Sail of Stone (34 page)

A gasoline barrel was burning in a deserted roundabout. Some distance away, a few old men were hunching over their lunches, liquor. Bergenhem was playing Led Zep and looking for the address. Robert Plant was howling at heaven about the stairway up there. Bergenhem turned up the volume during the break. He could see Plant’s corkscrew curls. He had seen Zep in Copenhagen, that hair all over the stage. Jimmy Page seemed to be using his guitar as a crutch. He had been high as the sky. They could
play.
Bonham would die soon, but he beat his drums to pieces and got new ones onto the stage. Jeez.

Bergenhem found his way in another roundabout and drove up to the warehouse and turned off the motor. He looked around and dialed the number to operation command, which was in Kvillebäcken for some reason. Maybe it was the McDonald’s at Backaplan that attracted them there.

“I’m outside now,” he said.

“Where’s your colleague?” crackled the communication radio.

“There’s no colleague here. Where is he supposed to be?”

“He was supposed to wait.”

“Then he probably got tired,” said Bergenhem, and he saw a small truck drive up to one of the loading docks and stop and stand with its motor running.

“A vehicle,” he said into the microphone, “a truck with a canvas cover. Looks like it’s privately owned.”

“What are they doing?”

“I don’t see anyone. It’s idling. In front of dock D.”

“Do they see you?”

“If the driver turns his head one hundred eighty degrees, yes.”

“Your colleague is supposed to be standing there,” scratched the voice. “Right there.”

“Good thing he wasn’t, then,” said Bergenhem. He saw the cloud of smoke from the tailpipe before the truck shot off. “Now it’s taking off!”

“Fuck.”

“Should I stay here or follow it?”

It crackled again, suddenly
loud,
like rusty metal against a rough stone.

“He’s disappearing,” said Bergenhem.

“Tail him.”

Bergenhem rolled out of the area where the warehouse stood in an angular semicircle, trying to surround rusty containers that were piled on one another like building blocks.

“There could be people in there, in the warehouse,” he said into the microphone.

“We’re on our way,” said the voice.

Aneta Djanali was having a few words with Ringmar.

“Is it true?” Aneta cried.

“Nothing has time to cool down in there,” said Ringmar. “Old Lindsten is working hard.”

“I’ll talk to him.”

“Wait a little. Wait and see for a day or two.”

Aneta thought of the Lindsten family. The apartment that was the daughter’s was really the father’s. Hans Forsblad didn’t appear, not inside and not outside. Anette was living at home, but maybe not. Sister Susanne had a permanent address. She was the only one who seemed to have one apart from Mr. and Mrs. Lindsten, but they seemed to be in eternal orbit between the beach cottage in Vallda and the house in Fredriksdal.

Where was Anette right now?

“Okay,” Aneta said to Ringmar. “There are other things to do.”

Bergenhem tailed the truck toward Frihamnen. He didn’t think that the driver of the truck up there had seen him. My car wasn’t visible. Something else caused him to leave. Maybe my colleague popped up from inside and I didn’t see it.

The warehouse was suspected of being full of stolen goods, or almost: It was being filled.

The truck up there, a Scania, could be full of stolen goods. Or maybe they were supposed to fill up in the warehouse and then ship to fences. There were lots of fences in Gothenburg.

He thought they were on their way to Ringön, but the truck lurched onto the viaduct and steered toward the bridge.

Aneta called Anette Lindsten’s number, and after two rings she got an answer she couldn’t understand.

“Is this Anette?”

Another mumble, and loud traffic noises.

And silence as the connection was broken.

She dialed the cell number again.

Busy. Dee-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee.

She waited, walked through the brick hallway, which was dry and cool and smelled like absolutely nothing. Möllerström went by with a box of printouts in his arms, and he moved his head in some sort of greeting. Möllerström produced tons of printouts and then carried them around, here and there. He moved in mysterious ways. She watched him go.

Should they trace the route of Anette’s phone? No. No one would agree to do it if she didn’t have stronger grounds.

Her phone rang.

She answered and heard the loud traffic noises again; an indistinct mumbling. Then a voice:

“Is this Aneta?”

It was Bergenhem. She could hear his voice now, but just barely. The traffic roared and it sounded like a large bell was ringing in the background.

