Sail of Stone

52

Winter and Macdonald drove back, Portessie, Findochty, Portnockie. The day was still brilliant, larger than life. Cullen Bay was empty. Two months earlier, the dolphins had been there.

They drove under the viaducts, which cast long shadows over the city, like the arms or legs of a giant. Or like the cathedrals that cast their shadows over all of Moray and Aberdeenshire.

There was no movement in Seatown. The sun fell in such a way that the small houses seemed to lean oddly.

Macdonald had parked west of Seatown, next to Cullen Sands.

They could see the beach, wide open toward the sea. Winter saw a sign: water never failed EU tests.

There was a figure far away on the beach, only a silhouette.

They walked on the nameless street that cut through Seatown, past the Methodist church. Children’s clothes were hung to dry in the yard of the house across from the church.

They couldn’t see the harbor from there.

The telephone booth was still red and still there. The sun shone in the cracks of the red wood. The door was halfway open.

Winter and Macdonald looked in through the door. The telephone wasn’t missing its cord. Macdonald lifted it and got a signal. There was a phone book. There was no graffiti. No telephone numbers of prostitutes. No smell of urine. No empty beer bottles. No broken glass.

“This booth is unique,” said Macdonald.

“We’re all unique,” said Winter.

“What do you mean by that?” said Macdonald.

Winter didn’t answer. He turned around.

“He lives down here,” he said. “Here in Seatown.”

“Mmhmm,” said Macdonald.

“You could live a whole life here, being invisible,” said Winter.

Macdonald nodded. It was completely true.

“Should we go door to door?” he asked.

Winter looked at Macdonald.

“He could be standing there with a Luger. Left over from smuggling.”

Macdonald didn’t smile. He didn’t take it as a joke.

“Why would he do that?” was all he said.

“These are his secrets,” said Winter. “We’re a threat.”

“Yes.”

Winter looked at the phone booth again. It lay half in shadow. He could see half of his reflection in the glass. He turned around and looked south, up over the houses at the slope toward Castle Terrace and the viaduct and the plateau behind it. On the other side of the road there was a street. He remembered the pub at the crossing.

“The man who didn’t move when we were in the pub up there,” he said to Macdonald, gesturing. “Just a back. It was an older man. I remember he was completely motionless while we were there,” Winter said. “Not a movement.”

“Maybe he was sleeping,” said Macdonald. “That’s not unusual in Scottish pubs.”

“No,” said Winter. “I could tell he was listening, listening carefully.”

Macdonald thought about what Winter had said.

“There was something about the woman behind the bar,” Macdonald said after a little while.

“She snuck a look at that back one time too many,” said Winter.

“You saw that too?” said Macdonald.

“Now that you mention it. But I don’t know.”

“Maybe it was his daughter,” said Macdonald. “The back’s daughter.”

Winter looked at his watch.

“We can go there and ask. The pubs open at eleven.”

Aneta drove south on an open road. The sun was strong and she didn’t have her sunglasses. The sky was as blue as it could get.

“You know the way from here?” asked Susanne.

“I’ve only been there once,” said Aneta.

“That goes for me, too,” said Susanne. She flipped down the sun visor as the road turned. She looked to the side, at Aneta. “What are you going to do when we get there?”

“Make sure everything is as it should be.”

They turned off of Säröleden and drove across the field, which seemed to be suspended in the sunshine. They would be able to glimpse the sea soon. Before that was the forest, and the hill that Aneta had climbed down earlier. She wasn’t planning on climbing this time.

She felt strangely safe with Susanne by her side. Susanne was calm. She wasn’t moving now.

Aneta drove between the trees.

Suddenly she saw her mother, her mother from the dream! Her mother was standing in the middle of the road. Aneta slammed on the brakes.

“What the…,” said Susanne, as she was thrown forward in her seat then caught by her seat belt. The tires squealed.

Aneta closed her eyes, then peeked. The road was empty. There was no black woman there, no hands held up as a signal to stop, nothing but a glimpse of sea between the trees.

