Sail of Stone (41 page)

“So that’s why that old man called you a damn cocky island fool,” Winter said.

“Yes. He could scent it out.”

“Interesting,” said Winter, “considering that he’s also an island fool, originally.”

“But it’s okay that we ended up a bit away from the sea,” Macdonald said, “and it might not be forever. The clan’s motto is
Per mare per terras.
Do you know what that means?”

“‘
Mare’
is ‘sea’ and ‘
terra’
is ‘land,’” said Winter.

“By sea and by land,” said Macdonald. “That’s the motto.”

“Very majestic,” said Winter.

“The name Donald comes from Gaelic
Domhnull,
which means ‘water ruler,’” said Macdonald.

“I’m impressed,” Winter said, looking out over the lake as they started to go up the narrow road at the southeastern part of the lake.

“Not that water,” said Macdonald. “The
sea.
The Atlantic!”

Sheep were grazing on the green slope down to the water. It hadn’t changed to metallic yet. The gray coats of the sheep shone like the stones in the grass below.

The landscape around them suddenly changed dramatically. Up on Murligan Hill it was like on the moon. Winter rolled his window down halfway and heard the wind. It had immediately become colder. The road was narrow. In the rapid twilight it looked like something that couldn’t be trusted.

There was a feeling of darkness up here that might have belonged to the lake but wasn’t necessarily part of it; it might have come from the naked, rough landscape.

The lake turned its back on this landscape. On the western side you could reach the water after a comfortable and short walk; here you would have to jump thirty yards from pointed cliffs.

They parked next to the little man-made lake, Loch Tarff. It stared up at the darkening sky like a blind eye.

They got out. Winter shivered in his coat. He noticed that Steve was shivering.

To lie here without clothes would have meant death for them too. To be naked in this nakedness.

Macdonald studied the sketch that Craig had drawn. Craig had offered to come along, or to send someone who had been along then, but they had declined.

Macdonald pointed to the left of the motionless surface of the water. They stepped through rough grass over a small hill and down on the other side into a hollow that was shallow and wide.

“He was lying here,” said Macdonald, crouching down.

“And he
walked
here, in other words,” Winter said, looking off across Loch Tarff; he could glimpse the ridiculously narrow road to the left and a bit of the water of Loch Ness, which was now as black as the sky would be soon.

“That hasn’t been proven,” said Macdonald, who was still crouching. “They found his clothes out in the open below Borlum Hill and up here, but we don’t know that he put them there himself, do we?”

“No.”

“Now we know that someone else was with him in Fort Augustus.”

“Do we?”

“It was Axel Osvald who was sitting beside Johnson in the car. Whoever Johnson is.”

“Anyone could have been sitting beside him,” Winter said.

And Johnson could be anyone, he thought.

Macdonald grunted and changed position but kept crouching.

“What did you say, Steve?”

“Do you want to believe this, or what?”

“What do you mean?”

“That it’s a crime.”

“I hope it’s not a crime,” Winter said.

Macdonald grunted again. Maybe it was in Gaelic. He got up. It was as though the darkness was falling at one hundred miles an hour now. Winter could see Macdonald’s teeth and the shape of his head. Steve mumbled something and turned around, toward land, toward the Monadhliath Mountains. Aviemore, the skiing paradise, was on the other side of the chain of mountains. But there was no paradise here, only wind and cold. Winter felt the tip of his own nose become cold. He had no gloves. His fingers started to become cold.

“Why this place?” Macdonald said now, as though to himself. He started to walk away, quickly.

“It
is
a crime,” he said as they stood next to the car. “The question is what kind.” He opened the car door. “It could be worse than we thought.”

“You don’t need to think out loud, Steve,” Winter said, and climbed in on his side.

Angela came out of the bathroom. Winter was lying crosswise on the bed with his head at an uncomfortable angle.

“Is that an acrobat trick?” she said.

“I have to get the blood back into my head,” he said.

She sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Yes, you seemed a little sluggish during dinner.”

“I did?”

“You and Steve both did, to be honest.”

Winter lifted his head and sat up.

“Like we said, it was a strange feeling to be up there this afternoon, in the mountains.”

“Mmhmm.”

“I’m sorry if I ruined dinner.”

