Sail of Stone

Moa Ringmar released her grip on the box and straightened up. She looked first at Aneta and then at Halders. Now she recognizes me, thought Aneta. It’s not some local darkie standing here.

“Didn’t Dad tell you? Isn’t he the one who sent you here?” asked Moa, whose eyes had become sharper.

“Moa!” said Halders. “Now the gears are starting to turn. You’re Moa Ringmar!”

“Bertil didn’t send us, Moa,” said Aneta. “We’re here on duty. And he has no idea what we’re doing here.”

“The state can’t afford to let us work as moving men too,” said Halders.

“And moving women,” said Moa.

“Yes,” said Aneta.

“I meant that he meant that you were to keep an eye on me in general.”

“Why would we do that?” asked Aneta.

“Because this is dangerous and unfamiliar territory for someone from idyllic Kungsladugard,” said Moa.

Never trust idylls, thought Aneta. They are even worse.

“Which apartment are you moving into?” asked Halders.

She told them, and they asked who she was renting it from.

“His name is Lindsten.”

“Is it a sublet?”

“Yes, for now. It’s a rental, of course. It could be-”

She stopped talking and looked from one detective to the other.

“Have I done something illegal here?” she asked. “It wasn’t a problem for the landlord.”

“I’m going to tell you something, Moa,” said Halders.

Ringmar took a deep breath, in and out, up on a cliff behind the houses. They could see the open sea and the coastline past Naset, to Askim, Hovas, Billdal, Saro, and down to Vallda. A fog was floating above the water, but it didn’t ruin the view. Ringmar threw out his arms.

“All of this can be yours, Erik.”

Winter had an unlit Corps in his mouth. He tried to see the little bay south of Billdal. It was impossible.

“The message has been received, Bertil.”

“Do you think the old man will be more conscious this afternoon?” said Ringmar.

“We can talk to the sister,” said Winter. “Maybe she knows everything.”

“Yes.”

“Should I continue to play your kitchen aide all afternoon?” asked Winter. “Or maybe it’s called a home health aide within the health-care field.”

“It can only be good for you,” said Ringmar.

“Are you done breathing?” said Winter.

“You should do it, too,” said Ringmar as Winter lit his cigarillo. “Breathe in the sea.”

“I prefer to eat it,” said Winter.

“I’ve tried,” said Ringmar, “but oysters are not my thing.”

“Too bad for you, Bertil.”

Ella Algotsson opened up after three knocks.

“I thought ya’d gone back,” she said.

“There’s a boat at four thirty,” said Ringmar.

“Is Arne awake?” asked Winter.

She didn’t answer.

“Is Arne awake?” asked Ringmar.

“That he is,” she answered.

“May we come in for a bit?”

Arne Algotsson looked like a larger version of his sister. There was no doubt that they were siblings, as though their advanced age had enhanced their common features. Arne Algotsson was sitting on a red chair in the kitchen, and he turned around as they came in. His face was illuminated by the light from the horizon, which was visible though the window. There was a different light on the back side of the house; a different space. You could see the strip of mainland.

Arne Algotsson nodded. His eyes were blue in the same way as his sister’s, as though the sea wind had scrubbed everything clean out there, even eyes. Everyone who lived there for a long time ended up with the same worn blue haze in their eyes. But the man’s eyes lacked his sister’s lucidity and focus. He seemed to look through the visitors without holding on to anything.

Winter let Ringmar off at the Margreteberg roundabout and drove home via Linneplatsen, Ovre Husargatan, Vasagatan.

The parking garage smelled like leaking oil.

The elevator smelled like cigars.

He heard children’s laughter in the stairwell. It was about time in this building. Everyone was twice as old as he and Angela were.

He loved this building.

It had always been there. It was larger than life, was there before he came, would be there when he was gone.

They could sublease it, for the time being. When the house was finished down on the beach. Bertil’s Moa needed a place. If she hadn’t settled into Kortedala too much. This would be suitable for her. A little big for one, but she could share.

He unlocked the door and Elsa came running through the hall.

They made toast and brewed tea. Winter fried a few slices of haloumi for its saltiness. There were olives on the table.

“Let’s have a glass of white wine too,” he said.

The phone rang as he uncorked the bottle.

“I’ll get it,” said Angela.

“No, me, me!” yelled Elsa.

She answered, a confident hello?

They saw her listening intently. Suddenly she giggled and said, “Yes, suw.”

“Steve,” said Winter to Angela.

“Ya prata svinska,” said Macdonald when Winter took the phone.

“And Elsa speaks English,” said Winter.

“Yes, sir.” Macdonald excused himself for a second and said something to someone and came back. “I just got home.”

Steve Macdonald lived with his wife and their fourteen-year-old twin girls in a house, a cottage as he said, down in Kent, just over an hour’s drive south of Croydon. Croydon was part of London, but it was also one of England’s ten biggest cities. It wasn’t exactly idyllic, Croydon.

“Same here,” said Winter. “I just opened the wine.”

“Jamie called in the car,” said Macdonald.

“I spoke with him,” said Winter, “if you mean Craig.”

“Yes. The daughter has arrived.”

“And?”

“She’s identified the body as her father. There’s no doubt.”

“When did this happen?”

“Just now. Half an hour ago.”

“Then she’ll call me soon,” said Winter.

“Was he prone to depression? Or had he been mentally ill in some way?” asked Macdonald, direct questions.

“I don’t know, Steve. Not according to the daughter, anyway. Nothing that was treated.”

“They haven’t found the car,” said Macdonald.

“Craig figured it had been stolen. It’s common.”

“It should have turned up by now.”

“What does Craig say?”