Sail of Stone (28 page)

Now he could hear children’s voices, shouts, laughter. He saw several children through the window. Recess again. Forty-five minutes go by quickly.

Johanna Osvald looked up.

“I have to go there, of course,” she said. “There’s only one way to make sure that it’s … Dad.”

Winter nodded.

“They’re probably waiting for me to come,” she said.

“Do you have anyone who can go with you?”

She looked at him. Did she mean … no, he didn’t think so. This was for her, her family. There was no murder, no marks. No blunt objects.

But there was still a why. That had been with him on the way here, on the archipelago boat, in the car before that, in his conversation with Craig, in his conversation with Johanna. Why.

“Where is Erik now?” he asked.

“I don’t know, exactly. I’ll have to call out there to him.”

Winter nodded again.

“He can do what he wants,” she said. “But I’m going to try to fly over there as soon as I can. Today, if possible.”

“I can help you,” said Winter, and made a call from the telephone that stood on the desk between them.

She would be able to make it. The next boat was the
Skarven
back at 11:40, but that would be too late to make the plane from Landvetter to Heathrow. She would connect there.

“It’s things like this that make it a disadvantage to live on an island,” she had said after two phone calls.

Right now there was no one available who could drive over to Saltholmen.

But there was another way to get to the mainland.

Winter had called dispatch, who transferred him to the marine police at Nya Varvet.

“We have a patrol boat down by Vargö,” his colleague had said. “They’re not doing anything anyway.”

“Are you sure you want to go right away?” Winter had asked Johanna, with his hand on the receiver.

She had nodded in her rush to go home and throw her things in her overnight bag.

On the way over he asked about Axel Osvald. The boat went fast, faster than Winter had thought was possible in the interior waterways. No sirens, but apparent speed and apparent right-of-way.

“It wasn’t the first time he went to Scotland to look for his father … your grandfather,” said Winter.

“No, as I believe I said before.”

“What did he tell you about those previous trips?”

“Not so much. Almost nothing.”

“Why not?”

“My dad was a man who didn’t talk very much,” she said.

Winter noticed that she spoke of her father in the past tense. She didn’t seem aware of it herself. He had seen it many times. A sort of mental preparation for the worst. To know before you know for sure. To start the task of mourning right away.

He had done it himself, on a plane to Marbella a few years ago. His father was sick and Winter knew, knew without knowing.

“What did he tell you when he did talk about it, then? You must have asked, right?”

She saw islands and rocks and skerries swish by. She turned around, as though she wanted to make sure that that really was Brännö, Asperö. This was her world. Winter looked around too. Everything was familiar to her, everything near the water. Downtown Gothenburg was not on the sea.
This
was what was on the sea, even
in
the sea.

“There were only two trips,” she said. “I mean, before this one.”

He waited. They were on their way in; he could see the buildings at Nya Varvet, the Nordic School of Public Health in the old flotilla barracks that had gotten new clothing. Everything had gotten new clothing there. Everything in the entrance to the harbor was familiar to him, even the transformed façades. He had biked through Nya Varvet ten thousand times in his youth, and many times after that as well. He walked there sometimes with Angela and Elsa. In the summer, the restaurant Reveille had nice outdoor seating that few people knew about, and that was good too. A beer, twenty yards from the water, a few grilled fish dishes, a skewered turkey dish that turned up on the menu year after year.

“When was he there the last time?” asked Winter.

“It was a long time ago, at least ten years ago.”

“Why did he go this time?”

Johanna Osvald looked at Winter.

“I don’t actually know.”

A marked car was waiting on the quay. This was quicker than if they had gone in via Saltholmen and Winter had then had to drive on the narrow, slow road through Långedrag.

“Will I make it?” she said as she got into the car.

“You’ll make it now,” said Winter, nodding at Detective Inspector Morelius, who was the driver. An old friend from a different time.

“Are we allowed to do this?”

“What?”

“Go by police boat and a police car to make a plane?”

“Yes.”

Morelius started the car.

“Call me when you get there,” said Winter. “When you’ve … made the identification.”

