Sail of Stone

36

Bergenhem kept the truck under surveillance. The two men who had gotten out and were standing next to it seemed to be doing the same, or waiting for something or someone.

One of them, the older one, looked at his watch.

Bergenhem had parked on the cross street on the other side of Fastlagsgatan, among a row of cars that were all past their prime. His own unmarked service car would actually have stood out if it weren’t so dirty.

He was communicating via a secure radio with the operative commander, who had changed location. It sounded like he was chewing when he answered. Hamburger. There was an echo, feedback.

“We’re inside the premises,” said command, “the warehouse.”

“I ended up in Kortedala,” said Bergenhem.

“Where’s the truck?”

“It’s parked fifty yards in front of me.”

“Good. It probably contains stolen goods.”

“I think it’s empty. I think they’re picking something up.” He saw one of the men, the younger one, light a cigarette. “What should I do?”

“Keep them under surveillance for the time being.”

“How does it look in there?” asked Bergenhem.

“We’ve found half of Gothenburg’s household goods,” said the commander, whose name was Meijner. “It’s practically IKEA in here.”

Bergenhem smiled.

“The guys found the same thing up in Tagene,” said Meijner.

“So Hisingen finally has an IKEA,” said Bergenhem.

“Looks like it.”

Bergenhem watched the men move around their truck, if it was in fact theirs, and converse as though they were trying to make a decision.

“Is the stuff definitely stolen?” he said.

“We’ve already identified a lot of things here,” said Meijner.

“Okay.”

A car drove up behind the hangar of apartments and parked behind the truck. An older man got out. Bergenhem wrote down the license number.

The three men seemed to be carrying on a discussion about something that lacked a solution. The man who had just arrived pointed up and then in a different direction. One of the truck men, the younger one, shrugged his shoulders. His older friend started to climb into the truck. The newcomer made some sort of circular motion with his hand.

Everything seemed to be a misunderstanding.

The newcomer looked around and then went through the front door.

The truck started, spewed clouds of diesel fumes, the worst kind. Bergenhem was forced to make a decision. He started the car as the truck passed. The younger man was driving. The older one was talking on a cell phone.

Bergenhem swung out and followed them south. Three hundred yards and he met Aneta Djanali. He saw that she saw him. He even had time to see her start punching in the numbers. His phone rang.

“Obviously I missed something,” she said.

“Here we go again,” said Bergenhem.

“What happened?”

“Nothing. They never went in.”

“No?”

“Another guy showed up.”

“Explain.”

They passed the police station again. It seemed deserted. There were no cars outside and no one was going in or coming out, or being led in or out. Bergenhem pondered whether this one had also closed for good, like the one down in Redbergslid.

“Well, another guy showed up, an older guy, and he went into the building and the others left.” Bergenhem turned left. “It was the same entrance as before.”

“Is he there now?” Aneta asked.

“I assume so. That was five minutes ago. He parked the car outside. I wrote down the number. Do you need it?”

“I’ll get it later,” she said. “Bye.”

“Aneta!” Bergenhem shouted before she hung up. “Don’t say anything about the truck.”

“Of course not.”

“I’ll call later.”

Bergenhem kept going, now to the south, on the same roads as before. Round-trip to Kortedala, he thought as he passed Olskroken and continued into the city on Friggagatan. At Odinsplatsen he saw the blue and white truck turn left, and he followed it over the river and through a green light and up onto Skånegatan and past the police station. The driver seemed to like passing police stations.

Aneta parked behind Sigge Lindsten’s car.

The elevator was up. She called it down and waited and listened to the wind that was whistling around like a spiral through the stairwell, up, down. It hissed like a voice.

In the elevator she looked straight ahead at the wall where the mirror had been. She was staring into black circles made with paint that never went away, around and around, and she thought more had appeared since last time.

The door to the apartment was open. She knocked, twice.

Sigge Lindsten came out into the hall from the kitchen. He didn’t look surprised.

“What is it now?” was all he said.

“It’s still empty in here,” said Aneta.

“Yes.”

“No one has moved in after Anette?”

“No.”

“Why not?” Aneta asked.

“What does it matter?” said Lindsten. “And if someone had, can’t I do what I want? It’s mine, isn’t it?”

“How is Anette?”

