Åke Edwardson - Sail of Stone

But that’s what everyone needed. Education. A language. Communication, she thought.

She parked on one of the season streets, maybe spring, maybe autumn. She didn’t see a street sign. She walked toward one of the walls. Anette Lindsten lived behind it. It was a name that somehow fit in here, in this environment. Lindsten, “linden stone.” It was a very Swedish name, a compound of things in nature. That’s how it is with most Swedish last names, she thought. Everything has something to do with nature. Something soft and light, along with something hard and heavy. Something compound. Like the hovering houses. Stones in the wind.

She thought of the eyes in the crack of the door; they had also been like stone. Had she spoken with her husband? Really had a conversation? Had it been possible? Did he have a language? A language to speak with? Aneta knew one thing: A person who lacked any other method of expression often resorted to violence. Words were replaced by fists. In this way, violence was the ultimate form of communication, the most extreme, the most horrible.

Had he hit Anette? Had he even threatened her? Who was “he,” really? And who was she?

Aneta went in through the doors, which were propped open. A pickup with something that looked like a rented cover stood parked outside. She could see the corner of a sofa in the truck bed; two dining chairs, a bureau. A paper bag that contained green plants. Someone is coming or going, she thought.

A man in his sixties came out of the elevator with a packing case and walked past her and put it on the truck bed. Someone is going, she thought.

The man walked back and into the elevator, where she was waiting with the door open.

“Fifth floor for me,” he said.

“I’m going there, too,” she said, and pushed the button.

There were three apartments on the fifth floor. When they came out into the stairwell, she saw that the door to Anette Lindsten’s apartment was wide open.

That was a change from last time.

She realized that the woman was on her way out.

The man went in through the door. She could see boxes in the hall, clothes on hangers, more chairs. Some rolled-up rugs. She heard faint music, a radio tuned to one of the local commercial stations. Britney Spears. Always Britney Spears.

Aneta hesitated at the door. Should she ring the bell or call out? The man had turned around in the hall. She could see into the kitchen, which seemed completely empty. She didn’t see anyone else.

“Yes?” said the man. “Can I help you with something?”

He wasn’t unfriendly. He looked tired, but it was as though his tiredness didn’t come from lugging things down the stairs. His hair was completely white and she had seen the sweat on the back of his shirt, like a faint V-sign.

“I’m looking for Anette Lindsten,” she said.

A younger man came out from a room holding a black plastic bag with bedding sticking out of it.

“What is it?” he said, before the older man had time to answer. The younger man might have been her own age. He didn’t look friendly. He had given a start when he saw her.

“She’s looking for Anette,” the older man said. “Anette Lindsten.”

Aneta would later remember that she had wondered why he said her last name.

“Who are you?” asked the younger man.

She explained who she was, showed her ID. She asked who they were.

“This is Anette’s father, and I’m her brother. What does this concern?”

“I want to talk to Anette about it.”

“I think we know why you’re here, but that’s over with now so you don’t need to talk to her anymore,” the brother said.

“I’ve never talked to her,” said Aneta.

“And now it isn’t necessary,” he said. “Okay?”

The father cleared his throat.

“What is it?” said the brother, looking at him.

“I think you should lower your voice, Peter.”

The father turned toward her.

“I’m Anette’s dad,” he said, nodding from a distance in the hall. “And this is my son, Peter.” He gestured with his arm. “And we’re in the process of moving Anette’s things, as you can see.” He seemed to look at her with transparent eyes. “So, in other words, Anette is moving away from here.”

“Where to?” asked Aneta.

“What does that matter?” said Peter Lindsten. “Isn’t it best that as few people know as possible? It wouldn’t really be so good if all the damn authorities came running to the new place too, would it?”

“Have they, then?” said Aneta. “Before?”

“No,” he answered in the illogical manner that she had become used to hearing in this job. “But it’ll fu-” the brother began, but he was interrupted by his father.

“I think we should have a cup of coffee and talk about this properly,” he said, looking at her. He looked like a real father, someone who never wants to relinquish control. At that very moment, at that second, she thought of her own father’s shrinking figure in the half light in the white hut on the African desert steppe. The darkness inside, the white light outside, a world in black and white.

He wasn’t letting her go. She was the one who had relinquished his control.

“We don’t have time,” said Peter Lindsten.

“Put those things down and put on the coffee,” said the father calmly, and the son put down the sack he had been holding during the entire conversation and followed orders.

Winter got two cups of coffee and placed one in front of Johanna Osvald. She seemed determined and relieved at the same time, as though she had triumphed over something by coming there.

“I didn’t know where I should go,” she said.

“Do you know where he’s staying over there?” Winter asked.

“Where he was staying, at least. I called there and they said he had checked out. Four days ago.” She looked up without having taken a drink from her cup. “It’s a bed and breakfast. I don’t remember what it’s called right now. But I have it written down.” She started to look in her backpack. “I have the notebook here somewhere.” She looked up again.

“Where is it?” Winter asked. “The bed and breakfast?”

“In Inverness. Didn’t I say that?”

Inverness, he thought. The bridge over the river Ness.

“And he hasn’t contacted you since then?” he asked.

“No.”

“Did he tell you he was going to check out?”

“No.”

“What did he say, then? When he called the last time.”

“Like I said before. He was going to meet someone.”

“Who?”

“He didn’t say, I told you.”

“Did you ask?”

“Yes, of course I did. But he just said that he was going to check something and that he would call later.”

“What was he going to check?”

“He didn’t say, and no, I didn’t ask. That’s how it is with my dad; he hasn’t ever said much, especially not on the phone.”

“But it had to do with his disappearance? That is, the question of your grandfather’s disappearance?”

“Yes, I assumed it did. It’s obvious, isn’t it? What else could it be?”

“What else did he say?” Winter asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You must have talked about something else. Other than that he was going to meet someone who might have had a connection to your grandfather.”

“No. I asked how things were going in general. He said it was raining.” Winter thought she gave a small smile. “But that’s not really unusual for Scotland, is it?”

“Was he calling from a cell phone? From the hotel? From a bar or a café?”

“I don’t actually know. I assumed he was calling from…” She had a notebook in her hand now; it was open. “… from this place, it’s called Glen Islay Bed and Breakfast.” She looked at him. “Ross Avenue, Inverness. The street is called Ross Avenue. I assume he was calling from there.”