Sail of Stone

42

Halfway to Nairn, Macdonald pointed to a road sign: Cawdor Castle.

“Do you know your Shakespeare?” he asked.

Winter saw the sign.

“Give me a minute.”

Cawdor, Cawdor, Cawdor. Thane of Cawdor.

“Macbeth,” said Winter.

Macdonald tipped the hat he didn’t have.

“Do you believe that story, too?” asked Winter.

“Not about the castle,” Macdonald said, “even if it is from the early thirteen-hundreds. But I believe the myth.”

“That was a true tale of murder,” said Winter.

“You could say that I grew up near two monsters,” Macdonald said, “Nessie and Macbeth.”

“How has that affected you?” asked Winter.

“I don’t know yet.”

They drove between fields that breathed sea. Winter looked to the right, across the river Nairn.

They drove through Nairn, which was built of brown granite. The sound of gulls was intense. The sky was blue; there were no clouds. The city was next to the sea.

“This is the best place for sun in Scotland,” Macdonald said. “We came here to swim sometimes when I was a child.”

They continued on the A96 toward Forres. Winter saw the clouds inland.

How far is’t call’d to Forres? What are these

So wither’d and so wild in their attire,

That look not like the inhabitants o’ the earth,

And yet are on’t?

Macdonald swung through two roundabouts and parked on High Street in front of Chimes Tearoom. They got out of the car.

“This is the street of my youth,” said Macdonald. “Forres was the closest I got to a city.” He looked around. “It isn’t much more than this street.”

Fraser Bros. meats on the other side of High Street displayed a sign for “Award Winning Haggis.” Winter knew that haggis was the national dish of Scotland, a hash made of sheep stomach and oatmeal. He had refrained from eating it thus far.

“Great chieftain o’ the puddin’-race!” said Macdonald, who noticed his gaze.

Winter smiled.

“Robert Burns,” said Macdonald. “Ode to a Haggis”:

Fair fa’ your honest sonsie face,

Great chieftain o’ the puddin’-race!

Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,

Painch, tripe, or thairm:

Weel are ye wordy of a grace

As lang’s my arm.

“I wish we had poetry like that in Sweden,” said Winter. “Poetry in honor of hash.”

“Then let’s have coffee,” said Macdonald, and they stepped into Chimes and sat down at one of the tables in the window. A woman their age came up and took the order from Macdonald: two caffe lattes and two slices of Dundee cake. She had short, dark brown hair and an open face. She lingered at the table.

“Isn’t that Steve?” she said.

“Yes…,” said Macdonald, suddenly getting up. “Lorraine.”

She reached up and gave him a hug.

“Long time no see,” she said.

“Very long,” said Macdonald.

She turned around and saw that the line was beginning to grow at the counter, where her coworker was raising an eyebrow.

“I have to work,” she said, throwing a quick glance at Winter.

“A Swedish friend,” said Macdonald, turning toward Winter.

Winter got up and extended his hand. They greeted each other. She gave Macdonald another smile.

“Will you be here this afternoon?”

“I’m sorry, Lorraine. We’re on our way to Aberdeen.”

“Ah.”

She turned around and walked quickly to the counter. Macdonald and Winter sat down. Winter saw a note to the right of the counter: “One person needed for washing dishes and pots, Wednesdays and Fridays 11-2.”

Macdonald cleared his throat discreetly.

“Old flame,” he said.

“Mmhmm,” said Winter.

“Like you and Johanna Osvald.”

“Did I tell you about that?”

Macdonald didn’t answer. He looked around, looked out through the window. People went into Fraser Bros., came out with prize-winning haggis.

“It’s been quite a few years since I was here last,” said Macdonald.

Winter didn’t answer. Macdonald met his gaze.

“I don’t know,” said Macdonald, “you almost get some sort of feeling of… shame when you come back. Like you’re guilty of something. Like you’re ashamed that you left here once, failed them, maybe. I don’t know if you understand this, Erik. If it’s even possible to understand.”

“I’ve lived in the same city my whole life, Steve. I haven’t experienced what you’re experiencing.”

Such different lives we’ve had, really, thought Winter. Macdonald came from a little one-horse town; he had taken his first independent steps on the streets of this small town. Winter was a big-city boy.

Lorraine came with the coffee and the fruitcake, which was heavy with fruit.

“How’s it going, Lorraine?” asked Macdonald.

“It’s going,” she answered.

“I see you need dishwashers,” Macdonald said, smiling.

