Sail of Stone

34

Angela had made a decision in her sleep. If it worked out with Elsa. If it wasn’t for too many days.

“But I can always come home early,” she said. ‘’Different plans and all that stuff we talked about.”

“I’ll call Lotta,” said Winter.

“Don’t forget Siv.”

Wonder of wonders. Siv Winter decided within half a minute to come home and stay in Gothenburg while they were gone. She would stay with Lotta, who would take a “time-out” from the hospital.

“Everyone else is taking a time-out all of a sudden, so why not me?”

Steve Macdonald was also taking a time-out. Winter called him during the morning.

“My dad isn’t feeling well, so I have to take a trip up there anyway.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“He’ll be okay.”

“Angela is coming along. But she wants to speak with Sarah a little bit first.”

“Sarah said the same thing.”

“I met a survivor yesterday,” Winter said, and described the conversation, or whatever it was, with Arne Algotsson.

“He said something that I think was Cullen sink. Cullen is a city or a village, according to the map,” said Winter. “Cullen sink or something like that.”

“Cullen skink,” Macdonald said, letting out a laugh. “I don’t believe this!”

“What is it?”

“Cullen skink is a local specialty, a soup made of smoked haddock, potatoes, onion, I think, and milk.”

“I see.”

“So this senile old man was sitting there talking about that soup,” said Macdonald.

“It must have made a strong impression on him,” said Winter.

“Smoked haddock tends to have that effect,” said Macdonald.

“A strange combination of ingredients in that soup,” said Winter.

“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” said Macdonald.

“So he had a connection to Cullen,” said Winter.

“Or the soup,” said Macdonald. “They have it all over Scotland.”

“Okay.”

“Unfortunately,” said Macdonald. Winter heard his smile across the line from south London. “Just like the smell of smoked or fried haddock. Why do you think I fled to London?”

“But London’s called the Smoke, isn’t it?”

“It’s a different smell,” said Macdonald, without clarifying further.

“Algotsson also talked about a coastal city that might be Buckie,” said Winter. “Do you know it?”

“We’re practically talking about my hometown, here,” said Macdonald. “Buckie? It’s a classic fishing harbor. The biggest one up there during the war, I think, and for a while after.”

“He mentioned Buckie,” said Winter, “or at least it sounded like it.”

“Didn’t the chief inspector record the conversation?” said Macdonald.

“You weren’t there,” said Winter. “And I wasn’t a chief inspector at the moment.”

“Buckie,” said Macdonald. “The Cluny Hotel is something special; the Victorians would be proud. There’s a particular hotel in Cullen, too. It’s well known up there, but I don’t remember what it’s called.”

Bergenhem was hunting for stolen goods. It was a large operation, with people from all over the city. He crossed the no-man’s-land north of Brantingsmotet. Ångpannegatan, Turbingatan. There weren’t many tips, but some of them seemed worth checking out. It was always a calculation. No one did anything for the sake of mankind. There was always a reason. Sometimes it had to do with revenge, sometimes jealousy, sometimes calculated favors and return favors, sometimes disappointment, sometimes arrogance, sometimes pure mistakes. It was like in other parts of this so-called society. The underworld wasn’t different from the regular world. Everything had a price.

A gasoline barrel was burning in a deserted roundabout. Some distance away, a few old men were hunching over their lunches, liquor. Bergenhem was playing Led Zep and looking for the address. Robert Plant was howling at heaven about the stairway up there. Bergenhem turned up the volume during the break. He could see Plant’s corkscrew curls. He had seen Zep in Copenhagen, that hair all over the stage. Jimmy Page seemed to be using his guitar as a crutch. He had been high as the sky. They could play. Bonham would die soon, but he beat his drums to pieces and got new ones onto the stage. Jeez.

Bergenhem found his way in another roundabout and drove up to the warehouse and turned off the motor. He looked around and dialed the number to operation command, which was in Kvillebäcken for some reason. Maybe it was the McDonald’s at Backaplan that attracted them there.

“I’m outside now,” he said.

“Where’s your colleague?” crackled the communication radio.

“There’s no colleague here. Where is he supposed to be?”

“He was supposed to wait.”

“Then he probably got tired,” said Bergenhem, and he saw a small truck drive up to one of the loading docks and stop and stand with its motor running.

“A vehicle,” he said into the microphone, “a truck with a canvas cover. Looks like it’s privately owned.”

“What are they doing?”

“I don’t see anyone. It’s idling. In front of dock D.”

“Do they see you?”

“If the driver turns his head one hundred eighty degrees, yes.”

“Your colleague is supposed to be standing there,” scratched the voice. “Right there.”

“Good thing he wasn’t, then,” said Bergenhem. He saw the cloud of smoke from the tailpipe before the truck shot off. “Now it’s taking off!”

“Fuck.”

“Should I stay here or follow it?”

It crackled again, suddenly loud, like rusty metal against a rough stone.

“He’s disappearing,” said Bergenhem.

“Tail him.”

Bergenhem rolled out of the area where the warehouse stood in an angular semicircle, trying to surround rusty containers that were piled on one another like building blocks.

“There could be people in there, in the warehouse,” he said into the microphone.

“We’re on our way,” said the voice.

Aneta Djanali was having a few words with Ringmar.

“Is it true?” Aneta cried.

