The Shadow Woman (24 page)

“There’s always a first time,” Winter said. “But what can we do?”

“What you’re asking for is for some kind of a trace to be put on a specific payment that’s going to be made at the Mölndal post office at the end of this week, lasting up to the second weekday in October.”

“Mölnlycke,” Winter said.

“What? Yeah, Mölnlycke. Okay. But it’s too little time to be able to fix the computers and cash registers to respond to specific inputs on the screen, and we actually can’t do it anyway, because all we have to go on is the apartment number. In the best case.”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“The system won’t let us put a trace on that. And if we were to go by the direct deposit number, then some five thousand people, or however many there are, would find themselves subject to an investigation.”

“I see.”

“There is one thing I can do for you, although it is highly irregular. I can send out a memo to all the different post offices, asking them to try to keep an eye out for these numbers.”

“How do you do that?”

“I’d rather not go into that if I don’t have to.”

“But you can get that out right away?”

“Yeah, pretty much. But like I said, it’s highly irregular. Last time was a few years ago when we tried to stop a currency exchange. It’s really only supposed to be used in cases of extreme importance. Top priority.”

“This is.”

“I realize that. But, well, that’s what we can do.”

“Good.”

Winter imagined millions of computer screens receiving the security consultant’s electronic memo. He thought of the office in Mölnlycke. He’d never been in it, had barely even set foot in the district that lay six miles east of the city. But there was a small chance that someone would come back to pay the rent again. If they could just get some discreet surveillance equipment put in place. And not just use the existing security system but also have someone there on the spot. One or two police officers. That is, if there even was any equipment in Mölnlycke. A camera. He noted something down on the pad in front of him.

“But there are other ways too,” the security consultant went on. “You could speak to the postmaster in Mölnd—Mölnlycke about putting up notices for the cashiers at each of the cash registers. So they have the number and maybe reac—”

“Yes, I understand,” Winter said. “I’ve sort of thought of that.”

“Uh, okay. But that’s a right-to-privacy issue. Like a search warrant. The post office needs a written request from a prosecutor.”

“Or from the person in charge of the preliminary investigation,” Winter said. “And that’s me.”

“Sure. I’m just saying you can put a trace on that payment if the people at that office know what the deal is.”

“Thanks for all your help,” Winter said. “I’m very grateful.”

“Then I’ll send out my letter. In case something happens somewhere other than in Mölndal.”

Winter pressed down the cradle button again and waited for a dial tone. With his left hand, he flipped to the number in the phone book and called the post-office security department in Gothenburg. A man answered.

“Bengt Fahlander.”

“Hi. Erik Winter from the Gothenburg Police Department here. I’m investigating a murder.”

“Hi.”

Winter explained the background and asked a question.

“We’ve got a camera at Lindome but not in Mölnlycke,” Fahlander said. “Mölnlycke hasn’t had any equipment like that for quite a while.”

“Why not?”

“Well, the usual. The offices facing the greatest threat get the surveillance equipment. That’s some fifteen offices in the district. Like Lindome. They were robbed a number of times, and in the end we took the initiative to install a CCTV camera.”

“But not in Mölnlycke,” Winter said.

“No. But that wouldn’t make any difference anyway,” Fahlander said.

“What do you mean?”

“The video footage. In certain extreme cases we might be authorized to hold on to it for a month, but almost without exception it’s erased after two weeks. Wiped clean, discarded, you might say.”

What is this goddamn obsession with discarding everything? Pretty soon there wouldn’t be anything to go on when you wanted to search back in time. Two weeks back and you hit a brick wall.

“So even if there had been a camera in Mölnlycke, the video footage for the day you just mentioned—that film would have been erased,” Fahlander said. “But Mölnlycke used to have a camera. For quite a while, I think. Then things calmed down. Crime moved away, you might say.”

“To Lindome,” Winter said. “But now it’s returned, and I would like to set up a camera again.”

