Sail of Stone

Macdonald and Winter got into the car. The owner of the pub on the other side of the street rolled up the blinds. There were chairs on the tables inside the windows. A ray of sunshine lit up part of the bar. Winter suddenly felt very thirsty.

“We’ve gotten this far, anyway,” said Macdonald.

“Don’t you want to get farther?” said Winter.

“So where should we go?” Macdonald asked. “What should we do?”

“I don’t know,” Winter said. “And it’s a question of time, too.”

Macdonald looked at his watch.

“The girls will get on the train in an hour or so.”

“We should probably start on our way up to those high lands ourselves,” said Winter.

Macdonald studied the pub owner, who had started to take the chairs down from the tables. He was wearing sunglasses for protection from the sun, which shone intensely between the two houses behind Winter and Macdonald.

“I sense that we’re close,” Macdonald said, turning to Winter. “Don’t you feel it too?”

Winter nodded but didn’t answer.

“We’ve followed him. At least partially, we’ve followed in his old footsteps,” said Macdonald.

“Or new ones,” said Winter.

“New and old,” Macdonald said. “We can drive through Dufftown so you can buy a few bottles at the Glenfarclas distillery.” He turned the key.

His phone rang. He got it out of his leather jacket after the fourth ring.

“Yes?” Macdonald nodded at Winter. “Good morning yourself, Inspector Craig.” He listened.

“Sorry it took some time,” said Craig, “but it was like I couldn’t convince the authorities of the penalty in this case.”

“I understand,” said Macdonald.

“It’s not exactly murder,” said Craig.

“Not technically,” said Macdonald.

“In any case, I have the information now,” said Craig. “Sure enough, two of those calls to Glen Islay B and B on Ross Avenue came from a landline in Sweden, dialing code thirty-one.”

“The daughter,” said Macdonald. “Johanna Osvald.”

“Yes,” said Craig. Macdonald heard the rustle of paper. Someone said something in the background. Craig’s voice came back. “There weren’t too many phone calls to Glen Islay during that time period. The off season. But one of them might be of interest. At least, it’s a little odd. It’s from the days when this Axel Osvald was staying there.”

“Yes?”

“Someone called from a phone booth,” said Craig.

“Good,” said Macdonald.

Telephone booths were good. Cell phones were trickier; with those they could establish the area, but then it could be difficult. Telephone booths were not as mobile.

First they could tell that it was a phone booth, and then which one it was, and where it was. Sometimes they seized the whole booth for a technical investigation.

“It was a woman,” said Macdonald, “according to the matron at Glen Islay.”

“Whatever you say,” said Craig, “The call came from a telephone booth up in Cullen. Have you ever been there?”

“Cullen?”

“Yes.”

“I’m on my way,” said Macdonald.

51

Aneta Djanali drove home. It was a brilliant day, really brilliant. Everything above the buildings was blue. There were sharp shadows all over Sveagatan. There was a fresh smell in the wind.

She walked quickly through the hall, after having checked the new lock, and she went into the bedroom and took off her blouse and the thin undershirt, and it was as she was unbuckling her belt that she froze.

She pulled the belt tight again and put on her blouse and felt her pulse. What had she seen? No. What had she not seen?

She walked slowly out into the hall.

The shell.

The shell was in its place on the shelf.

She approached it slowly. She didn’t want to touch it.

She listened for sounds now, listened inward, backward. She turned around slowly, following the sound of bare feet.

“I didn’t think you’d come back so soon,” said Susanne Marke.

The woman was standing barefoot in her hall, in her hall!

Aneta could still hear hammering in her head, a sledgehammer between her eyes. She heard herself:

“Wha… what are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you,” said Susanne. She had a strange expression in her eyes. “You were supposed to come home soon.”

“Wh… why?” said Aneta. That was the most urgent question. Not how, when, what, who.

“You still don’t get it?” said Susanne.

Aneta didn’t think to move. Susanne was standing still. She had nothing in her hands.

“What am I supposed to get?”

Susanne suddenly laughed, hard, shrill.

“About Anette and me!”

“Anette and… you?” Aneta echoed.

Susanne took a step forward, and another. She was still a few yards away.

“Why do you think everyone is keeping so quiet about everything?” she said. “Including Anette? Why do you think?”

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Aneta said, and suddenly she could move. “You broke into my house. That’s a crime, and now we-”

“I don’t give a shit!” Susanne screamed, taking another step forward. “Just like I don’t give a shit about anyone else. Why do you think my dear brother can’t leave his dear wife alone, huh? Or why his dear wife’s dad doesn’t want anything to get out? Huh? Huh?”

“You’ve done the most to protect Hans,” said Aneta.

“No, I haven’t,” said Susanne. “But I haven’t been able to tell you everything. I had to think of Anette, too. Of what she wants. Her wishes.”

“Where is she now?”

“Soon she won’t have the strength to deal with it all,” said Susanne.

“Who is Bengt Marke?” asked Aneta.

“He’s my ex-husband. He has nothing to do with this.”

“He owns the car you drive around in.”

“That was a gift. Believe me. Bengt has nothing to do with this. He doesn’t even live in Sweden.”

“Where is Hans? Where’s your brother?”

“He wanted to talk to her one last time. I tried to stop it.”

“Where are they?”

“Anette wanted to make him understand. One last time.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Aneta.

“But you believe this?” she said, making a movement with her arms in the form of a circle. “That someone can