“Yes, sir.”

“Where’s Möllerström?”

“Lugging a box. What did you expect?”

“Can you check a license plate for me?”

Bergenhem followed the truck around Polhemsplatsen. The
Göteborgs-Posten
building bulged out above the traffic. The driver of the truck seemed to hesitate again but veered off toward Odinsgatan at the last second and ran a yellow light just as it turned red, and the maneuver caused a car in the next lane over to slam on the brakes and swerve to the right.

It was an illegal maneuver, but Bergenhem only had time to move around and past and keep an eye on the now-familiar vehicle up there; its cover was painted blue and white, the colors of the city; a rope or something fluttered like a tail from the covered bed of the truck.

But I’m the tail, thought Bergenhem.

They rolled through Odinsplatsen and continued east up Friggagatan and turned into Olskroksmotet and the truck lurched again, as though the driver had been interrupted. He’s talking on the phone, thought Bergenhem. Maybe he’s getting directions.

They continued across Redbergsplatsen, past Bagaregården, and up onto Gamlestadsvägen.

Bergenhem’s phone jangled.

“Yes?”

“The plates belong to a Berner Lindström,” said Aneta.

“Gothenburg?” Bergenhem asked.

“The interesting thing is that they’re stolen,” said Aneta. “Because you said it was a truck, right?”

“Yes. But repeat that first part, please.”

“Berner Lindström owns a ninety-one Opel Kadett Caravan, and two weeks ago his license plates were stolen in Falkenberg, down in Halland. He reported it to the police right away, of course.”

“We’ve found his plates,” Bergenhem said, and he swung right onto Artillerigatan but had to wait for another truck that came rushing by as though it had been shot out of a cannon. He tried to see past some cars in front of him but couldn’t see any blue or any white. What the fu—

“Where are you?” asked Aneta.

“I can’t see him,” said Bergenhem. He made a fist and thumped the wheel. He was going forty-five; he looked to the left just before the roundabout and caught sight of a splash of blue and white.

“Lars?” he heard Aneta’s voice.

“I see him!” shouted Bergenhem, mostly to himself.

“Where is he?” said Aneta. “Where are you?”

Bergenhem spun through yet another roundabout.

“Kortedalavägen,” he said.

“What?”

“On the way north through Kviberg.”

“All roads apparently lead to Kortedala,” Aneta said.

“Now I’m turning in to Kortedala Torg,” said Bergenhem.

“Oh God.”

“Now we’re passing the police station. Our truck just did the same.”

“They haven’t seen you, you think?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“No. But it seems like the driver has other things to think about. I think he’s following directions. A stranger.”

“From Halland.”

Bergenhem laughed.

“From Falkenberg,” he said.

“Where are you now?” Aneta asked.

“Guess,” said Bergenhem.

“You’re just about to turn right at the Uno-X station,” said Aneta.

“That’s one right,” said Bergenhem.

“Will I get the next one right, too?”

He could hear excitement in her voice.

“We’ll see … they’re turning right … they’re driving up to the yard or whatever you call it, the front of the house … driving up to one of the entrances … yes, that’s it … I’m driving by now … looking in my rearview … it’s number five, where we caught that guy Forssomething, now I see someone coming out of the truck … now I have to turn left here, Aneta.”

“I’m coming,” she said, and was already on her way.

W
inter called Donsö. Erik Osvald answered. He had come home late at night. The catamaran from Frederikshavn had been delayed considerably by wind and rough seas.

“You feel a little powerless,” said Osvald, and Winter wasn’t sure what he was referring to.

But Osvald had spoken of lack of control, his own control.

He mentioned the latest trip, spontaneously, without Winter having asked. The news from Johanna that had come at an “exciting” time at sea.

He talked and Winter listened. It was like a need Osvald had, in order to channel his sadness.

“In the best case you find a type of fish that there’s no quota for. And preferably one of the biggest fishes. And it seems like we’ve succeeded in doing that now.”

“What is it?” asked Winter.

“Anglers and crawfish,” said Osvald. “We’ve found a hiding spot. We searched and then we found an area where they were moving in the same … well, area; no one has been in that exact spot before because it’s a really rough bottom. And we got an awful lot of anglers.”