“Now?”

“Today, if possible. As soon as possible.”

“You have to submit a formal applic—”

“I know what has to be submitted and to whom. But this is extremely important. And it’s gotta happen quickly.”

“You’re talking surveillance of a public place,” Fahlander said. “That means there have to be signs put up informing the public that the premises are under video surveillance.”

Whose side are you on? Winter wondered. But of course the post-man was right. “Of course,” he said. “Maybe the old ones are still there. Otherwise we can take care of it.”

“Would it be possible to do it a little discreetly?” Fahlander asked.

 

There were more police officers in the situation room now than when the investigation began what felt like two hundred years ago. It was hot and damp. Ringmar was just opening a window. Winter hung his blazer over the swivel chair and turned to face the group.

“So we’re going to be doing something highly irregular over the next three days—a discreet door to door in North Biskopsgården, but only as part of the preliminary investigation. We keep quiet about the other stuff.”

Ringmar stood up and continued. “If anybody asks what we’re doing there, we just say that we’re slowly making our way through the whole city, searching for the woman’s identity.”

“Her key,” Bergenhem said. “The one who paid her rent has the key to her apartment.”

“That’s right,” Ringmar said. “Either someone has gone in there and looked around thoroughly for something or Helene Andersén kept her things in an odd sort of order.”

“What else is missing?” Sara Helander asked.

“Her rent slips,” Winter said.

“So the crime—the murder—wasn’t committed in her apartment?”

“Not as far as Beier’s men have been able to determine.”

“Would that be realistic, given how far it is to Delsjö Lake?” Börjesson asked.

“Would what be realistic?”

“For her to have been murdered in her apartment and then taken down to Delsjö Lake.”

“In terms of time, it might be possible, but so far we haven’t found any evidence in her apartment to suggest that.”

“Didn’t it attract a lot of attention when we found out where she lived? Enough that the secret could already be out?” Halders asked.

“There were a few curious onlookers, but it’s not unusual for the police to come calling,” Ringmar said. “I didn’t say anything to anyone anyway.” He looked at Winter, who shook his head. “We have to hope our witnesses will keep their oath of confidentiality.”

“How do we deal with the press, then? It would be strange if they didn’t pick up the scent,” Halders said.

“I haven’t heard anything yet,” Ringmar said.

“It would be strange,” Halders said, “if they didn’t already know something.”

“I’ll handle all contact with the press,” Winter said. “I’ve spoken to Sture and Wellman.”

“That’s a damn good idea,” Halders said. “I would have given the exact same order.” He saw that Winter understood that he was serious.

“So where are we now?” Helander asked.

“I’ve spoken to the post office in Mölnlycke,” Winter said. “The camera’s all set. We might even get two. We’re going to try to give the impression that it’s always been there.”

“Who’s going to be in position inside the post office?” Bergenhem asked.

“I was going to suggest that you do it,” Winter said.

“Me?”

“We need to have someone who looks as ordinary as possible,” Halders said.

“Yeah, well we can’t have someone who scares away the customers, can we?” Bergenhem said, and turned toward Halders. “When do you want me to head over there?” he asked, turning back to Winter.

“Now. I’ll talk to you just as soon as we’re done here. And you will be relieved.”

“How’s the search going?” Bergenhem asked.

Winter gazed at his database expert.

“Nothing so far,” Möllerström said. “We’re still working through the central criminal-records database.”

“Has surveillance gotten busy on this yet?” Halders asked. “With the latest, I mean? The names.”

“Of course,” Ringmar said.

“There’s always an informant who knows something,” Halders said. “Take the shoot-out at Vårväderstorget. That could get solved using your stoolie. Someone knows somebody else who knows something more.”

“I know,” Ringmar said.

Winter took the floor again.

“We’re waiting for the list of everyone she’s called.”

“Then it’s in the bag,” Halders said.

She may have only called out for pizza, thought Helander, but she didn’t say it.

