On the north side of the little square was a building that looked like a community center. There was a sign, but it was on the wall and they didn’t notice it: “Struan House-Where older people find care in housing.”
Two old people were sitting on a bench on the opposite side of the square.
“Well,” said Macdonald.
They walked to the car, which was parked in front of the Buckie Thistle Social Club.
“The local football gang,” said Macdonald. “Buckie Thistle.”
“I know Patrick Thistle,” said Winter.
“Do you? The Glasgow gang?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be damned. They’re in division two now, I think, but they’re the favorites for all the celebrities.”
They got into the car and rounded the hotel. Macdonald pushed a disc into the CD player and a woman from the past started to sing about lost love and bittersweet dreams.
“Patsy Cline,” said Macdonald.
Winter suddenly felt sad. They were back on the A96, driving south to Dallas. It was a no-man’s-land here, no sea, no mountains. Patsy Cline sang about another life, or rather cried: Sweet dreams of you, every night I go through, why can’t I forget you and start my life anew, instead of having sweet dreams about you.
Aneta Djanali felt herself freeze under the water. She grabbed the edge of the bathtub.
She heard one step, two steps.
A harsh sound from the kitchen or the hall.
Another harsh sound.
The bathroom door was half open.
She had a telephone on the wall out there, but it was ten thousand miles away.
Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm, stay calm.
Her heart started to beat like a hammer, donk-donk-donk-donk.
“WHO IS IT?” she yelled.
And now she was already up out of the bathtub and into her robe and she kicked the door hard with her heel and the door flew into the wall without hitting anyone and the hall was empty and untouched, and she couldn’t hear any harsh sounds now.
She stood in the doorway and yelled:
“IS SOMEONE THERE?”
Nothing.
She heard sounds from out in the stairwell, could be anything. A car honked on the street below. Life continued outside her apartment, but in here it felt like it was holding its breath, taking a break. Waiting. Waiting for what? She took a step forward and one into the kitchen, but there was no one there.
She could hear the rain on the window now. It had been raining on and off all afternoon. She saw water on the floor. A few pieces of gravel or some kind of dirt. Puddles on the floor, small, but they were there. Her feet suddenly started to freeze, as though her naked feet were standing in that ice water. She looked down, followed a trail that led from the kitchen out into the hall, or vice versa. There was water on the floor of the hall, and it hadn’t come from her shoes.
She looked at the knob of her apartment door. Fingerprints? Hardly. She looked at the floor. Footprints. Uh- uh.
She felt her knees weaken. She was about to lose her balance, but she managed to stagger into the bedroom and lie down and dial the number and wait for an answer.
“Are you really sure?” Halders said after she had quickly explained.
“I’m sure,” said Aneta. She felt more calm now.
“Well, shit,” said Halders.
“It might have been him,” she said. “Shit.”
She heard Halders breathing.
“We’ll look at the lock,” he said. “And the doorknob, and the floor.”
“Whoever was here must have had a key,” she said. “Or a picklock.”
“We’ll probably find out,” said Halders.
“God,” she said. “What is this?”
“You’re not renting from Sigge Lindsten, are you?” said Halders.
“Is that supposed to be funny?”
“Sorry, Aneta, sorry. I’ll ask the guys up at Lorensberg to come by right away.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“They can give you a ride home-to here.”
“Thanks.”
“You live here, starting now.”
“Fredrik…”
“Doesn’t it make sense?”
She couldn’t answer.
“At least until we’ve checked the lock and changed it and installed a deadbolt and dug a moat,” said Halders.
For a microsecond she saw Halders sneaking around the apartment while she lay in the bathtub. Fredrik did everything he could to get her to move to his house in Lunden.
But he wouldn’t have had time to get back to his house before she called.
God. She needed something strong. She was suddenly tired, dead tired.
45
They took the road through Forres again. On High Street Winter saw a poster he’d missed earlier: Nairn International Jazz Festival. Jane Monheit, David Berkman Quartet, Jim Galloway, Jake Hanna. It had ended two weeks ago.
The police station was next to the south exit, right across from the Ramnee Hotel, which looked like a colonial manor. Everything around here sure is Victorian, thought Winter.
But the police station wasn’t Victorian, it was built in the bunker style of the brotherhood. A teenager was playing with a ball on the lawn outside, one-two-three-four-five on his foot. A police van was parked on the graveled area that served as a parking lot. “Crimestoppers” was painted in white on the van’s black side. It might as well say “Ghostbusters,” thought Winter. At least if Steve and I were driving around in it. We’re hunting ghosts.
It wasn’t possible to determine whether the windows were tinted or just dirty. Leaves were blowing across the lot. Fall was here.
Winter knew that Macdonald’s uncle had been a policeman here and had retired quite recently.
“There was a period in my teens when I was a little wild,” Macdonald had said in the car. “Uncle Gordon picked me up discreetly once, in a neighborhood south of High, and that was kind of a turning point.”
“What were you doing? Robbing cars?”
“It wasn’t anything that ended up in the papers,” Macdonald had answered, and that was that. Winter hadn’t asked any more questions. Whatever it was, maybe it had caused him to become a policeman, and a good policeman at that, he thought.
Inside, a woman got up from a desk behind the counter, which was partially made of steel. Never seen
She didn’t recognize Macdonald. He greeted her and introduced himself and asked for someone.
“Oh, it’s you!” she said enthusiastically. “Jake has told us about you comin’ here.”
“Just a wee short stop,” said Macdonald.
“Local laddie make good,” she said, looking proud. “Hows’t down in the Smoke?”
