deck and rushed into the pilothouse. It’s happened to us twice!”

“Not nice,” said Winter.

“And in addition, he wanted fillet of cod for dinner,” said Osvald.

“What did you do?” asked Winter.

“We gave him pork tenderloin,” said Osvald. “Who can afford to serve fish these days?”

Erik Osvald was proud of his twin rigger. He shared ownership of it with two other fishermen from Donsö. Three hundred and twenty tons gross weight; 1,300 horsepower.

They had left the pilothouse. Osvald had told him about the wireless sensors on the trawls, which could monitor everything down there: the currents, the bottom, things that were in the way. He described the automatic controls, the regulators, how the winches were operated. The hydraulics.

They stood on the quarterdeck, the work deck. It was dry, dry under the September sun. Osvald said something that Winter would remember and return to when so much more had happened. When he knew more.

“It’s always a competition,” said Osvald. “At sea. And here.”

“What do you mean?”

“When my grandfather came here and started fishing, when he and his brothers tried to buy their own boat-and they did it quickly-it wasn’t accepted. They didn’t accept it. Not here on the island. They weren’t supposed to be boat owners. They were supposed to be the serving class. We, our family, were supposed to continue as the serving class.” Osvald looked at Winter. “My grandfather changed all that.”

“And you’re still competing,” said Winter.

“Always,” said Osvald. “It’s always a competition out there, between boats, across zones, and it’s always been a competition here on the island. Between people.”

“Mmhmm.”

Winter could see the entrance to the harbor, and the bridge over to Styrsö. A ferry traveled out, on its way south to Vrångö, the last island. He hadn’t been there in years. After Vrångö there was only the sea.

“For my part, I’m also competing with the shipowners here,” said Osvald. “The shipping industry. It’s immense here on Donsö. It turns over a billion per year. Donsö is the home harbor for over fifteen percent of the Swedish merchant fleet. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“They’re my old friends,” said Osvald, “the shipowners and officers of those vessels are my age.”

“I understand,” said Winter.

Erik Osvald changed when he discussed the competition. The Osvald family had come from nothing and become something. Winter understood that. It meant a lot to Osvald. How much? Winter could see that Osvald’s thoughts were lingering on the rivalry, the competition. Maybe money. Maybe great risks to attain success, riches.

What risks had Erik Osvald been prepared to take to attain his position, here on the island and out at sea? Winter wondered. Beyond the risk of being out on the great sea. To expose oneself to solitude-or whatever happened out there. It was a lonely life, an abnormal life. People had gone crazy at sea.

“You hav’ta hold your own against that lot and get th’ best people for fishin’ instead,” said Osvald.

Aneta Djanali opened two drawers in the kitchen. There was nothing there. She saw herself sitting at the kitchen table that wasn’t there now, on a chair that existed somewhere, but not there. Drinking coffee made by a stranger. Good God.

“What happens now?” said Sigge Lindsten.

“Report of theft,” she said.

He let out a gruff laugh.

“How will you find the people who did it?”

“I remember their faces,” she said.

“And their names,” said Lindsten, and she heard a few bars of the gruff laugh again.

“You seem to think this is funnier than I do,” she said.

“Well, there is something comical about it.”

“Does Anette think so too?”

“We don’t know, because we haven’t asked her, have we?” Lindsten remained standing in the doorway. “She doesn’t know that it’s happened, does she?”

“I don’t think she’ll laugh when she finds out.”

“Don’t say that, don’t say that.”

Aneta looked at him.

“New start,” he said. “This way there are no reminders of him.”

“Him? Forsblad?”

“Who else?”

“That might be where they are,” she said.

“Sorry?”

“At Forsblad’s house. That might be where the stolen goods are. The furniture. Her things.”

“The question is just where that devil is himself,” said Lindsten. “Do you have an address for him?”

Aneta shook her head.

“Lots of unknowns here,” said Lindsten.

“What kind of work do you do, Mr. Lindsten?”

“Excuse me?”

“What is your job?”

“Does it matter?”

“Don’t you want to answer the question?”

“Answer… of course I can answer.” He stepped into the kitchen, the naked kitchen. Their voices were loud in that particular way of rooms without furniture, carpets, lamps, pictures, decorations, household things, knickknacks, food, fruit bowls, radios, TVs, appliances, clothes, shoes, pets.

Everything was naked.

It is extra naked here, she thought. I have been inside a lot of empty places, but never one like this, never this way.

“Traveling,” said Lindsten.

After a few seconds she got it.

“What does that involve?”

“Traveling? That you travel and sell things.” His words echoed in the kitchen, which had ugly marks on the walls from things that had hung there.

Marks like bullet holes. She had been inside homes where she’d known what kind of holes they were. Others had been there, on their way in or out. Some of them alive, some not. Family affairs. Most often they were family affairs. There was no refuge among the near and dear. She must never forget that. All police knew it. Always start with the nearest, the innermost circle. Often that was enough. Unfortunately, that was enough. It was good for preliminary investigations, but it wasn’t good if you looked at it in a different way.