Winter felt the team’s impatience, the urge to work and the frustration at having to wait for documents and lists and results to provide a little guidance for the way forward. Another name could pave the way to greater clarity. A new address. A fingerprint. He thought of the technicians leaning over their instruments.

“How’s it coming along with the fingerprints from her apartment?” Bergenhem asked.

“Her daughter’s are there, we presume, since there’s a set that belongs to a child,” Winter said. “There were at least two other unknown sets of prints. In addition to Helene’s, of course.”

“At least?”

“That’s what we know so far. There’s also a partial print. But they’re not done with the whole apartment yet. Then there’s the basement storage room.”

“What do you mean by partial?” Bergenhem asked.

“According to Beier there’s a partial fingerprint on a dresser drawer, I think he said it was. I don’t know how big it is yet, or whether it’s big enough to be used to establish full identity at some point. Forensics doesn’t know yet. But it’s there.”

“Was it a torn glove?” Helander asked.

“Probably,” Winter said, and looked at her. “That was good thinking. There was a piece of fiber next to the print. It could come from the apartment or from anywhere, but someone may have torn a little hole in their glove. Against the edge of the drawer. That’s where the print is.”

WINTER PARKED THE CAR NEXT TO FRISKVÄDERSTORGET AND
walked north. Thin paper blew across the square toward the southeast. The morning was dry, no rain. Outside the ICA supermarket someone had tipped over a trash can, and three headless bottles lay on the ground. People walked past saying words Winter heard but didn’t understand.

Two police officers he barely knew were there. They weren’t wearing uniforms, but they stood out in the surroundings, strangers in a foreign land.

He went over and said hello. Before them lay the remains of a small fireworks rocket, in red and gold paper with blackened tasseled edges that were slowly being eaten away by the wind gusting from the north-west. The spent paper canisters rolled back and forth.

“Probably another damn ethnic group celebrating its own damn New Year,” one of the officers said, and gestured at the ground. The other sniggered. “Or else they have to set some off every day, to remind them of home back in Kurdistan.”

“What was that?” Winter said.

“What?”

“What you said just now. About the New Year. And Kurdistan.”

“What’s the big deal?” He turned to his partner. “It was just a joke, right?” He looked at Winter. “You got a problem or something?”

“It wasn’t funny,” Winter said. “I can’t have officers with prejudices against the people who live here working this assignment. This investigation is way too important.”

“Oh give me a—”

“I don’t want you here,” Winter said. “Get out of here.”

“This is craz—”

“I decide who does what around here. And I’m ordering you to go back to the station and report to Inspector Ringmar. He’ll assign you new duties. I’ll call him.”

Winter had already started walking away and called Ringmar as he walked. Ringmar answered after the second ring, and Winter explained.

“You can’t do that, Erik.”

“It’s already done. You’ll have to try to send down a couple more guys. We need them.”

It sounded like Ringmar sighed.

“What should I say to those two jugheads when they show up?”

“Just give them something else to do. Put them on the cars.”

“Yeah, maybe they’re better suited to that,” Ringmar said. “Assuming none of the owners is of foreign extraction.”

 

As Winter neared Helene Andersén’s apartment he heard children’s voices. The temperature had dropped during the night, and on his way into the shop that lay a hundred or so yards from Karin Sohlberg’s residential services office he zipped up his leather jacket.

Immediately upon entering he caught the smell of exotic herbs and spices. The shelves to the right were filled with glass jars of pickled foodstuffs and tin cans containing southern European and oriental dishes.

A sign with “Halal” written on it hung above the meat counter, which was half-filled with sausages, lamb shoulder, and tripe. The vegetable counter was stuffed to the brim with ten different kinds of bell peppers, big spotted tomatoes, strange-looking root vegetables, thick bunches of coriander, and other fresh herbs. The selection was bigger and more interesting than in any of the delicatessens in the city center or the indoor market.