Sail of Stone (31 page)

“Can you get away on short notice?”

“How short?” asked Macdonald.

“Three days.”

“Yes. It might work.”

“I might not come alone,” Winter said, looking at Angela, who had stiffened during the last minute of conversation.

“Me neither,” said Macdonald. “Sarah is ready for a trip. We have even arranged for a babysitter. If you can say that about taking care of girls who are almost fifteen.”

“I’ll call you later tonight,” Winter said, and hung up.

“What was that?” Angela said.

“Oh …,” Winter said, blinking quickly and making a motion with his head toward Elsa, who was concentrating on her pieces, “Steve wanted to talk a little.”

Elsa was sleeping like a little rock. Winter snuck out into the hall and into the kitchen. Angela was playing a round of solitaire that appeared to be coming to an end.

“Well?” she said.

“What do you say we go to Scotland for a few days?” he said.

I
t was late when Moa Ringmar came home. Her father was on the phone. It was afternoon in New York. Bertil paused and put his hand over the mouthpiece:

“Martin got that loft on Third Avenue,” he said.

“How nice for him.”

“What is it?”

“We’ll talk about it later, when he’s done talking.”

“He wants to have a few words with you.”

“Tell him I’ll call.”

“Okay, okay.” Ringmar resumed his conversation with his son. “She’ll call you later. Okay. Yes. Yes. Right. Yes. Talk to you soon. Bye.”

He hung up.

“So what is it, Moa?”

“That apartment is hot, Dad.”

“Sorry?”

“You don’t have to apologize. You can’t know everything that’s going on in the department.”

“I need some background,” said Ringmar. “I’m not really following you.”

“That apartment I was going to rent is involved in a restraining order, and there was an assault there and it’s been completely cleaned out by crafty thieves and the guy I was renting it from has been acting strange and suspicious toward two of the country’s sharpest detective inspectors.”

“Halders and Djanali,” said Ringmar.

“You knew!”

“When you said the two sharpest. No, joking aside, I know they’ve been working on a case that involves an apartment in Kort … exactly, in Kortedala!” He quickly got up and took a step closer. “Surely you don’t mean it’s—”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

“Well, what do you know.”

“It’s a small world, isn’t it?”

“How did you find out?” Ringmar asked.

“They showed up as Dickie and I were moving in my things. Fredrik and Aneta.”

“What were they doing there?”

“A routine check, I suppose. They’re keeping an eye on this woman’s ex. It’s not looking good.”

“They’re not supposed to tell you that.”

“It was Halders,” said Moa. “He offered me photos to put up at the student union.”

“He’s always been a discreet investigator,” said Ringmar.

“Dickie has my things in his garage for now.”

“You moved out again?”

“What do you
think,
Dad? Am I supposed to lie there sleeping and get woken up by some crazy person putting a key in the lock and crashing in?”

“No, no.”

“This is the first time I’ve moved in and moved out on the same day,” said Moa.

“I’ll have a chat with that Lindsten,” said Ringmar.

“I haven’t paid yet.”

“I’m still going to have a chat with him.”

“Has he done anything illegal?”

“I don’t know,” Ringmar answered. “I don’t know yet.”

Johanna Osvald called as Winter was making a double espresso in order to have the energy to think. It was better and cheaper than amphetamines. Coltrane was blowing “Compassion” in the living room, along with another great tenor saxophonist, Pharoah Sanders. It was music for wild thoughts, asymmetrical, tones for his own head. Coltrane’s instrument wandered like a lost spirit, on its way through black and white dreams, through sparse halls. Elsa had gotten used to falling asleep to extremely free-form jazz. Winter wondered what that might lead to.

What drew him to jazz first and foremost was the individual expressions of the music. The best thing about jazz was that it gave the
jazz musician the chance to be himself. To be his own self. It was music that first of all stood for expression, for immediate reflection, not interpretation. It was all about improvisation, but not in an irresponsible way. Quite the opposite. In improvising, the musician took on a responsibility, and the result depended on talent and his own resources, and experience. Emotional experience. It was music for emotions, from emotions.

Angela had gone out to think as well, a round trip to Avenyn.