“Nothing has time to cool down in there,” said Ringmar. “Old Lindsten is working hard.”

“I’ll talk to him.”

“Wait a little. Wait and see for a day or two.”

Aneta thought of the Lindsten family. The apartment that was the daughter’s was really the father’s. Hans Forsblad didn’t appear, not inside and not outside. Anette was living at home, but maybe not. Sister Susanne had a permanent address. She was the only one who seemed to have one apart from Mr. and Mrs. Lindsten, but they seemed to be in eternal orbit between the beach cottage in Vallda and the house in Fredriksdal.

Where was Anette right now?

“Okay,” Aneta said to Ringmar. “There are other things to do.”

Bergenhem tailed the truck toward Frihamnen. He didn’t think that the driver of the truck up there had seen him. My car wasn’t visible. Something else caused him to leave. Maybe my colleague popped up from inside and I didn’t see it.

The warehouse was suspected of being full of stolen goods, or almost: It was being filled.

The truck up there, a Scania, could be full of stolen goods. Or maybe they were supposed to fill up in the warehouse and then ship to fences. There were lots of fences in Gothenburg.

He thought they were on their way to Ringön, but the truck lurched onto the viaduct and steered toward the bridge.

Aneta called Anette Lindsten’s number, and after two rings she got an answer she couldn’t understand.

“Is this Anette?”

Another mumble, and loud traffic noises.

And silence as the connection was broken.

She dialed the cell number again.

Busy. Dee-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee.

She waited, walked through the brick hallway, which was dry and cool and smelled like absolutely nothing. Möllerström went by with a box of printouts in his arms, and he moved his head in some sort of greeting. Möllerström produced tons of printouts and then carried them around, here and there. He moved in mysterious ways. She watched him go.

Should they trace the route of Anette’s phone? No. No one would agree to do it if she didn’t have stronger grounds.

Her phone rang.

She answered and heard the loud traffic noises again; an indistinct mumbling. Then a voice:

“Is this Aneta?”

It was Bergenhem. She could hear his voice now, but just barely. The traffic roared and it sounded like a large bell was ringing in the background.

“Yes, sir.”

“Where’s Möllerström?”

“Lugging a box. What did you expect?”

“Can you check a license plate for me?”

Bergenhem followed the truck around Polhemsplatsen. The Göteborgs-Posten building bulged out above the traffic. The driver of the truck seemed to hesitate again but veered off toward Odinsgatan at the last second and ran a yellow light just as it turned red, and the maneuver caused a car in the next lane over to slam on the brakes and swerve to the right.

It was an illegal maneuver, but Bergenhem only had time to move around and past and keep an eye on the now-familiar vehicle up there; its cover was painted blue and white, the colors of the city; a rope or something fluttered like a tail from the covered bed of the truck.

But I’m the tail, thought Bergenhem.

They rolled through Odinsplatsen and continued east up Friggagatan and turned into Olskroksmotet and the truck lurched again, as though the driver had been interrupted. He’s talking on the phone, thought Bergenhem. Maybe he’s getting directions.

They continued across Redbergsplatsen, past Bagaregården, and up onto Gamlestadsvägen.

Bergenhem’s phone jangled.

“Yes?”

“The plates belong to a Berner Lindström,” said Aneta.

“Gothenburg?” Bergenhem asked.

“The interesting thing is that they’re stolen,” said Aneta. “Because you said it was a truck, right?”

“Yes. But repeat that first part, please.”

“Berner Lindström owns a ninety-one Opel Kadett Caravan, and two weeks ago his license plates were stolen in Falkenberg, down in Halland. He reported it to the police right away, of course.”

“We’ve found his plates,” Bergenhem said, and he swung right onto Artillerigatan but had to wait for another truck that came rushing by as though it had been shot out of a cannon. He tried to see past some cars in front of him but couldn’t see any blue or any white. What the fu-

“Where are you?” asked Aneta.

“I can’t see him,” said Bergenhem. He made a fist and thumped the wheel. He was going forty-five; he looked to the left just before the roundabout and caught sight of a splash of blue and white.

“Lars?” he heard Aneta’s voice.

“I see him!” shouted Bergenhem, mostly to himself.

“Where is he?” said Aneta. “Where are you?”

Bergenhem spun through yet another roundabout.

“Kortedalavägen,” he said.

“What?”

“On the way north through Kviberg.”

“All roads apparently lead to Kortedala,” Aneta said.

“Now I’m turning in to Kortedala Torg,” said Bergenhem.

“Oh God.”

“Now we’re passing the police station. Our truck just did the same.”

“They haven’t seen you, you think?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“No. But it seems like the driver has other things to think about. I think he’s following directions. A stranger.”

“From Halland.”

Bergenhem laughed.

“From Falkenberg,” he said.

“Where are you now?” Aneta asked.

“Guess,” said Bergenhem.

“You’re just about to turn right at the Uno-X station,” said Aneta.

“That’s one right,” said Bergenhem.

“Will I get the next one right, too?”

He could hear excitement in her voice.

“We’ll see… they’re turning right… they’re driving up to the yard or whatever you call it, the front of the house… driving up to one of the entrances… yes, that’s it… I’m driving by now… looking in my rearview… it’s number five, where we caught that guy Forssomething, now I see someone coming out of the truck… now I have to turn left here, Aneta.”

“I’m coming,” she said, and was already on her way.