“Yes. But repeat that first part, please.”
“Berner Lindstrom owns a ninety-one Opel Kadett Caravan, and two weeks ago his license plates were stolen in Falkenberg, down in Halland. He reported it to the police right away, of course.”
“We’ve found his plates,” Bergenhem said, and he swung right onto Artillerigatan but had to wait for another truck that came rushing by as though it had been shot out of a cannon. He tried to see past some cars in front of him but couldn’t see any blue or any white. What the fu-
“Where are you?” asked Aneta.
“I can’t see him,” said Bergenhem. He made a fist and thumped the wheel. He was going forty-five; he looked to the left just before the roundabout and caught sight of a splash of blue and white.
“Lars?” he heard Aneta’s voice.
“I see him!” shouted Bergenhem, mostly to himself.
“Where is he?” said Aneta. “Where are you?”
Bergenhem spun through yet another roundabout.
“Kortedalavagen,” he said.
“What?”
“On the way north through Kviberg.”
“All roads apparently lead to Kortedala,” Aneta said.
“Now I’m turning in to Kortedala Torg,” said Bergenhem.
“Oh God.”
“Now we’re passing the police station. Our truck just did the same.”
“They haven’t seen you, you think?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“No. But it seems like the driver has other things to think about. I think he’s following directions. A stranger.”
“From Halland.”
Bergenhem laughed.
“From Falkenberg,” he said.
“Where are you now?” Aneta asked.
“Guess,” said Bergenhem.
“You’re just about to turn right at the Uno-X station,” said Aneta.
“That’s one right,” said Bergenhem.
“Will I get the next one right, too?”
He could hear excitement in her voice.
“We’ll see… they’re turning right… they’re driving up to the yard or whatever you call it, the front of the house… driving up to one of the entrances… yes, that’s it… I’m driving by now… looking in my rearview… it’s number five, where we caught that guy Forssomething, now I see someone coming out of the truck… now I have to turn left here, Aneta.”
“I’m coming,” she said, and was already on her way.
35
Winter called Donso. Erik Osvald answered. He had come home late at night. The catamaran from Frederikshavn had been delayed considerably by wind and rough seas.
“You feel a little powerless,” said Osvald, and Winter wasn’t sure what he was referring to.
But Osvald had spoken of lack of control, his own control.
He mentioned the latest trip, spontaneously, without Winter having asked. The news from Johanna that had come at an “exciting” time at sea.
He talked and Winter listened. It was like a need Osvald had, in order to channel his sadness.
“In the best case you find a type of fish that there’s no quota for. And preferably one of the biggest fishes. And it seems like we’ve succeeded in doing that now.”
“What is it?” asked Winter.
“Anglers and crawfish,” said Osvald. “We’ve found a hiding spot. We searched and then we found an area where they were moving in the same… well, area; no one has been in that exact spot before because it’s a really rough bottom. And we got an awful lot of anglers.”
“That’s an expensive fish,” said Winter.
“We brought up several million anglers,” said Osvald.
“Good.”
“But we ripped up a lot of trawls. That fish stays pretty stuck to the bottom; it’s really easy to just scrape their backs. But we managed to dig up quite a few.”
“All right.”
“It’s listed as a ‘miscellaneous’ species in Norwegian waters,” Osvald said, and Winter thought he heard a note of wonder in his voice.
“Can I come out there for an hour?” asked Winter.
“Why?”
“There are a few things I’d like to ask you.”
“Can’t you do it over the phone?”
“I’d prefer not to.”
“Uh… when?”
“I can be on Donso in just over an hour.”
“There’s no boat that goes then, is there?”
“I’ve arranged one,” said Winter.
“Oh, I see. You were sure I’d be here?”
“No,” said Winter. “Have you found the letters?”
When they’d last met, they had decided that Osvald and Johanna would try to find John Osvald’s letters home to his family. If it was possible.
“There are a few,” Osvald said. “They were among Dad’s things.” He paused. “I’ve actually never seen them.” He paused again. “I haven’t read them yet.”
“I’ll be there in an hour,” said Winter.
“So that’s what this is about?” asked Osvald.
Osvald met him on the dock. He was pale. His trawler wasn’t at the quay where it had been before. It was like there was a hole where the boat had been. Winter knew it was on its way back out into the North Sea with the replacement crew on the hunt for anglers, crawfish, cod, haddock. Smoked haddock. No. Danish trawlers, Swedish ones, Scottish ones, on the hunt for whitefish that would be smoked and fried and steamed. The cod fillets would end up on tables in Brussels. Winter thought about what Osvald had said about mad cow disease. It was a complicated world.
Out there they were their own people, a sort of royalty. They were spared the Norwegians, who only had their sights on the Barents Sea. And the Dutch fished only for flatfish; they were no competition.
Winter heaved himself onto the quay from the police boat with Osvald’s help. Some young boys on bikes stared from their group. Osvald made a signal and the group scattered. He smiled. One of the boys bucked his bike like a horse.
“My boy,” said Osvald.
“Will he be a fisherman too?”
“He’ll have the opportunity,” said Osvald. “By the time he’s twenty he’ll have to know what he wants to do.” He took off his cap and scratched his hair, which had started to thin. His forehead was red, chapped by sun and salt and wind. “After that it’s too late.”
“Is it difficult to find a crew?” Winter asked.