“It’s him,” said Johanna into the phone. “It’s my dad.”

“I’m sorry,” said Winter.

“They’ve taken good care of me,” she said formally. It was a slightly strange comment. Perhaps she was in shock. There was a sharp edge to her voice. “This policeman Craig has helped with everything.”

“There’s nothing you need?” Winter asked.

“Noth … nothing you can help with,” she said, and he thought she started to cry. It sounded like it, but it could have been the line.

I’m not sure, thought Winter. Maybe we can help. Maybe when it comes to answers.

“Have you spoken with a doctor about your father?”

“Yes.”

He waited for her to continue, but she didn’t say anything.

“What did he say?”

“That it was a heart attack that … that killed him. He had extreme hypothermia.” Winter heard her breathing. “It’s cold up here. I went out for a minute to think, and it was cold and raw.”

“Are they going to do more tests?” asked Winter. He didn’t want to say the word “autopsy.” She knew what he meant anyway.

“If they need to,” she said. “If there’s something they need to do to come up with a … cause, they can do as many tests as they …” She stopped talking. “What is that horrible noise in the background?” she said.

“Where?” said Winter.

“On your end. What is that racket?”

“Just a second,” Winter said, walking into the living room and turning the music off in the middle of “Consequences.” “It was a record,” he said into the phone when he came back.

She didn’t comment.

“So, what are you going to do now?” he asked.

“I’m … I’m going back to this medical center tomorrow and then there’s some paperwork and I hope to be able to fly home with Dad as soon as I can.”

“Yes.”

“He has to come home,” she said.

“Of course.”

There was a sudden whistle on the phone, like a wind through the line, which must have run across the North Sea, from Inverness to Aberdeen to Gothenburg. Aberdeen and Gothenburg were at exactly the same latitude on the map. Or maybe it was Donsö and Aberdeen.

“I just spoke with Erik,” she said.

“Where is he?” asked Winter.

“Out at sea,” she said. “They’re on the way down to Hanstholm with their catch.” He heard her blow her nose. “He’s coming right home after that. He’ll be there when I … we … arrive.”

“Good,” said Winter.

“I think something happened up here,” she said, suddenly and quickly. “Something that caused this. Something … awful.”

“I think so too,” said Winter.

“Something that has to do with Grandpa.”

“Yes. I think so too.”

He didn’t tell her about his visit to the elderly Algotsson siblings.

Angela came back with redder cheeks and damp hair. She smelled like blue autumn evening and salty wind and black mud and gasoline fumes, which together made up this city’s perfume. It was a blue evening. Vasaplatsen was a blue address. Kind of blue.

“I’ve thought about it,” she said, pulling off her long scarf.

“What do you say, then?”

“Well …”

“Is that a summary?”

“I don’t know if we can work things out with Elsa. If she wants to. If it will work.”

They had talked about letting Lotta have Elsa for a few days. His sister had nagged and nagged. Bim and Kristina had nagged. Maybe it could be worked out. He and Angela had done things without Elsa
during these four years, and at those times Elsa had stayed with Lotta. It had worked. There were no grandparents in Gothenburg for Elsa, but Aunt Lotta was there, and her cousins Bim and Kristina.

“We’ve never gone abroad alone,” said Angela. “Without Elsa.”

“We can take different planes.”

“Is this something to joke about?”

I might not be joking, he thought.

“And of course Siv is expecting us.”

“Nueva Andalucía will always be there, and she will too,” said Winter.

“Don’t be too sure of that.”

“She can always move home,” said Winter.

“That’s not what I meant,” said Angela. Her voice seemed to change.

“Do you know something I don’t?” He pushed the chair back a few inches. “I’m talking to you as Dr. Hoffman now.”

“Nothing serious, from what I understand,” said Angela.

“Do you two keep secrets from me?”

“She’s a little tired, Erik. I’m sure that’s all.”

“Tired? Tired of what?”

“She’s not exactly young anymore,” said Angela.

“I don’t think it’s good to be in one-hundred-degree weather half the year,” he said.

“That’s mostly a question of drinking,” said Angela, “of getting liquids.”

