time to put out a missing person alert soon,” said Macdonald.
“I’ll talk about it with her again,” said Winter.
“If the dad doesn’t turn up soon, maybe I can ask around a little,” said Macdonald.
Winter knew that Steve was from a little town a short way from Inverness. He didn’t remember the name right now.
“Did you work in Inverness, Steve?”
“Yes. I was even a detective inspector. I moved there from the police station in Forres, which was the nearest big city.”
“Where was that, again?”
“Home? A little Wild West hole of a town, called Dallas.”
Winter laughed.
“It’s true,” said Macdonald. “Dallas, the mother of big Dallas in big Texas. And my Dallas consists of one street and a row of houses on either side and that’s all, except for the two farms on the southern slope, one of which is ours.”
Right. Winter knew that Macdonald was a farmer’s son.
“My brother still works on the farm,” said Macdonald.
“Are your parents still living?”
“Yes.”
Winter was quiet.
“I also have a sister, and she actually lives in Inverness now,” said Macdonald.
“I didn’t know that,” said Winter.
“I didn’t either, six months ago,” said Macdonald. “Eilidh lived down here in the Smoke, up on the regular-people side of Hampstead, but something happened between her and her husband so she headed back, and within twenty-four hours or something she had established herself at a new office up there.”
“New office?”
“Eilidh is a lawyer. Everything but criminal law. Now she runs a little office with another woman of the same age. Macduff and Macdonald, Solicitors. They’ve made the whole farm in Dallas proud.”
“Prouder than they are of you?”
“Jesus, Erik, no one has ever thought of me with pride.”
“That’s good,” said Winter.
“But Eilidh is a Scottish dame worth admiration.”
“How old is she?” asked Winter.
“Why?” asked Macdonald, and Winter thought he heard a smile.
“I was asking out of politeness,” said Winter.
“Thirty-seven,” said Macdonald. “Five years younger than you and me.”
“Mmhmm.”
“And ten times more beautiful than you and me.”
“I’d call that beautiful,” said Winter.
“But I don’t think she’ll be much help with this,” said Macdonald.
“Depending on what happens, is it okay if I call again and ask you to check around with your colleagues up there?” asked Winter.
“Of course.”
“Good.”
“Maybe I should run up and check it out myself,” said Macdonald.
“Sorry?”
“Nah, I was just thinking out loud. But it would be nice to have a change of scenery. What do you say? Shall we plan to meet in Inverness and solve a new mystery together?”
Winter laughed.
“What mystery?”
Four days later he would not be laughing at Macdonald’s joke because it would no longer be a joke. The joke would become a mystery.
Aneta Djanali was in her own little world, a better world. She drank a glass of wine in silence. It was red wine. Burkina Faso ought to have been a good country for wine. The grapes were big and terribly sweet. There was nothing to grow in, but they grew anyway. Not many people drank wine in the partially Muslim Burkina Faso. Maybe that was why. No one could afford wine, either. Few had seen a bottle of wine. She had seen one at a hotel in Ouagadougou, carried to a fat and loud French family who were eating lamb and couscous with their sleeves rolled up. The waiter had carried the bottle as though it contained nitroglycerin.
Her father had been sitting across from her, and he had observed the Frenchman like an African who can see farther than the end of time. Her father was no longer a European, not a Swede; all of that was gone when he traveled back, never to return. He no longer practiced medicine. Aren’t you going to open a small practice? she had said. There are only three hundred doctors here. God knows you’re needed. Which one of them? he had answered, and
“I’ll talk about it with her again,” said Winter.
“If the dad doesn’t turn up soon, maybe I can ask around a little,” said Macdonald.
Winter knew that Steve was from a little town a short way from Inverness. He didn’t remember the name right now.
“Did you work in Inverness, Steve?”
“Yes. I was even a detective inspector. I moved there from the police station in Forres, which was the nearest big city.”
“Where was that, again?”
“Home? A little Wild West hole of a town, called Dallas.”
Winter laughed.
“It’s true,” said Macdonald. “Dallas, the mother of big Dallas in big Texas. And my Dallas consists of one street and a row of houses on either side and that’s all, except for the two farms on the southern slope, one of which is ours.”
Right. Winter knew that Macdonald was a farmer’s son.
“My brother still works on the farm,” said Macdonald.
“Are your parents still living?”
“Yes.”
Winter was quiet.
“I also have a sister, and she actually lives in Inverness now,” said Macdonald.
“I didn’t know that,” said Winter.
“I didn’t either, six months ago,” said Macdonald. “Eilidh lived down here in the Smoke, up on the regular-people side of Hampstead, but something happened between her and her husband so she headed back, and within twenty-four hours or something she had established herself at a new office up there.”
“New office?”
“Eilidh is a lawyer. Everything but criminal law. Now she runs a little office with another woman of the same age. Macduff and Macdonald, Solicitors. They’ve made the whole farm in Dallas proud.”
“Prouder than they are of you?”
“Jesus, Erik, no one has ever thought of me with pride.”
“That’s good,” said Winter.
“But Eilidh is a Scottish dame worth admiration.”
“How old is she?” asked Winter.
“Why?” asked Macdonald, and Winter thought he heard a smile.
“I was asking out of politeness,” said Winter.
“Thirty-seven,” said Macdonald. “Five years younger than you and me.”
“Mmhmm.”
“And ten times more beautiful than you and me.”
“I’d call that beautiful,” said Winter.
“But I don’t think she’ll be much help with this,” said Macdonald.
“Depending on what happens, is it okay if I call again and ask you to check around with your colleagues up there?” asked Winter.
“Of course.”
“Good.”
“Maybe I should run up and check it out myself,” said Macdonald.
“Sorry?”
“Nah, I was just thinking out loud. But it would be nice to have a change of scenery. What do you say? Shall we plan to meet in Inverness and solve a new mystery together?”
Winter laughed.
“What mystery?”
Four days later he would not be laughing at Macdonald’s joke because it would no longer be a joke. The joke would become a mystery.
Aneta Djanali was in her own little world, a better world. She drank a glass of wine in silence. It was red wine. Burkina Faso ought to have been a good country for wine. The grapes were big and terribly sweet. There was nothing to grow in, but they grew anyway. Not many people drank wine in the partially Muslim Burkina Faso. Maybe that was why. No one could afford wine, either. Few had seen a bottle of wine. She had seen one at a hotel in Ouagadougou, carried to a fat and loud French family who were eating lamb and couscous with their sleeves rolled up. The waiter had carried the bottle as though it contained nitroglycerin.
Her father had been sitting across from her, and he had observed the Frenchman like an African who can see farther than the end of time. Her father was no longer a European, not a Swede; all of that was gone when he traveled back, never to return. He no longer practiced medicine. Aren’t you going to open a small practice? she had said. There are only three hundred doctors here. God knows you’re needed. Which one of them? he had answered, and
Similar Books