“If you’re in town on Wednesdays and Fridays, well…,” Lorraine said.

Macdonald smiled again but didn’t answer.

“Otherwise it’s pretty much like for everyone else here,” said Lorraine. “Divorced from a jerk of a guy and two half-grown kids to support.”

“Who was the jerk?” asked Macdonald.

“Rob Montgomerie,” she answered.

Macdonald raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, I know,” she said, smiling a smile that might have been acid, “but you weren’t here anymore, Steve, were you?”

Macdonald suddenly looked guilty. Winter noticed that he lowered his eyes. Lorraine walked back to the counter. Macdonald watched her go.

“Now I really feel guilty,” he said.

“You knew that guy?”

“He was a jerk,” said Macdonald. “Poor Lorraine.” Macdonald turned to Winter. “Sometimes it doesn’t matter how grown-up you are, there are people you will dislike your whole life.” He looked at Lorraine. “She must have been desperate.”

“She’s gotten away from it,” said Winter.

“I’m not sure,” said Macdonald. “Rob was a violent type.”

As they left, Macdonald took Lorraine aside for a second.

Winter waited outside.

“That bastard has stayed away so far, anyway,” Macdonald said when he came out to the sidewalk.

“You look like you’re back in high school,” said Winter.

Which is true, he thought. When Steve comes back here he becomes the person he was then. That’s how time works.

“There are a lot of wife beaters here,” said Macdonald.

“Where isn’t there?” said Winter.

Aneta Djanali was waiting in the room when they showed Sigge Lindsten in. It was an important distinction: He was shown into the room; he wasn’t brought into it.

Halders cleared his throat and they started, and the tape recorder turned. Lindsten answered everything as though this had all been well rehearsed. But he didn’t know anything.

Halders asked about various addresses on the outskirts of Brantingsmotet. Lindsten was the least-aware person in the world.

“I’m going to tell you more than I need to,” said Halders. “Stored in those warehouses I just mentioned are stolen goods from burglaries of many houses around Gothenburg.”

“I see,” said Lindsten.

“Headquarters,” said Halders, “on the way out to the fences and buyers.”

“It seems things like that are becoming more and more common,” said Lindsten.

“Like what?” Halders asked.

“Thefts, and organizations, or whatever they’re called.”

“That’s right,” said Halders. “A large organization.”

“But what does this have to do with me?”

“Well, I’ll tell you one more thing,” said Halders. “We followed a truck that was leaving those crammed warehouses on Hisingen, and it drove through the entire city to Fastlagsgatan in Kortedala and stopped outside entrance number five, and guess who arrived shortly thereafter and spoke to the driver?”

“No idea,” said Lindsten.

“It was you!” said Halders.

“Why, that’s a surprise,” said Lindsten.

“And one more thing,” said Halders. “The truck had stolen license plates.”

“How do you know that?”

“Sorry?”

“Maybe it was the truck that was stolen?” said Lindsten.

“And the plates weren’t stolen?” Halders quickly looked to the side, at Aneta. “Is that what you mean?”

“It was just a thought,” Lindsten said, shrugging. “Who were they, then?”

“Who?” asked Halders.

“The guys in the truck,” said Lindsten.

“Who said there was more than one?” said Halders.

“I was there, wasn’t I?” Lindsten smiled a smile that had to be called sly, thought Aneta. “And I was there. And I remember that a truck was parked outside the door when I came out, and I told them that they couldn’t park there, and then they asked directions to somewhere and then they left.” He inhaled through his nose twice. “I don’t know if your witness heard what we said, but if he did then he can confirm that.”

“They were waiting for you,” Halders said.

Lindsten made a gesture that might have expressed resignation to dealing with the feeble-minded person across from him.

“I’m going to tell you one more thing,” said Halders.

“Why should I listen to all of this?” said Lindsten.

“In one of the warehouses on Hisingen we found what we believe is the entirety of Anette’s belongings from the apartment in Kortedala,” said Halders. “We have checked the lists from the record carefully. We have been there. And there are a few framed photos.”

“That’s good news,” said Lindsten. “Is that why I’m here? To identify the things, or whatever it’s called?”

“Most of the stuff in that warehouse was all helter-skelter, but Anette’s things were placed very neatly on their own behind separate screens. Everything was very neat when it came to your daughter’s belongings.”

“I’m thankful for that,” said Lindsten.

“Why do you think that was?” asked Halders.