“And there’s the next risk factor,” he said.

“I was talking about water,” Angela said, raising an eyebrow and smiling slightly.

“I was talking about gin,” he said.

“Gin and tonic,” said Angela, “don’t forget that water. But seriously, Erik, you know that she hardly drinks at all since Bengt passed away.”

“And her consumption before that?”

“It’s probably not a problem,” Angela said.

“Maybe we should ask her to come home for a while,” said Winter.

“Maybe now,” said Angela.

“You mean
now,
if we go over to Scotland?”

“Yes. But we have to talk to Lotta first. And Siv might not think it’s a good idea. And we have to talk to Elsa.”

Angela came back from the bathroom. Winter was staring straight up at the ceiling from the bed. He had undressed only halfway.

“You’ve never met Steve’s wife,” he said.

“So does she think this is a good idea?”

“I don’t know,” said Winter. “Why wouldn’t she?”

“For the same reason you just gave me, only the other way around.”

“Hmm.”

“I suspect that we’ll be left on our own quite a bit. And we don’t know each other. If you and Steve are going to investigate this strange story.”

“Just a few days, max,” said Winter. “Maybe not at all.”

“Where are we going to stay, then? On Steve’s farm?”

“Hell, no. There are nice hotels in Inverness. I have Steve’s word on that.”

“I want to see a few of the options.”

“Of course.” Winter lay on his side, facing her. “Steve’s sister works in Inverness too, you know, as a lawyer.”

“I’m sure she’ll be really happy to take care of us. Welcome to my world.”

“Exactly.”

“Erik. This can’t be solely on your terms.”

“Is it? I’m just trying to look on the plus side here. We’ll do things together and Steve and I might go off for a bit to … well, I don’t know. But suddenly I felt like we could see each other again and that we could do it all together. That everything was sort of falling into place.”

“Have you met his wife? Sarah?”

“No.”

“How old is she?”

“Exactly forty,” said Winter. “Like you.”

“Is this a vision of the future?” said the thirty-five-year-old Angela, tossing a pillow.

“We’re living in the future,” he said. “We’re on our
way,
” he said, slinging a pillow in her direction; it intercepted her throw.

“I thought this whole story was about the
past,
” she said, throwing the pillow back again, and Winter ducked and the pillow knocked over the alarm clock, which thudded onto the varnished pine floor.

“Now you’ve ruined the
floor
,” Winter said, firing off his last pillow.

Angela seemed preoccupied by something, and she took it right in the face. Winter turned around to see what she was looking at.

“What are you
doing
?” asked Elsa, who was standing in the door with the clock in her hands.

“I have to talk to her first,” Angela said as they were lying in bed. It was dim and quiet. “Steve’s wife. It’s important. I imagine she thinks so too.”

“Of course.”

“And then there’s Lotta and Siv and the—”

“I know. This is assuming that all the ifs disappear.”

“In which case, it’s not a bad idea,” she said.

“Thanks,” he said.

Light was coming in from the hall, where there was a nightlight under the table that the telephone was on. He could hear a soft whirring from the fridge.

“I have one more question,” she said.

“Yes?”

“This thing you’re trying to get some clarity about, what you’re going to do …” He saw her silhouette come closer. “It isn’t dangerous at all, right, Erik?”

T
he espresso was doubly useful. Winter could not sleep, and he could think. At three o’clock he slid out of bed and walked through the hall and looked in on Elsa, who was sleeping on her back with her eyes half open. He could tell because he was holding his face four inches from hers. He could barely hear her breathing, so he listened for a long time. At that moment Elsa let out a snore, only one, and turned onto her side, and Winter tiptoed out.

He sat down in the living room, in the dark, which would last for another several hours. The usual blue light came in through the window. The streetcars hadn’t yet begun to rumble by down there. He could hear the sound of a lost car on the way to some blue address. Suddenly he heard a cry from up by the kiosk at Vasaplatsen, which had a functionalist-style neon sign that glowed just as it had during the record years.

All of these sounds and lights would be inconceivable and just plain threatening in the house by the sea. Silence could be heard from the sea. Was that what he was afraid of? Was he even afraid?