Halders started to pass a vehicle at Skalldalen-Skulldale-and the damn truck he’d nearly passed suddenly skidded to the left, and Halders flew out across the shoulder and his car was thrown into a boulder that shouldn’t have been there, absolutely not there, and the car flipped over but only once, and it ended up sitting as though it were going to keep driving, but Halders couldn’t drive; he was stuck, and he thought, It’s strange that I’m sitting here in Skalldalen with my skull still in place and filled with thoughts like these.

After that he was unconscious.

Aneta parked in front of the house. It was quiet everywhere. There were no seabirds screaming or laughing. There was no wind. The sea was like a mirror, but there were no boats out there to see their reflections, and no clouds above.

Susanne still hadn’t gotten out of the car as Aneta stood in front of the door. She didn’t feel calm, but she wasn’t agitated either, as she had been recently. She saw her hand knock on the door, one-two-three times. She called out. She opened the door. She called out again:

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

She turned around, but Susanne was still sitting in the car. The car was half in shadow.

Something moved behind it, another half shadow.

Winter and Macdonald walked across Bayview Road. The door into the Three Kings was half open. It was quarter past eleven.

The woman who had stood behind the bar before was standing there now, too, drying glasses, or maybe polishing them.

She could have been fifty, or fifty-five. It was the same woman as yesterday. They walked across the floor, which shone. There was sun in the room, and it cut across the wood of the bar. The woman continued to rub a glass with a rag as she looked at them. There was no recognition in her eyes. She might as well be looking right through us, thought Winter.

Now she nodded.

“Yes?”

Macdonald looked at Winter. Nice and calm.

Macdonald pointed at one of the ale labels in front of the wooden handles that stood in a row of four.

“Two pints, please.”

The woman put down the glass she’d been polishing and polishing and reached for two new glasses on a shelf behind her. She drew the fresh, cloudy ale into the glasses and placed them on coasters on the bar.

Macdonald paid. The woman took a few steps away.

“I wonder if you can help us,” said Macdonald.

She stopped. Winter could see the tension in her face. She knew. She had immediately revealed something when she hadn’t shown any recognition of them.

She knew, knew something.

“We’re looking for a man,” said Macdonald.

The woman looked at Winter, and back at Macdonald. Then she turned her profile to them.

“Oh?”

“An older man. A Swede. His name is John Osvald.”

“John Osvald,” Winter repeated.

“Oh?”

She was still standing in profile. A muscle moved in her neck. She didn’t ask what it was about. What should we answer if she asks? Winter thought.

“We think he lives here in Cullen,” said Macdonald.

“He might call himself Johnson, too,” said Winter.

“We think he was sitting here yesterday afternoon when we were here,” said Macdonald, nodding toward the empty table and the empty chair by the window.

That was the direction the woman seemed to be looking. The sun was intense through the window; it lit up half the table and half the chair. Everything outside the window was bright. The woman was still looking toward the window.

“I don’t know any Swede,” she said without moving.

She’s afraid, Winter suddenly thought. She’s afraid of this, afraid of us. No. Afraid of saying something. Afraid of someone else.

“He’s lived in Scotland for a long time,” Macdonald said. “He might not sound like a Swede.”

She still didn’t ask why they were asking. She looked. Winter could glimpse the corner of the house on the other side, and a little bit of the beach.

Winter walked across the floor to the table by the window. He could see more of the road and the houses and the beach, and he could see the sea. The roofs of Seatown. The beach was divided by the Three Kings rocks, and it continued on the other side. Winter could see the golf club next to the cliffs; the parking lot, which had a few cars in it.

Winter walked closer to the window to get a better view. He turned around and saw that the woman behind the bar also had a good view.

He saw a figure on the sand, on this side of the Three Kings cliffs. It could have been the same figure they’d seen when they’d parked down by Seatown. The figure didn’t seem to have moved.

Winter turned around again and saw the woman’s face, and he knew. He turned toward the window and the figure down on the beach, and back to the woman again, and everything became clear, he could read everything in her face, and Macdonald seemed to understand without really understanding and came up to the window and saw what Winter saw.

