The Shadow Woman (32 page)

Same old procedure, thought Winter.

Birgersson cocked his head like a dog that’s just detected a sound. “Hear that? The bikers are out in force.”

“They’re fewer now that the heat’s gone.”

“But it’s come back, hasn’t it?”

“Not to the same degree.”

“This damn shoot-out at Hisingen. What’s his name? Bolander. Can’t we nail him somehow? I don’t like how he got off scot free.”

“You know how it is, Sture.”

“They can just stay put over in Denmark,” Birgersson said. “It’s a Danish phenomenon. Maybe southern Swedish.”

“American,” Winter said.

“The Danes have the worst of it,” Birgersson said. “I heard about Ålborg. They shot at each other outside the station. Outside the railway station!”

 

Möllerström met up with Winter at the situation room. He was excited.

“Sahlgrenska Hospital issued an appeal for information,” he said. “In 1972, October. They’re a little unsure of the exact date.”

Winter thought about Angela in her white coat in a ward where someone lay in bandages.

“About a child?”

“About a girl who came in. Alone, somehow.”

“Sahlgrenska?”

“Yes, apparently the child was in a pretty bad way.”

“And that was Helene,” Winter said, and at once Möllerström looked disappointed that Winter had interrupted his chronological account.

“Yes,” he said tersely.

“What happened?”

“What I know now is that they put out an appeal for her . . . no, I mean for her family, asking them to come forward, and that someone recognized the girl quite soon afterward.”

“But no family,” Winter said, and Möllerström looked disappointed again.

“No.”

“It’s the same pattern,” Winter said. “That’s what I’m saying.”

“Neighbors from Frölunda recognized her.”

“And that’s when she got a name?”

“Yes. Helene. Helene Dellmar.”

“Dellmar?”

“She lived with her mother in an apartment in Frölunda, and their name was Dellmar.”

“But it wasn’t her mother who’d gotten in touch?”

“No.”

“So where is she?”

“I don’t know,” Möllerström said. “Nobody seems to know.”

 

Winter held the copy of the slip of paper between his fingers. The young Helene and the grown-up Helene had both held the original. Those were the conclusive prints. Had the child’s sweaty hands caused those specific prints to leave a more indelible impression behind than the others?

“So it was found in the dress in the box in the basement?” Ringmar asked. “The same one she was wearing when she was brought into the hospital?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t say here.”

“Is there anyone who’d know?”

“I don’t know, Bertil. That’s yet another question that needs an answer.”

“I’m just thinking about the dress, if she was wearing it. What happened to it afterward?”

“Yes.”

“It’s unlikely she asked for it back herself. From the hospital.”

“Well, that’s a good question.”

“So, questions: Where did that slip of paper come from? When did it end up in the dress pocket? How long has it been lying there? Who put it there?”

“Another question,” Winter said. “What does it mean?”

 

The apartment smelled of garlic and herbs.

“I’ve cooked dinner,” Angela said, with a glass of wine in her hand. “A proper housewife.”

“Apart from the glass of wine,” Winter said.

“Want some?”

“No. I’d prefer a gin and tonic, seeing as you’ve started the drinking. No, scratch that. I don’t want any right now.”

She followed him out into the kitchen.

“You were right.”

“Right? About what?”

“A little girl named Helene something was brought in for some reason years ago. There was a record of it.”

THEY HAD SLEPT TOGETHER, AND WINTER FELT THAT DIVINE
fatigue in his body, like a creative fatigue that took over from the destructive one. His body was supple, rejuvenated. The last few days it had been a tool, easily abused.

“You’re thinking about the girl,” she said.

“Yes. But not like before.”

“How do you mean?”

“You know how it goes up and down. One moment you see possibilities and the next only obstacles.”

“Sounds like a good description of life.”

“And of work, unfortunately. Earlier today I was feeling discouraged.”

“You’re thinking the worst.”

“I’d rather not say that.”

“There’s hope,” she said. “You’ve said so yourself several times before.”

“There’s hope in the sense that this isn’t a classic disappearance where a child goes missing from a playground and we think that some bastard’s taken her. In those cases there’s rarely any hope. We seldom find the child, unless a psychopath confesses and takes us to the grave.”

“But here that’s not the case.”

“No. What we have here doesn’t follow the typical pattern. There may be hope. Or else something worse than we’ve ever seen.”

“Don’t say that,” she said. “Or maybe you need to.”

He didn’t answer.

“You should speak to somebody—other than your fellow detectives on the force.”

“Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”

“Well. I’m listening.”

“But there’s something else as well.” He propped himself up on one elbow. “There’s a great loneliness that rests over this case. It’s taken a long time to find out her name and where she lived, and to get the suspicions about a missing child confirmed. If it hadn’t been for an old lady, we would still be fumbling around looking for a viable lead. You know what I mean? An enormous loneliness. We have her name but we still don’t know more than a few small fragments about her past.”

“More is sure to come in now that you’ve gone out with it in such a big way, with a public appeal and the APB or whatever you call it.”

“Yeah, that’s true. Or is it? That’s what I mean. That awful loneliness that seemed to surround her life.”

“Yes.”

“No one to speak to. You know? Like you and I are speaking now.”

“Like you and I,” she repeated. For how much longer? she thought. I can’t bring it up now. It’s impossible and he knows it, if he’s thinking about it. He looks more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen him. Younger, and it’s not just the hair. It’s not the right time for an ultimatum. Maybe in an hour. Or two days.

She raised her arm and ran her hand through his hair.

“How long are you going to let that grow?”

“It’s growing all the time.”

“Just no ponytail. It doesn’t suit you.”

“Okay.”

“The only man I ever thought looked good in a ponytail was your colleague from London.”

“Macdonald.”

