Åke Edwardson - Sail of Stone

“This sounds like The Godfather, ” said Macdonald.

“He made good money at it,” she said. “That’s what it’s all about, right? He didn’t exactly smuggle for idealistic reasons, did he? Or because it was fun or something.” She tapped the thin bunch of papers as though to emphasize her words. “It’s always a question of money.”

“Mmhmm,” said Macdonald.

“You’re not convinced?” asked Mar.

“Who witnessed the accident?” said Macdonald. “There must have been some ship out there, right? Someone must have received a signal, right?”

“No,” she answered. “No to both questions.”

“A ghost ship,” said Macdonald.

“Was there anyone who checked the harbors right after the accident?” asked Winter. “To see if the trawler ended up somewhere?”

“The harbors were checked all the time,” she answered.

“So no one was looking for the Marino in particular? Or what if it changed names?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Which are the most notorious smuggling harbors along this coast?” asked Winter.

“It’s a secret,” she said, smiling, possibly ironically. “Otherwise they couldn’t do business, could they?”

“Okay, okay, Mar, I have faith in you and your grandfather and the authorities. Erik here does too. But answer his question.”

“Most notorious? Well, Sandhaven, like I said. The Bay of Lochielair. Pennan probably has the longest history.”

“Pennan?” Macdonald looked like he was remembering something. “Pennan…”

“It’s always been a special village,” said Mar. “The cliffs there are red, of course, and people painted their houses red and the road was already red, so the village was invisible from the sea. And then of course it’s under a giant outcropping, so it’s invisible from land as well.”

“Pennan…,” repeated Macdonald.

“Is it far from here?” asked Winter.

“Oh, fifteen or so miles west of Fraserburgh,” answered Mar. “The coastal road toward Macduff. But like I said, you might miss the village.”

“ Local Hero! ” Macdonald shouted.

Winter jumped. Macdonald had solved his problem.

“Have you seen the film Local Hero, Erik?” he asked, turning to Winter.

“Uh, yes. Wasn’t it in the eighties?”

“It was filmed in Pennan,” said Macdonald. “Bill Forsyth wanted to have a really creepy place, and he chose Pennan!”

“When you say it like that…,” said Mar McGoldrick.

“We’ll do it on the way back,” said Macdonald.

Mar held the paper in her right hand again.

“You might as well take this. There’s a little more about what happened, what they did. They sailed up to Peterhead and stayed there for a while, and then they went on to Fraserburgh. And then it was over.”

“What happened with those two who survived, or whatever you call it?” asked Winter.

“They stayed here for a while and then they were just gone,” she said.

“How did that happen?” asked Winter.

“It was probably like when they came here,” said Mar. “Daredevils from Scandinavia who went through the minefields for the money. Presumably another gang like them came in and sold the load off quickly and sneaked out again, and then these two Swedes were probably along on board. We don’t know, no one knows. Suddenly they were gone.”

They parked at the church north of Broad Street, which ran down to the fishing harbor. There was a tight forest of masts there.

“No problem for a boat to hide,” said Macdonald, nodding toward the harbor.

They walked down the street and passed the Fishermen’s Mission. The building looked relatively modern, but it was an optical illusion.

The hall smelled like smoke and damp clothes.

They knew now that the Osvald brothers and the two other fishermen from Donsö had gotten some help from the Royal National Mission to Deep Sea Fishermen, which had been here in Peterhead since 1922.

A large photograph in a frame was hanging in the lobby. It was black and white and depicted a fishing boat that seemed to have guns mounted on it. There was a caption:

TRAWLERS AT WAR.

A man looked up from behind something that resembled a pulpit. They hadn’t seen him back there.

“Can I help you?” he said, and he got up slowly. They saw that he was an old man. He looked as though he’d been sitting here since the war. He must have been the one who put up the photo of the war trawler, Winter thought.

“Can I help you?” the old man repeated.

They walked up to the pulpit and explained who they were. The man introduced himself as former assistant superintendent Archibald Farquharson.

“I sneak over here and sit sometimes, for old times’ sake,” he said.

“You must have seen many people come and go,” said Macdonald.

“Indeed I have,” said Farquharson.

“We’re looking for information about some Swedish fishermen who might have been here during the war,” said Macdonald.

“I was here,” said Farquharson. “Well, not here exactly, but at the Mission.”

“We’re looking for information about a John Osvald,” said Winter.

“I remember John,” said Farquharson.

“Sorry?”

“We were the same age. I remember him more than his brothers. He had two brothers, right?” Farquharson quickly rubbed his hand over his old-man’s cheeks. “Terrible about the accident.”

They asked him about the accident. He didn’t know any more than anyone else. Nothing about reasons, wreckage, deaths.

“I’ve thought about it on occasion. About John.” Farquharson suddenly looked past them toward the door. “It’s a little odd; a few times during the years I’ve been sitting here and looked over at that door and it was as if… as if John Osvald were about to walk in. Strange, isn’t it? It probably has to do with that mysterious catastrophe. That no one knew. Like a ghost ship, right?” He looked at the two policemen. “And then, a few weeks ago or so, I see him walk in through that door!”

Winter and Macdonald turned around at Farquharson’s words, as though John Osvald would be standing there to prove them right. But no one was standing in the door, which was closed and painted a kind of sea blue. There were remnants of yellow on the door frame. Yellow and blue are Scotland’s colors just as much as white and blue, Winter thought.

He turned around again and tried to read Farquharson’s face. The old man wasn’t confused. He seemed certain, but without emphasis. It was merely a statement.

“I think he saw me,” said Farquharson.

“We should probably start at the beginning,” said Macdonald.

“It’s as though time doesn’t change anything,” said Farquharson. “It’s more like it sharpens things. Like appearances, for example. People’s facial features.” The man’s eyes flashed. “Only the essentials are left.”

Winter took out the photograph of Osvald, the one where he was half in profile. When he looked at the photograph he felt the same frustration as before, as though he were holding something there in his hands that he should be able to make use of. Something he had seen and yet not seen.

“Mmhmm,” said Farquharson. “That’s him, all right.” Farquharson looked up. “That’s the Swede.”

“And you mean to say that the same man walked in here a little while ago?” Macdonald asked.

“A few weeks ago,” said Farquharson.

“You’re sure, Mr. Farquharson?”

“Yes. It was him.”

“Can you say exactly when it happened? The date?”

“Well, if I can think a bit.”

“What happened?” Winter asked. “When he came in here?”