“It’s him,” Macdonald said. He turned to the woman. “That’s Osvald out there, isn’t it?”

She didn’t answer, and that was an answer in itself.

They turned around and walked toward the door.

“I couldn’t stand the lifelong lie anymore,” she said.

They turned around again.

“Sorry?” said Winter.

“I couldn’t stand Da… Dad’s lifelong lie anymore,” she said without taking her eyes from the window.

“Dad’s…?” said Macdonald.

“Couldn’t stand it,” she said. “And he couldn’t stand it.”

Winter and Macdonald didn’t say anything.

“I sent a letter,” she said.

“It arrived,” said Winter.

She turned her head to them, suddenly.

“Be careful down on the beach.”

When they had crossed Bayview Road and continued down the steps to Seatown, Winter could see the harbor and the breakwaters and the few local fishing boats, the very small ones, which were in a little row alongside the wall.

He could also see the trawler of steel that was just inside the harbor entrance. It was blue, blue like the sky and the sea on this day.

He saw the name.

Aneta stood facing the car and saw Susanne’s silhouette in the window.

Last time, there had been a small plastic boat moored at the dock that belonged to the cabin. It was gone now. That meant something.

Someone moved behind the car.

“I didn’t want you here,” said Hans Forsblad, stepping into the sunshine.

“Where is Anette?” Aneta asked.

“Where is Anette? Where is Anette?” Forsblad mimicked her.

“She has the right to live her own life,” said Aneta.

“Not as long as you keep interfering,” said Forsblad. “You’re always interfering!”

“I’m here with your sister,” said Aneta.

“I’m aware of that.”

There was a shine in his eyes; it wasn’t from the sun.

Aneta took a step forward.

“What have you done with Anette?” she said, but she knew the answer.

Halders could move his head. He had regained consciousness some time ago; he hadn’t been gone from the world for long. There were people standing around the car. He could see colleagues in marked cars and uniforms. I don’t see an ambulance. They wouldn’t waste an ambulance on me.

Someone had opened the car door without cutting the metal.

He could get out!

He did so, with some help.

“The ambulance is on its way,” said Jansson or Jonsson or Johansson or whatever the fuck his name was, the detective from Frölunda.

“You can take it yourself,” said Halders. “I don’t need an ambulance.”

He walked a few steps, and after a little bit, a few more.

“What time is it?” he said.

His colleague answered. Halders tried to focus on his watch, but he couldn’t really see his arm clearly. He focused on the guy in the uniform.

“Can you drive me somewhere?” Suddenly he felt that it was urgent. He saw more clearly. “It’s fucking urgent,” he said, and fumbled for his cell phone but then gave up. “Can you make a call for me?”

Winter and Macdonald walked across the beach. Seatown was behind them. Winter could see the cars in the parking lot of the golf club. He thought one of them shimmered green, like metal.

They walked toward the figure. It was a man bent over, looking across the sea. They saw him in profile. He straightened up but remained in profile.

Winter knew who it was; Macdonald knew. It was the same profile.

He knew now. Here they came, side by side, one fair and one dark, suede jacket, leather jacket. As though they owned the whole world. But no! They didn’t own a thing.

When he had seen their car over there an hour ago or so, he knew that they were there again. That they would come out here to him.

And he waited.

It must have been the telephone. He didn’t think she’d said anything; she wouldn’t dare. Was it possible to find out something like that? The telephone? Tracing, it was called. It was probably possible.

He didn’t intend to answer any questions.

This was his beach, his city, his house, his life.

Don’t answer, don’t say anything.

He could scare them, scare them. This wasn’t where it was supposed to end. They couldn’t do anything to him.

There was no one left who could say anything.

They had stopped ten feet from the old man. He turned around, toward them.

“John Osvald?” Winter asked.

The man looked through them as though they were invisible. He seemed to fix his eyes on something behind them, maybe his house. Or the viaduct.

“We only want to know if you’re John Osvald,” Winter said in Swedish.