“Are you in touch with him at all, by the way?”

“Macdonald?”

She nodded. She had taken her hand away from his hair.

“Just the odd postcard. I might give him a call. Maybe he can give me some advice.”

“Cross-border cooperation.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Winter said, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He twisted his body and looked back at her. “Angela.”

“Yes?”

“We found out that Helene may have spent a short time at Lillhagen for depression.”

“Oh.”

“One of my men looked through the records, and it could be her. Under another name. Then she was discharged and never came back.”

“That’s common nowadays,” Angela said.

“That they don’t come back?”

“You know that yourself. How things are now. The psychiatric hospitals are closing and people are being discharged and don’t come back because there’s nothing to come back to.”

 

The call came after the morning briefing. Winter took it in his office and he was prepared. He had expected something as early as yesterday, possibly even the day before, if he was lucky. They already knew about the orphanage, and he was sitting there with the name of the one who was supposed to call in front of him. They had known for a few short minutes, and it was as if Louise Keijser sensed it.

“I’m calling about Helene Andersén,” she said.

“Where are you calling from?” Winter asked.

“Helsingborg. I spoke to someone from the police down here and they said that I should contact you.”

“Yes. We’ve just been informed about that.”

“I am—or was—her foster mother. One of them, I should say.”

“Just talk about yourself,” Winter said. “You recognized Helene Andersén?”

“Yes.”

“In what way?”

“Well. I saw the photograph in the
Helsingborgs Dagblad,
and then they spoke about it on TV. And I guessed that it was Helene.” There was a pause. “I live in Helsingborg,” she added.

“When was the last time you saw Helene?”

“Oh, it was many years ago.”

“Many years ago? How many?”

“We haven’t had any contact in . . . It must have been, let’s see . . . It was long before Johannes died—that’s my husband. Helene moved away from here some twelve years ago. I’ve got a record of it here somewhere. I can look it up.”

“But you recognized her from the pictures in the newspaper?”

“Well, I didn’t know that she had a girl. They looked so alike in the pictures.”

“I would like for you to come in to see us, Mrs. Keijser. Could you do that?”

“Come up there? Travel to Gothenburg, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m getting along in years, but of course I can take the train, if need be.”

Winter eyed his watch. “It’s still early. We could book you on a train and call and let you know. We’ll meet you at the station and can arrange for you to spend the night in a hotel.”

“I have friends in Gothenburg.”

“Whichever you prefer, Mrs. Keijser.”

 

Helene had been placed in three different foster homes. As far as he knew, she’d never been adopted by anyone. She spent a brief period at an orphanage when she was four, after which she was at Sahlgrenska Hospital in Gothenburg, critically ill with pneumonia. She’d been left on a couch in an empty waiting room by some unknown person. No message. Just the little girl, who suddenly cried out in her delirium.

All this he now knew. The girl had been mute for weeks, and it had taken time before they were able to identify her as Helene Dellmar. Her mother’s name was Brigitta Dellmar.

The woman had by then been missing from her home for three weeks.

She had lived alone with her daughter, Helene.

The apartment was at Frölunda Square.

It had had thirteen tenants since then.

Brigitta Dellmar was known to the police. She was arrested in 1968 in connection with a fraud ring but had been released for lack of evidence. She had been pregnant. Her name was mentioned in connection with the robbery of a branch of Handelsbanken in Jönköping in 1971, but she had only been questioned regarding her relationship to one of the men involved. He’d served four years for another robbery, but the police had been unable to tie him to the one at Jönköping.

The man’s name was Sven Johansson. That’s the Swedish equivalent of John Smith, Winter thought when he read through the pile of documents from Möllerström.

Sven Johansson. He died of lung cancer seven years ago. Was he Helene’s father? Why was her name Andersén? There was no Andersén in the files, but he was still missing the name of one of the foster families.

The mother had disappeared and never returned. Brigitta Dellmar. That’s how it was. History repeated itself. It was peculiar but not unheard of. The daughters of single mothers sometimes have children with men who then disappear. Disappear. You can’t simply disappear. We find everyone we go looking for. We found Helene and now we’ve found her mother and we’re going to find her father and her husband. Jennie’s father.

We’re going to find Jennie.

 

“It’s a long way down to the street,” Halders said, and peered out the window in the living room. “I can see all the way to the army drill hall.”

“Does it make you feel dizzy?”

“Yeah. I always feel dizzy when I see the Heden recreation grounds.”

“Bad memories?”

“Bad ball control,” Halders said, and turned back in toward the room. Aneta Djanali was crouched in front of the CD player.

“What sort of music do you listen to when you’re relaxing at home?”

“I don’t relax.”

“What do you listen to when you’re not relaxing?”

“I borrowed a few jazz albums from Winter, but I grew sick of it. He doesn’t ever get sick of it.”

“No.”

“I saw him sitting in a bar with Bülow the other week. Suspicious.”

“Bülow?”

“The journalist. At the
GT
. Runs around at the station, trying to look important.”

“Like you, then.”

“Exactly. Just like me.”

“What were you doing at that bar?”

“Relaxing,” Halders said. “I don’t relax at home. I relax at the bar.”

“Must cost a bit.”

“Winter didn’t look like he was relaxing.”

“So tell me what you like, Fredrik.”

“Does it make any difference?”

“I’m curious.”

“You think it’s gotta be white power music?”

“Yeah.”

“WAR stuff, huh?”

“Only when you’re relaxing.”

“You really are curious, aren’t you?”

“I’m interested in widely diverse cultures,” she said. “Yours. And mine.”

“Bruckner,” Halders said.

“What?”

“Bruckner. That’s my kind of music. Te Deum.”

“My God, that’s worse than I thought.”

“Wagner. I’m a Wagner man.”

“Don’t say any more.”