“No idea,” Lindsten answered. “I’m just glad that her things might have turned up.”

Lindsten went on his way to Brantingsmotet in a marked car. Aneta and Halders followed.

Lindsten recognized the things as Anette’s.

He signed some papers.

They waved good-bye out on the pavement.

Inside it was like a hangar with odds and ends and furniture and kitchen appliances and the devil and his grandma.

“There’s more than I expected,” said Aneta.

“There are more warehouses like this one,” said Halders.

“My God.”

“What is it that I’m not getting here?” said Halders.

“And me,” said Aneta.

“Lindsten’s daughter is subjected to threats and suspected assault by her husband. The neighbors report it. She doesn’t want to file a report, which is all too tragically familiar. She flees to her home. Her apartment is cleaned out under the supervision of Detective Inspector Aneta Djanal-”

“Please,” Aneta interrupted.

“-Djanali, and that very apartment is then sublet to Moa Ringmar of all people, and she moves in and moves out quick as fuck when she learns about the history of the place. At the same time, Gothenburg’s Finest are working on a large operation to crack a gigantic theft ring with an IKEA-class warehouse on Hisingen, and a truck leaves from there, maybe on a mission, maybe not, and it drives straight to Anette’s apartment but before anyone goes into the building Sigge Lindsten comes out and calls it off.”

“What is it he calls off?” said Aneta.

“That’s my question, too,” said Halders. “One guess is that they were going to clean out the apartment again. But the guys in the truck didn’t know it was already empty. Eventually someone tells Lindsten that they’re on their way there and he shows up and explains the situation and the thieves take off again.”

“He could have just called,” said Aneta.

“Maybe he didn’t dare.”

“Was he already so suspicious? Of us?”

“He’s not dumb,” said Halders. “And he probably didn’t think Bergenhem was tailing the truck.”

“So Lindsten rents to people who are then robbed of all they own.”

“Yes.”

“Why not,” said Aneta.

“That is what we were thinking when we brought him in just now, isn’t it?”

“And others are doing the same thing?”

“Yes, or they have good contacts among the landlords.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Then of course there’s the question of why, in that case, he stole his own daughter’s belongings.”

Aneta thought. She thought about her short encounter with Anette Lindsten, about Hans Forsblad, about his sister, who seemed as nuts as her brother. About Sigge Lindsten, about Mrs. Lindsten, about all those people, all of whom seemed extremely dangerous, no, not dangerous, peculiar, evasive, like shadows who got tangled in their lies. They disintegrated, became something else, someone else. She saw Anette’s face again. The broken cheekbone that had healed but didn’t look like it once had, and never would. Her eyes. A nervous hand up in her hair. A life that in some ways was over.

“A warning,” said Aneta.

“He wanted to warn his daughter?” said Halders.

“A warning,” said Aneta, nodding to herself. She looked up at Halders. “Or a punishment.”

“Punishment? Punishment for what?”

“I don’t know if I dare to think about it,” said Aneta. She closed her eyes and opened them again. “It has something to do with Forsblad. And his sister.” She grabbed the arm of Halders’s jacket. “It has to do with them. But not how we think.”

Halders had the sense to keep quiet.

“It’s not like we think,” she repeated. “They’re playing some game. Or keeping quiet about something they don’t want us to know. Or they’re just scared. One of them, or some of them, are scared.”

“Like I just said,” said Halders. “What is it that I’m not getting here?”

Maybe we shouldn’t know, she thought, suddenly and intensely. We shouldn’t know! Maybe we should let it go, like a hot coal. Maybe Fredrik was right when he said that a long time ago. Maybe it’s dangerous, really dangerous, for us, for me.

For me.

“So she’s done something to her father that he has to punish her for?” Halders scraped his hand across the back of his head. “He steals the furniture?” Halders looked at Aneta. “Of course, it could also be as simple as that the warehouse out on Hisingen is a perfect storage facility for her things for the time being. Lindsten had the manpower and the vehicle, and Anette wanted out of the apartment fast, so Dad sent his thieves there to get the whole lot and then they drove to the warehouse and stacked it up nice and neat. Think of how it’s arranged all by itself, behind screens. Most of the other stuff is all helter-skelter out there.”

“Does Anette know about it, do you think? The warehouse? And the stolen goods? The trafficking?”

“No idea,” said Halders. “But surely she wonders where her things are.”

“If she knows, maybe it’s yet another reason to keep quiet,” said Aneta. “She doesn’t dare to do anything else.”

