Sail of Stone

50

They left after an early breakfast. Macdonald hadn’t slept well, either. Neither of them blamed the whisky. It was something else. It was this city. Something that had been here.

It could be called intuition. An impulse, sometimes immediate. To know without being able to present the evidence. That could be the most frustrating part. That could be the deciding factor: intuition. They both had it. A detective without intuition was doomed, doomed like a fish out of water.

It wasn’t far to Buckie; it was shorter than Winter thought. They could have taken a taxi there last night, but he wanted to have a clear head. He wasn’t tired now. It was gone now.

They drove along the coastal road through Portnockie, Findochty, Portessie. It was a calm morning. The sea was calm. The sun was hanging above the eastern mountains now, lighting up the horizon. Winter could see the smoke from a ship that was balancing on the line of the horizon. There were no clouds. It was one of the most beautiful mornings God had made.

The Cluny Hotel was half lit up by the morning. Macdonald parked outside of the Buckie Thistle Social Club. A small group of schoolchildren walked by. One of the children was carrying a soccer ball under his arm.

A maid in a gray apron was vacuuming the lobby. She had begun with the lowest tread and looked up in surprise when the two men nodded a greeting and stepped up the stairs.

Winter held the photograph in his hand, John Osvald’s profile.

He walked slowly up the stairs, from frame to frame containing the city’s black and white history. The fishing industry and fishing had been the present and future for this city of the past, Buckie. Now the past remained. The Cluny Hotel belonged to the past.

They walked in a staircase whose walls shone with red velvet.

Winter saw masts, forests of masts. Had he been wrong? Was it someone else he’d seen… and somewhere else?

He looked at the picture of the young Osvald again, taken on an island in a Swedish archipelago. Winter could see the sea behind Osvald. It was also a calm day, a beautiful day. Maybe Osvald had turned his face away to avoid getting the sun in his eyes.

“Here we have a few thousand,” said Macdonald, who was a step ahead. Macdonald pointed at another framed photo. He stood three steps from the restaurant level up above.

Winter studied the picture. The square, Cluny Square, was black with people. They were standing in a thousand circles around the monument, the Buckie War Memorial, finally erected in 1925 in memory of the dead during the first great war.

Now it was 1945. Winter read the few words on the label next to the frame. The people of Buckie gather at the monument to celebrate the end of the Great War. There was a date on the label. It was a spring day. It was a beautiful day; the sun plowed shadows through the mass of people. Winter looked at the faces in the foreground. A man in a cap stood near the camera. He had turned his head to the side, as though to avoid the sun. It was John Osvald.

“Yeah, it’s him,” said Macdonald.

Winter looked at the two faces, back and forth. There was no doubt. Macdonald held up Winter’s photograph, compared.

“Yeah,” Macdonald repeated. “No question.”

“But it doesn’t tell us that he’s still around,” said Winter.

“Around where?” said Macdonald.

“Around life,” Winter said.

They stood on the square. The letters on the stone of the pedestal were forever: Their Name Liveth For Ever.

Two elderly people were sitting on a park bench in front of the building next to the square. They seemed to be the same couple Winter had seen last time he’d stood here. He walked over to the building. There was a sign on the wall: “Struan House-Where older people find care in housing.”

They were two old men. Winter walked over. He asked the men if they were around when the end of World War II was celebrated. They looked at him. Macdonald translated to Scottish. They asked why he wanted to know that. Macdonald explained. Winter took out the photograph. They looked at it and shook their heads.

“Would you like to come along into the hotel and look at the photo on the wall?” Macdonald asked.

The two men got up after a minute.

Inside, they walked up the stairs without great difficulty.

“Has it been hanging here long?” one of them said, in front of the photograph.

They studied the picture.

“So I’m there in that sea of people,” said the other, nodding at the sea of people.

“I can’t see you, Mike.”

“I don’t remember where I was standing,” said Mike.

“Do you recognize him?” Macdonald asked, placing his index finger on Osvald’s cap.

“So it’s the same guy?” said Mike.

“See for yourself,” Macdonald said, holding out Winter’s photo.

“Yeah,” Mike said, comparing it a few times. “But he’s a stranger to me.”

Macdonald and Winter got into the car. The owner of the pub on the other side of the street rolled up the blinds. There were chairs on the tables inside the windows. A ray of sunshine lit up part of the bar. Winter suddenly felt very thirsty.

“We’ve gotten this far, anyway,” said Macdonald.

“Don’t you want to get farther?” said Winter.

“So where should we go?” Macdonald asked. “What should we do?”

“I don’t know,” Winter said. “And it’s a question of time, too.”

Macdonald looked at his watch.

“The girls will get on the train in an hour or so.”

“We should probably start on our way up to those high lands ourselves,” said Winter.

Macdonald studied the pub owner, who had started to take the chairs down from the tables. He was wearing sunglasses for protection from the sun, which shone intensely between the two houses behind Winter and Macdonald.

“I sense that we’re close,” Macdonald said, turning to Winter. “Don’t you feel it too?”

Winter nodded but didn’t answer.

“We’ve followed him. At least partially, we’ve followed in his old footsteps,” said Macdonald.

“Or new ones,” said Winter.

“New and old,” Macdonald said. “We can drive through Dufftown so you can buy a few bottles at the Glenfarclas distillery.” He turned the key.

His phone rang. He got it out of his leather jacket after the fourth ring.

“Yes?” Macdonald nodded at Winter. “Good morning yourself, Inspector Craig.” He listened.

“Sorry it took some time,” said Craig, “but it was like I couldn’t convince the authorities of the penalty in this case.”

“I understand,” said Macdonald.

“It’s not exactly murder,” said Craig.

“Not technically,” said Macdonald.

“In any case, I have the information now,” said Craig. “Sure enough, two of those calls to Glen Islay B and B on Ross Avenue came from a landline in Sweden, dialing code thirty-one.”

“The daughter,” said Macdonald. “Johanna Osvald.”

“Yes,” said Craig. Macdonald heard the rustle of paper. Someone said something in the background. Craig’s voice came back. “There weren’t too many phone calls to Glen Islay during that time period. The off season. But one of them might be of interest. At least, it’s a little odd. It’s from the days when this Axel Osvald was staying there.”

“Yes?”

“Someone called from a phone booth,” said Craig.

“Good,” said Macdonald.

Telephone booths were good. Cell phones were trickier; with those they could establish the area, but then it could be difficult. Telephone booths were not as mobile.

First they could tell that it was a phone booth, and then which one it was, and where it was. Sometimes they seized the whole booth for a technical investigation.

“It was a woman,” said Macdonald, “according to the matron at Glen Islay.”

“Whatever you say,” said Craig, “The call came from a telephone booth up in Cullen. Have you ever been there?”

“Cullen?”

“Yes.”

“I’m on my way,” said Macdonald.