Sail of Stone

“But remember, no marks on the body,” Winter said with a glance at Johanna, who didn’t seem to be there. As though she didn’t want to hear this.

“It was a heart attack,” said Craig. “His heart packed it in. The question is why.”

“You don’t have more information about his acting confused in town?” asked Macdonald.

“It wasn’t that conspicuous,” said Craig. “He walked around a little and maybe asked a few questions that no one understood and talked to maybe three or four people.”

“Do you know who might have been the last one?” asked Winter.

“Who might have been, yes. But the times are a bit unclear, of course.” He scratched his neck again. “One of the most irritating parts of this job is people’s fuzzy perception of time.” Craig suddenly heaved himself forward. “Isn’t it? We can know with one hundred percent certainty that different witnesses met someone, say around lunchtime, and one of those witnesses will swear that it was at midnight and the other at dawn!”

“What kind of time span are we looking at in the case of Axel Osvald?” asked Winter.

“A few hours,” said Craig. “Early afternoon.”

Winter nodded.

Craig looked at Johanna’s profile.

“He died the same night.”

“He got very excited,” Johanna said suddenly, catching everyone off guard.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Osvald?” said Craig.

“I’ve thought a lot about it.” She turned to them. “When that letter came, he didn’t seem very… astounded or whatever you’d call it, not as agitated as you might expect. But then, after a few days he suddenly became… well, agitated, and he called about a ticket up here and left that same afternoon, I think… no, it was the morning after.” She looked out at the office landscape again. “It was like something more had happened. Something different.”

“Did he get another letter?”

“Not that I saw.”

“But he could have?”

“Yes; I wasn’t home those two days. I was at school.” She looked at Winter. “I had the morning off when that first one… no, what am I saying, when that letter came, I saw it.”

“Was anyone else home then, Johanna?” asked Winter. “Anyone besides your dad?”

“Erik was home,” she said. “It was his week at home.”

“But he hasn’t said anything about another letter?”

“No.”

“No telephone call?”

“No.”

Winter didn’t say anything more. It was quiet in Craig’s cage of an office. He heard voices from the outside but couldn’t make out words. It could be Scots English or Gaelic, or Swedish.

“What do you think about your father acting confused?” Macdonald asked, straight to the point.

She just shook her head.

“Does it sound unlikely?” Macdonald continued.

“Yes,” she answered.

“But you said he was agitated…”

“Not that way,” said Johanna, “never that way. He has never had problems like that, I can tell you that for sure. He had both feet on the ground, as they say.”

On deck, thought Winter. Had both feet on deck. Maybe that was even safer. At the same time, he trusted in God above the earth.

“Something must have happened to him,” said Johanna. “Something awful must have happened.”

They drove over Ness Bridge in the car that Craig had loaned them, and they turned right onto Kenneth Street and then onto Ross Avenue, which was one of a hundred little streets lined with row houses of stone. They drove slowly and stopped in front of one of the houses. A sign was hanging on the wall between the door and the window: Glen Islay Bed and Breakfast.

“Glen Islay,” said Winter. “Sounds like a brand of whisky.”

“Bed and breakfast and whisky,” said Macdonald.

Winter looked around as they got out of the car.

“I’ve been here,” he said.

“Here? On this street?”

“Yes. I stayed at a B and B on this street.”

“Maybe this one,” Macdonald said.

Maybe, thought Winter as they stood in the cramped hallway, which also served as the lobby. Stairs led upward. It smelled like eggs and bacon and dampness, maybe mold. Burned bread. A rattle came from the pipes that ran on strange courses along the wallpaper, which could have been put up during Edwardian times. Everything was as it should be.

A telephone stood on a rickety table. An older woman stood next to it, one of those little old ladies who ran their guesthouses through the centuries.

“So Mr. Osvald drove away in a car, Mrs. McCann?” Macdonald asked.

“I’m absolutely cerrrrtain,” said Mrs. McCann. She looked quite positive. “And I’ave told the otherrr policemen exactly that.”

“Did he have visitors while he was staying here?”

“No.”

“Was he alone when he checked out?” Macdonald asked.

“Yes, of course. What do you mean, Officer?”

“No one was sitting in the car out there?”

“I couldn’t see. I didn’t go outside when he left.” She waved her hand toward the outer door, which had two windows that were covered by some sort of lace.

Winter could see their car out there, but not whether anyone was sitting in it. He nodded toward Mrs. McCann.

“Could we see his room?” asked Macdonald. “If it’s empty.”

“At the moment it’s empty,” she answered.

“Have any other police visited it?” asked Winter.

“No.”

Winter looked at Macdonald, who shrugged. Craig wasn’t investigating a murder, after all.

“May we see the room?” Macdonald repeated.

She took a step away from the telephone.

“Did Mr. Osvald get any phone calls while he was here?” asked Winter.

“I’ve already answered that,” said Mrs. McCann.

“We usually ask several times,” Macdonald said, smiling.

“Why don’t you write it down right away?” asked Mrs. McCann.

“We try,” said Macdonald.

“I told the other officer that there were three calls and I took them and it was a woman every time,” said Mrs. McCann.

“Was it the same woman?”

“Yes…”

“She said who it was?”

“She said it was Miss Osvald.”

“Okay,” said Macdonald. “The room…”

“Has anyone else stayed there since Mr. Osvald did?” asked Winter.

“No, it’s not the high season anymore. At the moment I don’t have any guests, unfortunately.” She seemed to consider something. She looked up. “But I have cleaned the room.”

“We completely understand, Mrs. McCann,” Macdonald said.

“He hadn’t forgotten anything,” she said. “If you’re looking for something.”