“That’s an expensive fish,” said Winter.

“We brought up several million anglers,” said Osvald.

“Good.”

“But we ripped up a lot of trawls. That fish stays pretty stuck to the bottom; it’s really easy to just scrape their backs. But we managed to dig up quite a few.”

“All right.”

“It’s listed as a ‘miscellaneous’ species in Norwegian waters,” Osvald said, and Winter thought he heard a note of wonder in his voice.

“Can I come out there for an hour?” asked Winter.

“Why?”

“There are a few things I’d like to ask you.”

“Can’t you do it over the phone?”

“I’d prefer not to.”

“Uh … when?”

“I can be on Donsö in just over an hour.”

“There’s no boat that goes then, is there?”

“I’ve arranged one,” said Winter.

“Oh, I see. You were sure I’d be here?”

“No,” said Winter. “Have you found the letters?”

When they’d last met, they had decided that Osvald and Johanna would try to find John Osvald’s letters home to his family. If it was possible.

“There are a few,” Osvald said. “They were among Dad’s things.” He paused. “I’ve actually never seen them.” He paused again. “I haven’t read them yet.”

“I’ll be there in an hour,” said Winter.

“So that’s what this is about?” asked Osvald.

Osvald met him on the dock. He was pale. His trawler wasn’t at the quay where it had been before. It was like there was a hole where the boat had been. Winter knew it was on its way back out into the North Sea with the replacement crew on the hunt for anglers, crawfish, cod, haddock. Smoked haddock. No. Danish trawlers, Swedish ones, Scottish ones, on the hunt for whitefish that would be smoked and fried and steamed. The cod fillets would end up on tables in Brussels. Winter thought about what Osvald had said about mad cow disease. It was a complicated world.

Out there they were their own people, a sort of royalty. They were spared the Norwegians, who only had their sights on the Barents Sea. And the Dutch fished only for flatfish; they were no competition.

Winter heaved himself onto the quay from the police boat with Osvald’s help. Some young boys on bikes stared from their group. Osvald made a signal and the group scattered. He smiled. One of the boys bucked his bike like a horse.

“My boy,” said Osvald.

“Will he be a fisherman too?”

“He’ll have the opportunity,” said Osvald. “By the time he’s twenty he’ll have to know what he wants to do.” He took off his cap and
scratched his hair, which had started to thin. His forehead was red, chapped by sun and salt and wind. “After that it’s too late.”

“Is it difficult to find a crew?” Winter asked.

“No.”

“Are there many boats from here out at sea?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“There was a generation shift here on Donsö that went wrong.” Osvald had started to walk toward the houses, and Winter followed. “The men were very angry, the ones who were my father’s age, maybe a little older.” Osvald was speaking straight out; he didn’t look at Winter. Screeching gulls circled above them. There was a gull sitting on a section of rock. “They never budged, those men, just kept their crews. And they
were
really good, but they didn’t let any of the younger ones in.” He looked at Winter. “And then up came the possibility for an uneducated fisherman to be a sailor on the Stena Line, and everyone jumped at the chance.” He gestured with his arm, like a jump from a considerable height. “But of course they couldn’t come back to fishing, not then and not now.”

“Why not?”

“It takes too much money today to get established. You’ve seen my boat. Well, it’s not cheap, three hundred twenty gross tons, thirteen hundred horsepower.” He turned around as though the boat would be there and he could point to it. “If we stopped now we would get a lot of money for it.”

“Would you want to?” asked Winter.

“Stop? Never. The EU wants us to. But I don’t want to.”

Osvald lived in one of the older houses. Both men had to duck as they went in but the ceiling was high inside, an arch of wood above the large room. There was a tall, wide window that let in light and cliffs and sea and horizon. It was a perfect room.

Winter heard a sound from somewhere else in the house, and he turned his head.

“The cat,” said Osvald. “You’re not allergic, are you?”

“I don’t actually know,” said Winter. “I’ve never had a cat.”

“You’ve petted one, right?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I actually never have,” said Winter. It was the first time he’d considered this, and it was really pretty ridiculous. A man over forty who’d never petted a cat in his entire life. He needed a place in the country.