Åke Edwardson - Sail of Stone

“I believe we’ve done all we can here,” Craig said, scratching that neck.

“We appreciate it,” said Winter.

Johanna Osvald nodded. She had been very quiet during the hike through the corridors, as though she were already sitting on the plane with her father in a coffin among all the Samsonite suitcases in the belly of the plane.

“There’s still that car,” said Craig.

“We met the rental guy,” said Winter. “Cameron.”

“Nice fellow,” Craig said with a thin smile.

“Stolen cars usually turn up right quick,” Macdonald said.

Craig seemed to stiffen, just barely.

“That’s why I’m bringing it up,” he said, and he got up and walked to a filing cabinet and opened it.

He came back with a piece of paper and sat down and put on a pair of reading glasses.

“Between April and July this year we had one hundred twelve auto thefts in the greater city and all but one of the cars showed up,” he said. “We also caught forty-six car thieves in the act.” He looked up. “It was peak season.”

“Admirable,” said Macdonald.

“Which part is admirable?”

Craig smiled; perhaps there was an ironic wrinkle in one corner of his mouth.

“Your statistics.”

“We’re the best in all of Scotland,” he said.

“This car,” said Winter, “that it didn’t come back. That indicates a crime, of course. Maybe a violent crime.”

“Yes,” said Craig, “that’s exactly why I’m bringing it up. But of course it’s not necessarily connected to the death.” He looked at Johanna, who was looking at something else through the window walls. “He could have gotten rid of the car somewhere else.”

“Is that likely?” said Winter.

“No.”

“Someone could have given him a ride in a different car to Fort Augustus,” said Macdonald.

“In that case we’re really talking about a crime here,” said Craig.

“But remember, no marks on the body,” Winter said with a glance at Johanna, who didn’t seem to be there. As though she didn’t want to hear this.

“It was a heart attack,” said Craig. “His heart packed it in. The question is why.”

“You don’t have more information about his acting confused in town?” asked Macdonald.

“It wasn’t that conspicuous,” said Craig. “He walked around a little and maybe asked a few questions that no one understood and talked to maybe three or four people.”

“Do you know who might have been the last one?” asked Winter.

“Who might have been, yes. But the times are a bit unclear, of course.” He scratched his neck again. “One of the most irritating parts of this job is people’s fuzzy perception of time.” Craig suddenly heaved himself forward. “Isn’t it? We can know with one hundred percent certainty that different witnesses met someone, say around lunchtime, and one of those witnesses will swear that it was at midnight and the other at dawn!”

“What kind of time span are we looking at in the case of Axel Osvald?” asked Winter.

“A few hours,” said Craig. “Early afternoon.”

Winter nodded.

Craig looked at Johanna’s profile.

“He died the same night.”

“He got very excited,” Johanna said suddenly, catching everyone off guard.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Osvald?” said Craig.

“I’ve thought a lot about it.” She turned to them. “When that letter came, he didn’t seem very… astounded or whatever you’d call it, not as agitated as you might expect. But then, after a few days he suddenly became… well, agitated, and he called about a ticket up here and left that same afternoon, I think… no, it was the morning after.” She looked out at the office landscape again. “It was like something more had happened. Something different.”

“Did he get another letter?”

“Not that I saw.”

“But he could have?”

“Yes; I wasn’t home those two days. I was at school.” She looked at Winter. “I had the morning off when that first one… no, what am I saying, when that letter came, I saw it.”

“Was anyone else home then, Johanna?” asked Winter. “Anyone besides your dad?”

“Erik was home,” she said. “It was his week at home.”

“But he hasn’t said anything about another letter?”

“No.”

“No telephone call?”

“No.”

Winter didn’t say anything more. It was quiet in Craig’s cage of an office. He heard voices from the outside but couldn’t make out words. It could be Scots English or Gaelic, or Swedish.

“What do you think about your father acting confused?” Macdonald asked, straight to the point.

She just shook her head.

“Does it sound unlikely?” Macdonald continued.

“Yes,” she answered.

“But you said he was agitated…”

“Not that way,” said Johanna, “never that way. He has never had problems like that, I can tell you that for sure. He had both feet on the ground, as they say.”

On deck, thought Winter. Had both feet on deck. Maybe that was even safer. At the same time, he trusted in God above the earth.

“Something must have happened to him,” said Johanna. “Something awful must have happened.”

They drove over Ness Bridge in the car that Craig had loaned them, and they turned right onto Kenneth Street and then onto Ross Avenue, which was one of a hundred little streets lined with row houses of stone. They drove slowly and stopped in front of one of the houses. A sign was hanging on the wall between the door and the window: Glen Islay Bed and Breakfast.

“Glen Islay,” said Winter. “Sounds like a brand of whisky.”

“Bed and breakfast and whisky,” said Macdonald.

Winter looked around as they got out of the car.

“I’ve been here,” he said.

“Here? On this street?”

“Yes. I stayed at a B and B on this street.”

“Maybe this one,” Macdonald said.

Maybe, thought Winter as they stood in the cramped hallway, which also served as the lobby. Stairs led upward. It smelled like eggs and bacon and dampness, maybe mold. Burned bread. A rattle came from the pipes that ran on strange courses along the wallpaper, which could have been put up during Edwardian times. Everything was as it should be.

A telephone stood on a rickety table. An older woman stood next to it, one of those little old ladies who ran their guesthouses through the centuries.

“So Mr. Osvald drove away in a car, Mrs. McCann?” Macdonald asked.

“I’m absolutely cerrrrtain,” said Mrs. McCann. She looked quite positive. “And I’ave told the otherrr policemen exactly that.”

“Did he have visitors while he was staying here?”

“No.”

“Was he alone when he checked out?” Macdonald asked.

“Yes, of course. What do you mean, Officer?”

“No one was sitting in the car out there?”

“I couldn’t see. I didn’t go outside when he left.” She waved her hand toward the outer door, which had two windows that were covered by some sort of lace.

Winter could see their car out there, but not whether anyone was sitting in it. He nodded toward Mrs. McCann.

“Could we see his room?” asked Macdonald. “If it’s empty.”

“At the moment it’s empty,” she answered.

“Have any other police visited it?” asked Winter.

“No.”

Winter looked at Macdonald, who shrugged. Craig wasn’t investigating a murder, after all.

“May we see the room?” Macdonald repeated.

She took a step away from the telephone.

“Did Mr. Osvald get any phone calls while he was here?” asked Winter.

“I’ve already answered that,” said Mrs. McCann.

“We usually ask several times,” Macdonald said, smiling.

“Why don’t you write it down right away?” asked Mrs. McCann.