It sounded awkward, but what was he supposed to say? When you’ve seen your dead father?

She nodded.

“My colleague in Inverness, Craig, he’ll meet you at the airport or send a car.”

She nodded again, and Morelius went up toward Kungssten and the highway past Frölunda, to the east. Winter looked at his watch again. She would make it. They had gotten a move on. She could have waited a day, but he wanted to know too. He didn’t know and he wanted to know. He felt the pull … he couldn’t stop thinking about Axel Osvald. Or about John Osvald. There was something here, something he wanted to know, or search for.

There was a mystery.

“We’re going out again,” said the skipper of the police boat. “We can let you off at Saltholmen.”

He stood on deck during the short trip back to the marina.

He continued to think in his car on the way into the city.

Mystery. There’s a mystery. Something happened once that led to what’s happening now. There are no coincidences. There’s a reason Axel Osvald was found where he was found. Or for why he died. Someone or something led him to his death. I don’t think it was a higher power. Or was it? Some sort of higher power?

They were eating dinner. Halders had made farina at the request of first Magda and then Hannes.

“I’ve never eaten farina,” said Aneta.

Everything on her plate was white: the farina, the milk, the sugar. The plate was white. If she hadn’t heard Magda’s request she might have suspected Fredrik of yet another kind of joke.

“Sure you have!” said Magda.

“No, it’s true.”

“You just did! I saw you take a spoonful!”

“Well, now I have. But I never had before.”

“What kind of porridge did you eat at home when you were little?” asked Magda. Her big brother looked embarrassed. That’s none of your
business, he seemed to be thinking. He’s becoming more and more like Fredrik, thought Aneta. Big gestures, a look that doesn’t let you go. But he’s more calm. Let it stay that way. He doesn’t say more than he needs to. He keeps to himself in his room. He thinks about his mom. Fredrik is worried about him.

“Oatmeal,” said Aneta.

“Millet pudding,” said Halders.

“What’s that?” asked Magda.

“A kind of grain that’s common in Africa,” said Aneta. “It’s actually a grass.”

“But you haven’t been to Africa, have you?” asked Magda.

“Stop it, Magda,” said Halders.

“I’ve been there,” said Aneta, “but I was born here, as you know.”

“Did you have millet pudding?” asked Halders.

“My mom hated millet,” said Aneta.

Halders scooped more of the white goo onto her plate.

“That’s actually the reason my mom and dad left Africa,” said Aneta.

“Really?” asked Hannes.

“No,” answered Aneta, smiling at the boy. “I was just kidding.”

“Why did they move, then?” asked Magda.

“They would probably have ended up in prison otherwise.”

“Why?” asked Magda. “Did they do something wrong?”

“No.”

Halders got out the teakettle again. They were sitting in the living room, which looked different since Halders had moved in after the death of his ex-wife. Not a huge transformation, but different.

The children were playing Pass the Pig in Hannes’s room. They could hear the howls when one of them got a double razorback.

“So you got to talk about Burkina Faso’s difficult past,” said Halders.

“Is that a problem for you?”

“Quite the opposite.”

The Everly Brothers were crying themselves out of the record player, track by track. Crying in the rain. It started over, feelings betrayed on repeat. Bye bye love, bye bye happiness, hello loneliness, I think I’m gonna cry.

“That song is the same age as I am,” said Halders. “Nineteen fifty-seven.”

“Good lyrics,” said Aneta.

“Yes, aren’t they?”

“A bit final, maybe.”

“Mmhmm.”

“It’s almost worse than Roy Orbison,” said Aneta, “in terms of how depressed they are.”

“Roy Orbison isn’t depressed,” said Halders.

“Then we have different views on the concept of being depressed,” said Aneta. “Or is it called distressed?”

Halders didn’t answer; he drank his tea. He listened again. All I have to do is dream.

“If you want to, you can read anything at all into song lyrics,” he said.

“In the case of these guys, there aren’t really all that many alternatives,” said Aneta. “It’s about love that has disappeared, right?”

“So sad to watch good love go bad,” said Halders.

“Yeah … about like that.”

“It’s one of the Everlys’ best songs,” said Halders.

