Åke Edwardson - Sail of Stone

Winter quoted: “ We hope that we will have a better time here. ”

He looked up again.

“They had moved.”

Osvald nodded.

“It was probably up to Peterhead,” Osvald said.

“Did they have a ‘better time’ there, as he writes?”

“I don’t know, Erik. As far as I know, there’s no one who knows.”

“Listen to this,” Winter said, reading out loud again: “ That thing you heard about before isn’t what you think. You must believe me. ” He looked at Osvald. “He’s referring to something he’d written about earlier, apparently. Or to something she’d heard about.”

“Maybe,” said Osvald.

“Your grandmother… didn’t she ever talk about it?”

“Not that I remember. We were little when she died.”

Like your mother, thought Winter. Both of the women in the Osvald family had left children and husbands behind. Now the children only had each other; everyone else was gone. Two brothers disappeared in the sea off Scotland, almost within sight. Now the children’s father had died there, too.

Erik Osvald had his own family, his wife and son. Johanna Osvald had her brother. He thought about what she must be thinking about up there in Inverness. He wasn’t sure that she’d still be there when he arrived.

Osvald sat motionless, as though he were meditating, with his eyes on the cliffs outside the window. Did he sit like this every week when he was home? A week out there, a week in here.

“I’m flying up tomorrow,” said Winter.

“What?”

“I’m flying to Inverness tomorrow.”

“What are you saying?” Osvald said, and he appeared to give a start. He took his eyes from the window.

“Are you surprised?” Winter said.

Osvald scratched the thin hair above his forehead, an unconscious movement.

Winter waited. A flatbed moped drove by outside; the noise swung around the house and bounced across the cliffs.

“Is it Johanna?” Osvald said with his hand still on his head.

“Sorry?”

“Is there still something between you and Johanna?”

“Do you mean that would be the reason I’m going there?”

“What other reason is there?” said Osvald.

That caused Winter to become silent for a second.

“Did you go mute?” said Osvald.

The moped drove by again, from the other direction. Some seabirds cried out again. Winter thought he could hear the bellowing of a boat from the archipelago lines.

“There are two reasons,” said Winter, “and they’re probably connected.”

Bergenhem followed the truck. It was easier than ever. Skånegatan was wide and straight. The radio crackled. He answered and yielded at Korsvägen. The truck continued onto Södra Vägen toward Mölndalsvägen.

“The plates on that vehicle are stolen,” he said to Meijner.

“Oh, fuck.”

“Why did they drive to the warehouse only to turn around?” said Bergenhem.

“They probably got a call and were rerouted,” said Meijner.

“That could be.”

“Should we send some cars and bring them in?” said Meijner.

“Don’t we want to know where they’re going?”

“Yes,” said Meijner.

“This is probably a big operation you’re in charge of, right?”

“Very big,” said Meijner. “Very, very big.”

“Then we might mess something up if we crack down on these rascals now,” said Bergenhem.

“Your assessment of this whole thing is quite correct,” said Meijner. “Continue surveillance according to orders but do nothing, and stand by for further orders.”

Bergenhem shook his head and smiled to himself.

“And give me the number on those plates, Bergies.”

“Talk to Aneta Djanali at CID,” Bergenhem said, and hung up.

They were on Mölndalsvägen now, passing the south entrance to the Liseberg amusement park. The road was still wide and straight. At Sörgården it changed names to Göteborgsvägen. The truck passed the Krokslätt factories. Bergenhem tried to keep four cars between him and the truck.

They continued up onto Kungsbackaleden. Bergenhem checked the gas. All cars that were taken out were supposed to have full tanks. This one didn’t; it must have been somewhere else just before he got it. But it would last another sixty miles, maybe seventy.

They drove through Kållered. At the southern exit the truck swung to the right, and Bergenhem had time to follow; he watched it turn right again and drive around the parking lot and park outside IKEA.

Bergenhem parked. The men had gone in, two people among hundreds.

Bergenhem opened the car door and sat there. It smelled like gas in the parking lot. It smelled like grilled hot dogs.

He had grilled hot dogs with Krister over the weekend. On Stora Amundö, not so far from here. Well, pretty far.

They had talked about everything.

Martina thought he was working. He didn’t think she would call and check. Sometimes he had the feeling she didn’t care anymore.

She looked away. She always looked away.

This isn’t working, he had thought as he drove to Linnéplatsen to pick up Krister.

He had said it out there, on the cliffs. The sea around them was full of sails.

This isn’t working anymore.

Don’t you want friends? Krister had said.

I don’t want to sneak around with them, he had said.

You don’t need to sneak around, Krister had said.

But I do. Martina. I’m sneaking around. I’m lying about periods of time.

Tell her.

What should I say?

You would know best, Krister had said.

The hell I would, he had thought.

He had seen Krister four times.

Nothing had happened.

Everything was confusion.

Maybe it was him and Martina. Maybe that was the problem. Their so-called relationship. Maybe they should go talk to someone. Maybe it was that simple and that complicated.

He had missed Ada out there. It was a wonderful day. The sky was wonderfully blue. He had suddenly missed Martina.

This is fucking nuts, he had thought. I’m here and they’re there.

I’m sneaking around.

I’m lying.

We won’t see each other for a long time, he had said to Krister in the car on the way back.

Okay, Krister had said.

They had shaken hands at Sveaplan.

Winter had told him about Macdonald. But that was just the small reason. He tried to explain the other one, the big one. It wasn’t easy.

“I’m not usually wrong,” he said.

Osvald looked out through the window again. It looked like dusk was coming, but it wasn’t time for that. A cloud must have come in over the island.

“If there’s anything more to know, then of course it’s good if someone investigates,” said Osvald.

Winter nodded.

“So there is?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m going.”

“I understand,” said Osvald.

“Someone got your father to go over,” said Winter.

“What do you mean?”

“He got a letter, didn’t he?”

“Yes, yes, right.”

Winter looked at the two old sheets of paper that lay on the glass coffee table. He could see the rather jerky handwriting from here, but he couldn’t read it.

“I would like to borrow those two letters for a while.”

“Why?”

“So we can take a closer look at them.”

“Fingerprints?”

“Why would you think that?” asked Winter.

“Well, I don’t know, it’s just what I thought of.”

Winter didn’t say anything. He heard the moped for the third time out there, brutt-brutt-brutt-bruuuuuuut as it passed, brutt-brutt-brutt. He suddenly thought of an old movie in which a motorcycle regularly, or rather irregularly, showed up in the middle of groups of people, in a city, suddenly it was there and then it was gone. Amarcord. Fellini.