“No, no, it was nice.”

Winter climbed up from the bed and walked over to the console table and poured out a little whisky from the bottle he’d bought at the airport. He lifted the bottle but Angela shook her head.

Winter drank the whisky, which was a Benrinnes. He saw his own face in the mirror. It still looked frozen from the wind on Murligan Hill. He rubbed his chin. He saw Angela’s amused face in the mirror. He made an ugly face. He thought of Old Man Macdonald. Steve had told Angela and Sarah about him during dinner, and about other strange things having to do with the clans in Scotland. It was, as Steve had said earlier, mostly very sad stories. But many of them were also senseless, comical.

Winter turned around.

“So we get to see Dallas, then,” he said.

She nodded.

“But you two will get there first,” she said.

He and Steve would leave early in the morning. Angela and Sarah would wait for Steve’s sister, Eilidh, and the three women would leave around lunchtime.

“It’s funny,” said Angela, “when I hear the name Dallas, or read about it, I immediately think of the name Kennedy.” She waved a finger. “I
think I’ll take a whiskey after all, a small one.” Winter took a glass from the table. “But of course this is a different Dallas. Proto-Dallas, as Steve said.”

Winter nodded and poured out a half inch.

“But Kennedy is also the name of a Scottish clan, isn’t it?” she said, and took the glass.

H
alfway to Nairn, Macdonald pointed to a road sign: Cawdor Castle.

“Do you know your Shakespeare?” he asked.

Winter saw the sign.

“Give me a minute.”

Cawdor, Cawdor, Cawdor. Thane of Cawdor.

“
Macbeth,
” said Winter.

Macdonald tipped the hat he didn’t have.

“Do you believe that story, too?” asked Winter.

“Not about the castle,” Macdonald said, “even if it is from the early thirteen-hundreds. But I believe the myth.”

“That was a true tale of murder,” said Winter.

“You could say that I grew up near two monsters,” Macdonald said, “Nessie and Macbeth.”

“How has that affected you?” asked Winter.

“I don’t know yet.”

They drove between fields that breathed sea. Winter looked to the right, across the river Nairn.

They drove through Nairn, which was built of brown granite. The sound of gulls was intense. The sky was blue; there were no clouds. The city was next to the sea.

“This is the best place for sun in Scotland,” Macdonald said. “We came here to swim sometimes when I was a child.”

They continued on the A96 toward Forres. Winter saw the clouds inland.

How far is’t call’d to Forres? What are these

So wither’d and so wild in their attire,

That look not like the inhabitants o’ the earth,

And yet are on’t?

Macdonald swung through two roundabouts and parked on High Street in front of Chimes Tearoom. They got out of the car.

“This is the street of my youth,” said Macdonald. “Forres was the closest I got to a city.” He looked around. “It isn’t much more than this street.”

Fraser Bros. meats on the other side of High Street displayed a sign for “Award Winning Haggis.” Winter knew that haggis was the national dish of Scotland, a hash made of sheep stomach and oatmeal. He had refrained from eating it thus far.

“Great chieftain o’ the puddin’-race!” said Macdonald, who noticed his gaze.

Winter smiled.

“Robert Burns,” said Macdonald. “Ode to a Haggis”:

Fair fa’ your honest sonsie face,

Great chieftain o’ the puddin’-race!

Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,

Painch, tripe, or thairm:

Weel are ye wordy of a grace

As lang’s my arm.

“I wish we had poetry like that in Sweden,” said Winter. “Poetry in honor of hash.”

“Then let’s have coffee,” said Macdonald, and they stepped into Chimes and sat down at one of the tables in the window. A woman their age came up and took the order from Macdonald: two caffe lattes and two slices of Dundee cake. She had short, dark brown hair and an open face. She lingered at the table.

“Isn’t that Steve?” she said.

“Yes …,” said Macdonald, suddenly getting up. “Lorraine.”

She reached up and gave him a hug.

“Long time no see,” she said.

“Very long,” said Macdonald.

She turned around and saw that the line was beginning to grow at the counter, where her coworker was raising an eyebrow.

“I have to work,” she said, throwing a quick glance at Winter.

“A Swedish friend,” said Macdonald, turning toward Winter.

