“Was he from here?” Macdonald asked. “From Scotland, I mean? Or perhaps England?”
“He didn’t say much,” she answered. “But I think he probably was. It sounded like it. He didn’t talk much, like I said. But I helped him mail a letter.”
“Sorry?”
“He wanted to mail a letter and I offer that service, too. I have stationery and envelopes and stamps and everything, and then I can take it to the mailbox if my guests want help with that. Some are in a bit of a hurry and are going to leave, and then it’s nice to be-”
“Excuse me for interrupting, Mrs. McCann,” said Macdonald, “but did you see to whom this letter was addressed?”
“Absolutely not. It would never occur to me to steal a glance at something like that.”
“Had Mr. Johnson put on the stamps himself?” asked Macdonald.
“Yes…,” she said.
“Aren’t you sure?”
“Yes… but there was something… I don’t remember now… the envelope wasn’t from here. I mean that it wasn’t one of the envelopes I offer. And there were more stamps than normal on it.
Winter opened his shoulder bag and took the original envelope out of the plastic sleeve. He could see the Inverness postmark on the edge, on top of the three stamps.
“Was this the envelope?” he asked.
She looked for a long time. She really wanted to help. Sometimes you have to be very critical of the extra helpful. Some mean so well, they want to help put together the puzzle. Like in a strange country where everyone points a different way when you ask for directions. To be helpful.
But Mrs. McCann held back any misdirected helpfulness.
She looked up.
“I can’t say. But I don’t think so.”
Winter took yet another ace from his bag, the last one.
He showed her the photograph he had gotten from Erik Osvald.
John Osvald was about half his grandson’s age in that photograph.
He was smiling from the quarterdeck. Nets were hanging around him. The sky was open above the young man and the boat. He held ropes in his hands. He was wearing a brimmed cap that shaded his eyes. Most of what remained was a smile.
“Who is this?” she asked.
“Os Johnson,” said Winter.
“Really?” she said. “Well, everyone was young once.”
“It could be him,” said Winter.
“Well, I don’t recognize him,” she said. “It can’t be.” She looked up. “Why, it’s completely impossible.”
Winter nodded and put the photograph away and took out a different one. John Osvald in profile this time, shortly before he sailed away, never to return.
“No,” said Mrs. McCann.
Winter closed his bag.
“May we come back if we want to ask anything else?” Macdonald asked.
She nodded.
“Is there anything in particular you remember about Mr. Johnson?” Macdonald asked.
“What might that be?”
“Anything. What he said. Did. Some gesture. Whether he called. Anything about his appearance. Whether he had guests. Everything. Anything at all.”
“That was a lot,” she said.
“Think about it,” said Macdonald, “and call me if you think of anything, Mrs. McCann. Anything at all, like I said.”
They could see that she hesitated.
“Yes?” said Macdonald.
“That letter…,” Mrs. McCann said, avoiding their eyes. “That I sent.”
“Yes?” repeated Macdonald.
“I happened to see a bit of the address when I put it in the box.”
“That’s completely natural,” said Macdonald.
“It would be strange if you hadn’t,” said Winter.
“I only saw which country,” Mrs. McCann said, looking up at Macdonald, “which country it was being sent to.”
“Which country was it?”
“Denmark.”
“Denmark?” Winter said, and looked at Macdonald. “It wasn’t Sweden, Mrs. McCann?”
“No. It said Denmark on the envelope.”
They rounded the corner out onto Kenneth again. Macdonald stopped for pedestrians and then turned right onto Tomnahurich Street.
“Maybe Axel Osvald didn’t have visitors,” said Winter. “We asked about visitors, but maybe the person he was meeting was already there.”
“And called for him,” said Macdonald.
“Yes.”
Macdonald gave Winter a quick look.
“Are you beginning to enjoy this?”
“No.”
“You know what I mean.”
“In that case, yes.”
They passed a large chip shop. Winter could smell the fried fat right across the busy street.
“The air in there is so greasy that a human body leaves an impression,” Macdonald said, nodding toward the door. “You can see the outlines of bodies in the air. It’s like in Siberia, where seventy-below temperatures have the same effect on the air.”
“I believe you,” said Winter.
“We even fry black pudding,” said Macdonald.
“That might be necessary,” said Winter.
They stopped at a red light. In front of them the A82 continued to Loch Ness. They kept going and passed a cemetery and the sports center and the Aquadome and a sign for an all-weather football pitch.
“Is there more than one kind of weather up here?” Winter asked, pointing at the sign.
“No, and it’s just like Gothenburg, from what I hear,” said Macdonald.
Winter looked at the clock and took out his phone and dialed a number from his notebook.
Johanna Osvald answered on the third ring.
“Hi,” he said. “How is it going?”
“Good. They’ve been extremely helpful. I… we are at the airport now. The plane leaves in forty-five minutes.”
“Sorry we couldn’t help you,” he said.
“We’ve already discussed that, Erik. It’s better that you and Macd… Steve are doing what you’re doing.”
“I have a question,” he said, shifting his weight on the seat as Macdonald took a hard right onto the narrow main road. “How many times did you call your dad at the bed and breakfast place here in Inverness? Glen Islay?”
“Uh, two, I think. Two.”
“Try to remember.”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