“There you go. Then it’s a good example.”

She drove home late. Fredrik had asked her to stay but she wanted to wake up in her own home. It was like that sometimes.

Fredrik had been disappointed, really disappointed. He hadn’t wanted to show it, but she could tell. He hadn’t been able to go out and cry in the rain, because it wasn’t raining.

“It’s Hannes,” he’d said. “Fuck knows what’s going to happen.”

But of course it wasn’t just Hannes, or Magda, or just Fredrik. It was what everyone knew, that nothing would ever be the same again. No mom, no grandma later on, when they were adults themselves and had families. Only Grandpa Fredrik. Maybe. It would never be as it had been, but it could be better than now. It could be as good as it could get.

Fredrik hadn’t said anything, nothing really dead serious like that. But they both knew. She needed to think. It was as though she never had time to think about it, or could think about it. There was time to think of everything but that.

I have to think.

Of going with Fredrik to his beloved Ouagadougou. Only that. Good God. A week in Burkina Faso and we’ll see how tough you are, Detective Inspector Halders.

She laughed out loud there in the car, quickly and impulsively.

She drove off of Allén and onto Sprängkullsgatan. People were taking shelter from the rain outside the Capitol Theater after the last show. It was no later than that. Everyone was blue in the face, blackish blue from neon and night. Like a gang of black people from Ouagadougou, on their way out of the movie theater, one of many. At least we have that. What am I thinking? “We.”

She parked on Sveagaten.

Do I miss it? Is that what’s starting to happen? Will I eventually be drawn back to the Africa I was never born in? My Africa. Because it always has to be that way? My rhythm is there.

When she unlocked the front door facing the street, she saw something behind her that shouldn’t be there.

She turned around quickly and a car flashed its lights and took off to the north with a roaring start. She didn’t have time to see the license number, and it wasn’t a model she recognized.

She saw a figure disappear quickly to the south, a man or a woman. A hasty departure. Bye bye love.

But she wasn’t smiling when she closed the door behind her.

W
inter called in from the car. Möllerström put him through to Ringmar, who was working on a homicide in Kärra. Open and shut. All that loathsome, never-ending paperwork for an event that took no time at all, but no secrets, no mystery. A drunk who beat another drunk to death because of some reason the killer had forgotten when he woke up. He didn’t remember any beating, any killing.

“What do you say to a drink out on the town,” said Winter. “I don’t have the strength to go back to my office today.”

“I never saw you clock out,” said Ringmar.

“See you at Eckerberg’s in twenty minutes,” said Winter.

“Do they still have those shrimp sandwiches there?” said Ringmar. “I love those shrimp sandwiches.”

“If they don’t, they’ll have to make one,” said Winter.

There was only one shrimp sandwich left when Winter arrived, but they were happy to make one more. “Make it twice as big as that one right there,” he said, nodding at the refrigerated counter. “I’ll pay the difference.”

“Yours is bigger,” said Ringmar when they sat down at the table.

“I didn’t get any lunch,” said Winter.

“Fucking weird,” said Ringmar, who was still comparing sizes. “Does the deli girl have faulty perspective?” He rotated his plate, as though to see whether his sandwich was bigger on the other side. “This is ridiculous. There’s half a pound more shrimp on yours. And the diameter of yours exceeds mine by—”

“I wouldn’t accept that if I were you,” said Winter. “After all, you’re the one who paid for it.” Winter chewed on yet another shrimp. “It’s unfair.”

It had been Ringmar’s turn to pay.

Ringmar raised his hand discreetly in order to get the waitress’s attention, and then Winter had to tell him what was up.

“When is she going to call?” Ringmar asked when their plates were empty and Winter had told him what had happened that morning. “Will she make it there tonight, or is she staying overnight in London?”

“She should be there at six o’clock local time if she makes her connection at Heathrow,” Winter said, and looked at his watch. “That’s seven o’clock here.”

“Have you spoken with Macdonald?”

“No. Should I?”

“Well, before he goes to too many of his old—”

“I think that Craig guy has already informed him. He said he would give Steve a call.”