Åke Edwardson - Sail of Stone

“I have actually thought about it quite a bit,” said Winter. “Worked on it a little.”

“It sounds like it.”

And suddenly Winter saw what he would be doing in the near future. What he wanted to do. He saw an opportunity to see Steve again, an obvious opportunity. Some would call it obvious.

Angela was playing backgammon with Elsa now. She had made a meaningful gesture toward the wine bottle. He had nodded, and she had poured half a glass for herself and brought one to him. In three days they were supposed to go to Marbella for a week.

There would be other opportunities.

“It’s… interesting,” said Winter.

“Now you’ve started to get me interested,” said Macdonald. “You and Craig.”

“If it hadn’t been for the information I just received,” said Winter.

“You’ve thought about it before,” said Macdonald.

“What?”

“Don’t even try,” said Macdonald.

Winter didn’t answer; he took a drink of the wine, which was cold and dry. He thought, thought. He felt the old feeling, the old, wonderful, damn feeling. He thought of Marbella, of Angela, Mother… it could work out. Elsa might think it was nice. He could ask Siv…

“What do you say?” said Winter. They hadn’t needed to say out loud what they were discussing. It was the so-called iceberg effect. “Is it possible for you?”

“As a matter of fact,” said Macdonald, “I’ve been planning to take a trip home soon. I’ve actually been putting it off for too long.”

“Can you get away on short notice?”

“How short?” asked Macdonald.

“Three days.”

“Yes. It might work.”

“I might not come alone,” Winter said, looking at Angela, who had stiffened during the last minute of conversation.

“Me neither,” said Macdonald. “Sarah is ready for a trip. We have even arranged for a babysitter. If you can say that about taking care of girls who are almost fifteen.”

“I’ll call you later tonight,” Winter said, and hung up.

“What was that?” Angela said.

“Oh…,” Winter said, blinking quickly and making a motion with his head toward Elsa, who was concentrating on her pieces, “Steve wanted to talk a little.”

Elsa was sleeping like a little rock. Winter snuck out into the hall and into the kitchen. Angela was playing a round of solitaire that appeared to be coming to an end.

“Well?” she said.

“What do you say we go to Scotland for a few days?” he said.

It was late when Moa Ringmar came home. Her father was on the phone. It was afternoon in New York. Bertil paused and put his hand over the mouthpiece:

“Martin got that loft on Third Avenue,” he said.

“How nice for him.”

“What is it?”

“We’ll talk about it later, when he’s done talking.”

“He wants to have a few words with you.”

“Tell him I’ll call.”

“Okay, okay.” Ringmar resumed his conversation with his son. “She’ll call you later. Okay. Yes. Yes. Right. Yes. Talk to you soon. Bye.”

He hung up.

“So what is it, Moa?”

“That apartment is hot, Dad.”

“Sorry?”

“You don’t have to apologize. You can’t know everything that’s going on in the department.”

“I need some background,” said Ringmar. “I’m not really following you.”

“That apartment I was going to rent is involved in a restraining order, and there was an assault there and it’s been completely cleaned out by crafty thieves and the guy I was renting it from has been acting strange and suspicious toward two of the country’s sharpest detective inspectors.”

“Halders and Djanali,” said Ringmar.

“You knew!”

“When you said the two sharpest. No, joking aside, I know they’ve been working on a case that involves an apartment in Kort… exactly, in Kortedala!” He quickly got up and took a step closer. “Surely you don’t mean it’s-”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

“Well, what do you know.”

“It’s a small world, isn’t it?”

“How did you find out?” Ringmar asked.

“They showed up as Dickie and I were moving in my things. Fredrik and Aneta.”

“What were they doing there?”

“A routine check, I suppose. They’re keeping an eye on this woman’s ex. It’s not looking good.”

“They’re not supposed to tell you that.”

“It was Halders,” said Moa. “He offered me photos to put up at the student union.”

“He’s always been a discreet investigator,” said Ringmar.

“Dickie has my things in his garage for now.”

“You moved out again?”

“What do you think, Dad? Am I supposed to lie there sleeping and get woken up by some crazy person putting a key in the lock and crashing in?”

“No, no.”

“This is the first time I’ve moved in and moved out on the same day,” said Moa.

“I’ll have a chat with that Lindsten,” said Ringmar.

“I haven’t paid yet.”

“I’m still going to have a chat with him.”

“Has he done anything illegal?”

“I don’t know,” Ringmar answered. “I don’t know yet.”

Johanna Osvald called as Winter was making a double espresso in order to have the energy to think. It was better and cheaper than amphetamines. Coltrane was blowing “Compassion” in the living room, along with another great tenor saxophonist, Pharoah Sanders. It was music for wild thoughts, asymmetrical, tones for his own head. Coltrane’s instrument wandered like a lost spirit, on its way through black and white dreams, through sparse halls. Elsa had gotten used to falling asleep to extremely free-form jazz. Winter wondered what that might lead to.

What drew him to jazz first and foremost was the individual expressions of the music. The best thing about jazz was that it gave the jazz musician the chance to be himself. To be his own self. It was music that first of all stood for expression, for immediate reflection, not interpretation. It was all about improvisation, but not in an irresponsible way. Quite the opposite. In improvising, the musician took on a responsibility, and the result depended on talent and his own resources, and experience. Emotional experience. It was music for emotions, from emotions.

Angela had gone out to think as well, a round trip to Avenyn.

“It’s him,” said Johanna into the phone. “It’s my dad.”

“I’m sorry,” said Winter.

“They’ve taken good care of me,” she said formally. It was a slightly strange comment. Perhaps she was in shock. There was a sharp edge to her voice. “This policeman Craig has helped with everything.”

“There’s nothing you need?” Winter asked.

“Noth… nothing you can help with,” she said, and he thought she started to cry. It sounded like it, but it could have been the line.

I’m not sure, thought Winter. Maybe we can help. Maybe when it comes to answers.

“Have you spoken with a doctor about your father?”

“Yes.”

He waited for her to continue, but she didn’t say anything.

“What did he say?”

“That it was a heart attack that… that killed him. He had extreme hypothermia.” Winter heard her breathing. “It’s cold up here. I went out for a minute to think, and it was cold and raw.”

“Are they going to do more tests?” asked Winter. He didn’t want to say the word “autopsy.” She knew what he meant anyway.

“If they need to,” she said. “If there’s something they need to do to come up with a… cause, they can do as many tests as they…” She stopped talking. “What is that horrible noise in the background?” she said.

“Where?” said Winter.