of dressing. “It might be her father’s shady dealings she’s running away from.” Halders looked up. “He’s sure as shit trying to keep us away from his daughter. And her problems. And her husband, Frutzblatt. His sister. And so on.”
“Yes,” said Aneta, “but it’s not her dad she’s afraid of, not primarily. I’m sure. It’s the threat from Forsblad.”
“Why doesn’t she say so straight out, then?”
“I think she is,” said Aneta. “We’re just not listening well enough.”
“And now she’s on her way to that cabin by the sea?”
“That’s what she said.”
Halders cut a piece of ham and cheese quiche and lifted her plate.
“You sound skeptical.”
“Well, I don’t think she trusts anyone. Including me.”
“Why the beach house?”
“Maybe it’s the only place where she can feel safe,” Aneta said.
That night she dreamed that she was driving on a narrow road that led her between low trees that were lit up by her headlights. Everything was black outside. Above her was the sky, but it was also the sea. How she knew that, she didn’t know. It was the dream that told her.
Somewhere, a woman was singing with a cracked voice, or screaming. She heard the sound of waves from above. Even in a dream, where you accept everything, she thought that it was wrong. Why was the water above her?
In the light from her headlights stood her mother.
Her mother made a gesture she didn’t understand. She didn’t understand that her mother wanted to stop her, there on the road.
Her mother had never shown up in her dreams before.
Now she was driving on a beach.
Her mother was suddenly standing there, too, gesturing, raising both hands, standing in the way of the car.
Suddenly there was water all around! She tried to scream, scream. She couldn’t
Her own screams woke her up, or her attempts to scream. She felt an arm around her shoulders. It was warm. She heard Fredrik’s voice.
Macdonald parked on the square below the Seafield Hotel. The city sloped sharply toward the sea. Winter stood on the square with his overnight bag over his shoulder. It was twilight in the haze. Winter saw the enormous iron structures that were suspended straight across the upper part of Cullen. From a distance, the viaducts could be mistaken for horizontal cathedrals.
“Impressive,” he said.
“I agree,” said Macdonald. “But the trains have stopped running.”
They had called from the car. There were two vacant rooms at the Seafield; more than that. The season was over.
The building was of white stone, an old inn. The lobby was done in polished mahogany, silver, gold, a tartan pattern that Winter guessed belonged to the owners’ clan, the Campbell family. It had various shades of blue, black, and green, like the sea at the end of the road through Cullen.
Herbert Campbell discreetly asked them about the evening. Could he perhaps recommend the hotel restaurant? He could, and they reserved a table for eight o’clock.
They dropped into the bar for an ale before they went up to their rooms.
“Impressive,” said Winter.
“It’s famous even in Scotland,” said Macdonald.
It wasn’t only the shining wood of the bar, the leather furniture, the open fire, the heavy art on the walls. It was the bottles in a row at the bar and the shelves behind them. Winter had to ask.
“Two hundred forty-one kinds of malt whisky,” said the female bartender.
“Think about that for a drink before dinner,” said Macdonald.
Winter called Angela from his room. He stood at the window and saw the street below and half the sea and a group of small stone houses that flocked together down by the harbor.
“Found a good hotel?” he said.
“Sarah had a favorite and I agree with her,” said Angela. “I can see the castle from the window right now.”
“I can see half the sea,” said Winter.
“How is the investigation going?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Are there any traces of John Osvald?”
“Maybe.” Winter sat down and then stretched out on the bed. It was hard, but not too hard. Through the window he could see the upper portion of the stone house across the street. A seagull, or some kind of gull, was sitting above a window bay. “It’s as though he’s been here. Stayed here, if you understand what I mean. We’ve even spoken to an old man who knew him back then and claims to have seen him
“Well, there you go.”
“I don’t think we’ll find him,” said Winter.
“You can see the sights, anyway,” said Angela.
“You too.”
“We were planning to take the train tomorrow afternoon up to that place in the Highlands.”
“We’ll probably be driving at the same time. We should be there in time to see you for dinner. A reunion dinner.”
“What are you doing tonight, then?”
“Eating dinner.” He changed position on the bed. “I’m going to try that soup. Cullen skink.”
“It doesn’t sound good.”
“Steve says it isn’t good.”
“Then I understand that you have to try it.” He heard a sound behind her, a door opening, a male voice, a female voice.
“Oops, here comes room service.” Winter thought he heard Sarah Macdonald’s voice. Angela came back. “A bottle of good white wine.”
“Have you talked to Elsa?” Winter asked.
“Only twice this afternoon.”
“I called, but no one was home at Lotta’s. And no answer on her cell.”
“They’re at the movies right now.”
“Okay. I’ll call later. See you tomorrow. Hugs and kisses.”
He dropped the phone next to him on the bed. He saw Arne Algotsson’s face before him as the confused old fisherman said the word for the Scottish haddock soup.
He sat up and massaged his shoulder, which had grown stiff in the car. His body needed more massaging now that he was past forty.
There was a knock at the door.
He called out a “Yes?”
“Fancy a walk before dinner?” he heard Macdonald’s voice say.
They walked south on Seafield Street, passed Bayview Road at the curve, and continued down a few stairways that led to the strange little houses, which formed a small, closely built neighborhood next to the harbor. Winter could see a beach beyond them.
This was Seatown. They walked along the narrow streets, which didn’t have names. The numbers on the houses didn’t make sense.
“I think the numbers show what order the houses were built in,” said Macdonald.
They passed Cullen Methodist Church.