Winter got up and extended his hand. They greeted each other. She gave Macdonald another smile.

“Will you be here this afternoon?”

“I’m sorry, Lorraine. We’re on our way to Aberdeen.”

“Ah.”

She turned around and walked quickly to the counter. Macdonald and Winter sat down. Winter saw a note to the right of the counter: “One person needed for washing dishes and pots, Wednesdays and Fridays 11–2.”

Macdonald cleared his throat discreetly.

“Old flame,” he said.

“Mmhmm,” said Winter.

“Like you and Johanna Osvald.”

“Did I tell you about that?”

Macdonald didn’t answer. He looked around, looked out through the window. People went into Fraser Bros., came out with prize-winning haggis.

“It’s been quite a few years since I was here last,” said Macdonald.

Winter didn’t answer. Macdonald met his gaze.

“I don’t know,” said Macdonald, “you almost get some sort of feeling of … shame when you come back. Like you’re guilty of something. Like you’re ashamed that you left here once, failed them, maybe. I don’t know if you understand this, Erik. If it’s even possible to understand.”

“I’ve lived in the same city my whole life, Steve. I haven’t experienced what you’re experiencing.”

Such different lives we’ve had, really, thought Winter. Macdonald came from a little one-horse town; he had taken his first independent steps on the streets of this small town. Winter was a big-city boy.

Lorraine came with the coffee and the fruitcake, which was heavy with fruit.

“How’s it going, Lorraine?” asked Macdonald.

“It’s going,” she answered.

“I see you need dishwashers,” Macdonald said, smiling.

“If you’re in town on Wednesdays and Fridays, well …,” Lorraine said.

Macdonald smiled again but didn’t answer.

“Otherwise it’s pretty much like for everyone else here,” said Lorraine. “Divorced from a jerk of a guy and two half-grown kids to support.”

“Who was the jerk?” asked Macdonald.

“Rob Montgomerie,” she answered.

Macdonald raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, I know,” she said, smiling a smile that might have been acid, “but you weren’t here anymore, Steve, were you?”

Macdonald suddenly looked guilty. Winter noticed that he lowered his eyes. Lorraine walked back to the counter. Macdonald watched her go.

“Now I
really
feel guilty,” he said.

“You knew that guy?”

“He
was
a jerk,” said Macdonald. “Poor Lorraine.” Macdonald turned to Winter. “Sometimes it doesn’t matter how grown-up you are, there are people you will dislike your whole life.” He looked at Lorraine. “She must have been desperate.”

“She’s gotten away from it,” said Winter.

“I’m not sure,” said Macdonald. “Rob was a violent type.”

As they left, Macdonald took Lorraine aside for a second.

Winter waited outside.

“That bastard has stayed away so far, anyway,” Macdonald said when he came out to the sidewalk.

“You look like you’re back in high school,” said Winter.

Which is true, he thought. When Steve comes back here he becomes the person he was then. That’s how time works.

“There are a lot of wife beaters here,” said Macdonald.

“Where isn’t there?” said Winter.

Aneta Djanali was waiting in the room when they showed Sigge Lindsten in. It was an important distinction: He was
shown
into the room; he wasn’t
brought
into it.

Halders cleared his throat and they started, and the tape recorder turned. Lindsten answered everything as though this had all been well rehearsed. But he didn’t know anything.

Halders asked about various addresses on the outskirts of Brantingsmotet. Lindsten was the least-aware person in the world.

“I’m going to tell you more than I need to,” said Halders. “Stored in those warehouses I just mentioned are stolen goods from burglaries of many houses around Gothenburg.”

“I see,” said Lindsten.

“Headquarters,” said Halders, “on the way out to the fences and buyers.”

“It seems things like that are becoming more and more common,” said Lindsten.

“Like what?” Halders asked.

“Thefts, and organizations, or whatever they’re called.”

“That’s right,” said Halders. “A large organization.”

“But what does this have to do with me?”

“Well, I’ll tell you one more thing,” said Halders. “We followed a truck that was leaving those crammed warehouses on Hisingen, and it drove through the entire city to Fastlagsgatan in Kortedala and stopped outside entrance number five, and guess who arrived shortly thereafter and spoke to the driver?”