“Fine, I think.”

“Where is she?”

“At home. But please leave her alone now.”

“Forsblad hasn’t contacted her?”

“No.”

“‘And his sister?”

“She hasn’t either.”

“What do you think about his sister?”

“Nothing. And perhaps now I could be allowed to continue what I’m doing?”

“Why did you come here?” asked Aneta.

Lindsten didn’t answer. He took a step backward and disappeared into the kitchen again. Aneta took a few steps into the hall and saw him standing in front of one of the cabinets. He quickly turned around when he saw her. There was something in his eyes that caused her to back up immediately and walk out into the stairwell and run down three flights, five flights, six, until she was down in the entryway. She felt surprised as she walked to the car. She felt cold. What had happened?

Winter read the letters, one after another. They were short, written in stumpy handwriting from a young John Osvald to his young wife. They weren’t dated. But in the second one there was a reference to something that had been mentioned in the first one. Winter read it again. He looked up.

“Did your dad tell you about these letters?”

“No.”

“Has he read them?”

“They were in his bedroom. He must have taken them out to… well, there was a box there and it was on the shelf and it was still open, and I think he kept them in there.”

“Are there more?”

“We haven’t found any. And like I said, he never said anything.”

“Why not?”

“Why not? It was probably hard for him. I don’t know. You can see there’s a greeting for him in that second letter, and…”

Osvald didn’t finish his sentence.

“The second letter seems to have been written from a different location,” said Winter.

“Yes, maybe.”

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.

There was also another movie… it was the same thing, a character on a motorcycle, and it was an obvious wink at Fellini’s film. What was the other one called? He saw a village and a sea… it was called Local Hero. And as he recalled it was filmed somewhere in Scotland, a small community by the sea where everyone was suspicious of newcomers.

“Isn’t it to look for fingerprints?” said Osvald.

“Maybe,” said Winter.

He thought of the letter that had come a month earlier and that had caused Axel Osvald to journey away toward his death. He looked at his son and saw that he was thinking about that too.

“Are you going to compare?” said Osvald.

“Maybe,” said Winter.

“But surely you don’t think that…”

Winter didn’t answer. The moped went by for the fourth time. It must be different mopeds, but in that case they sounded completely identical. He saw that film from Scotland pass by in his mind for a few seconds. The houses were close together. There was an inn. An artsy type ran it. He and an American had discussed selling a beach.

“That’s completely idiotic,” said Osvald. “That would mean Grandpa was still alive.” He got up from his chair. “Do you really think he is?”

“What do you think?”

“No, no.”

“What did your father think?”

“Not that. Not that it’s… like that.”

“Are you sure?”

“Maybe he hoped it was. At one time. But that’s another story.”

Belief. Or hope. Was it different? In Winter’s world, in the world where he had thus far spent most of his time, in his adult life, belief and hope sometimes slid into each other.

“I want to ask you about one more thing, Erik,” said Winter.

“What is it, Erik?” said Osvald.

“Do you have any photographs at home of your grandfather when he was young?”

Osvald moved his hand up to his forehead again. He rubbed his hair. He was standing in the middle of the floor.

“Anything other than that probably doesn’t exist,” he said. “We only remember him as young, you know.”

“Is there a picture?” asked Winter.

“Yes,” Osvald said, and left the room.

Bergenhem was standing four rows away from the truck, which seemed to sway in the wind when the cover moved. He could see that it was stretched over a van, which was peculiar. He looked at his watch. He had been sitting there for half an hour. He got out and approached the truck. He looked toward the entrance, where hundreds of people were going in and out and pushing carts full of flat packages. IKEA’s business idea was flat packs, and they sailed around the world. All over the world people bought the packages and assembled their homes, their worlds. Bergenhem still had a scar on his knuckles from trying to assemble a TV stand in which the predrilled holes in the hard-as-stone glued sheets of beech didn’t match the hardware. He had sworn and bled. But it had been cheap. In the end he had pounded in the screws with a hammer.

He looked at his watch again, at the truck again. He walked toward the entrance.

Half an hour later the parking lot began to empty.

The truck was still there.

Bergenhem began to realize what had happened.

Fifteen minutes later the truck was alone in its row. Bergenhem understood perfectly now. He called Meijner.