The man didn’t answer, continued to look with his misty gaze.

“Are you John Osvald?”

“Who are you?” said the man. In Swedish.

“I’m from home,” Winter said. “I come with a message from home.”

The marked car drove through the little grove of trees toward the sea. Halders saw the sea. His colleague Jonsson hadn’t been able to contact Aneta. Halders had tried himself. No reply. Now he saw that there was no reception.

They cut across the beach and saw the house that had to be the Lindstens’. He saw the car that he knew was Aneta’s. He didn’t see any other vehicles.

He saw a woman on her knees next to the car. He recognized her. It was Susanne Marke.

He saw a man fifty feet out, bent over the water. He recognized him. He watched Hans Forsblad dive suddenly and start to swim away. Halders saw Forsblad’s shoes kick the water.

He saw Aneta at the edge of the water. She was standing still.

The old man hadn’t said anything more, hadn’t moved. Everything was still. There were no birds, no fish, no people, nothing in between. They were alone in this northern world.

“What happened to your son?” said Winter, who had taken a step closer. “What happened to your son, Axel?”

The old man’s gaze slowly became clear. It made him appear younger.

He was wearing a cap with a narrow brim. His face was sharp. He had a thick, knitted sweater under a tweed jacket. He was tall when he wasn’t bent over. Winter saw a blue spot on one cheek.

There was a bulge in one of his jacket pockets.

“What happened to Axel?” said Winter.

“He washed himself,” said John Osvald.

“What do you mean?”

“He washed away the sins. He wanted to do it. I couldn’t do it.”

“He wasn’t wearing any clothes,” said Winter.

“Only someone who God loves can do that,” said Osvald. Winter thought the old man’s gaze seemed to cloud again. “Whatever happens, good things will come to a man who loves God.”

“Sins,” Winter said. “What sins are you talking about?”

“My sins,” said John Osvald.

“What sins are those?” Winter asked.

Osvald didn’t answer.

“Does it have to do with what happened during the war?” Winter asked.

Osvald stared at Winter, or perhaps at something else. His gaze was clear again.

“Comes a time,” he said.

“Sorry?” said Winter.

“There comes a time,” said Osvald, who spoke Scottish English.

“A time for what?” said Macdonald, who was now standing next to Winter.

No answer.

“A time for what?” Macdonald repeated.

“A time to tell,” said Osvald. He gestured with his arm, his hand. Winter looked at his jacket pocket again. It was…

“To tell what?” Macdonald asked.

He took a step closer.

“Stay away from me!” Osvald yelled.

“To tell what?” Macdonald repeated.

“Take it easy, Steve,” said Winter.

Winter looked at Osvald’s jacket pocket. He looked at Macdonald. He opened his mouth again to warn-

“Tell me what there is to tell,” said Macdonald, who could almost reach Osvald now.

“Nooooo!” Osvald suddenly yelled, and he pulled a pistol out of his jacket pocket and shot it. Winter had time to register the Luger with his eyes, and he heard the bullet pass between himself and Macdonald. Winter was already moving to the side, a reflex. He didn’t have a weapon. Macdonald didn’t have a weapon. Winter heard another shot, and another; he didn’t hear any bullets, but he saw Macdonald, ahead and to the side, get hit in the throat, he saw the blood start to spurt like a fountain, a gurgling sound from Macdonald, an open wound in Macdonald’s shoulder where the other bullet must have exited, a slow movement as Macdonald began to fall, the taste of sand in his mouth, of horrid fucking sand that filled Winter’s face, the image of the earth spinning around and around and becoming a blue clump of sea and sky, and then suddenly the sound of footsteps passing him but from the other direction, and through the haze of sand he saw Erik Osvald’s profile, and he heard a scream up ahead, and another from a direction he couldn’t determine, and he thought about how he had lured Macdonald into this, that he was responsible and no one else, that he would have to face Sarah and see her face, and she would have to face the children, the twins, and he pawed the sand out of his face and hurled himself up and forward and screamed and screamed, screamed like a madman.