That evening she ran a hot bath. The sound of the water rushed through the entire apartment. She walked to the bathroom and dropped her clothes behind her. She had always left her clothes everywhere, and her mother had picked them up after her.

Now Fredrik picked them up.

“Jesus Christ,” he sometimes said when pieces of clothing were lying from the door to the bathroom.

It was the first time he followed her the whole way.

She had dragged him down into the half-full bathtub before he had had time to take off a damn thing.

That had been good.

She threw her panties into the hamper next to the washing machine and climbed carefully into the hot water and turned off the faucet. She sank very slowly down into the water, one inch, two, three, and so forth.

She lay with her chin underwater. There was foam everywhere. The water started to cool, but she intended to keep lying there. It was quiet in the apartment. No steps up above that was rare. No banging from the elevator door out in the stairwell; that was rare too. No sounds of traffic; it wasn’t audible from here. She heard only the familiar sounds of her own home, the refrigerator in the kitchen, the freezer, some other hum; she’d never really figured out what it was but she’d accepted it long ago, the faucet that dripped slooowly behind her neck, some sigh that could have been from the electronics that were scattered here and there in modern homes.

She heard a sound.

She didn’t recognize it.

Macdonald led the way north on High Street. They passed many shops and cafés. Here there were neighborhood services for the locals; we crushed those long ago in Sweden, thought Winter. This place might be poorer, but not in that way.

Macdonald stopped at one of the dark stone houses. A sign hung above the door: The Forres Gazette-Forres, Elgin, Nairn.

They went in. They were expected.

“Awful long time, no see, Steve,” said the man who came up to them. He gave Macdonald a punch on the back.

Macdonald clipped him back and introduced Winter, who quickly extended his hand for safety’s sake.

“Duncan Mackay,” said the man, who looked older but was the same age as Macdonald, who had told Winter about his classmate in the car.

Mackay’s hair was coal black and shoulder length. He had matching circles under his eyes. He guided them in behind a wooden counter. They sat down on two chairs in front of Mackay’s desk, which contrasted almost comically with Chief Inspector Craig’s in Inverness. They could barely see the editor on the other side of the piles of paper. Even though he was standing.

“Coffee, beer, whisky?” asked Mackay. “Claret? Marijuana?”

Macdonald looked at Winter.

“No thanks,” Winter said, pointing at his pack of Corps, which he had taken out. “I have smokes.”

Mackay had a lit cigarette in his mouth.

Macdonald shook his head at Mackay.

“We just saw Lorraine,” he said when Mackay had sat down and rolled a bit to the side in his chair.

“Steve the Heartbreaker Macdonald,” said Mackay. “It took her some time.” He turned to Winter. “To get over it.”

“She told us about Robbie.”

“Yeah, shit.”

“No doubt he’s disappeared.”

“He’ll show up,” said Mackay. “Unfortunately.”

They sat in silence for a few seconds, as though to reflect upon the fate of humanity. The room lay half in shadow.

Mackay got up and searched through the top of the piles of paper. He held a paper up to the light from the window.

“I asked the local editors to look around, but no one has seen this Osvald guy,” said Mackay. “Axel Osvald, right? There was a bulletin that went out, too, and obviously we checked then too-a foreigner who dies in Moray-but nothing about the man.”

“Okay,” said Macdonald.

“Your colleagues over at the Ramnee haven’t seen or heard anything either,” said Mackay.

“I know. I called a few days ago.”

“Have you been there?”

“Not yet.”

Mackay read from his paper again.

“There’s just one thing…”

“Yes?”

“Billy in the editorial department in Elgin did a thing about the fish market’s new dismal numbers, and he interviewed people up in Buckie. That was before the bulletin.” Mackay looked up. “Billy’s a little slow, but he’s good. But slow. Okay, he was talking to some of the old forgotten guys at the shipyard and he had parked the car on one of the little streets right across from there, and when he came back and he was going to drive home he saw a Corolla parked on the same street. It had been there when he arrived, too. Metallic green.”

“Did he get the number?”

“Hell no. Why should he have? He wasn’t even thinking about that then. He didn’t remember it until after the bulletin came out. No. Not then. It was when I called him yesterday. And actually, not even then. He called this morning and said that he’d seen the car.”

“Is he sure?”

“He’s pretty good with cars. And of course it appeared to be new, he could see that. A new car in Buckie… well, you don’t see that every day. At least not on those streets.”