The Shadow Woman (21 page)

The shouts from the children sounded far away. Sohlberg could see them moving in the playground like blurred little splotches of color. When the rain came, the colors came too, she thought, and turned away from the window toward Mrs. Bergman. “What should I write, then?”

“Write that we’re wondering where the mother is, and her little girl.”

“Perhaps we should mention the notice about the dead woman.”

“You can write that we read it on the bulletin board. And that the mother is fair haired.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t forget to put down which courtyard it is.”

“No.”

“You don’t need to put down my age.”

Karin Sohlberg smiled and looked up from the sheet of letter paper Mrs. Bergman had taken out of a beautiful writing desk in her living room. “No, we don’t need to write your age.”

“You can write down the age of the mother and daughter.”

“I’ll start now.”

“Don’t forget to say they’ve been gone since well before the rains came.”

“Maybe we don’t really—”

“I know what you’re trying to say. But I know that to be the case.”

“Yes.”

Karin Sohlberg thought to herself, What right did she actually have to write her way into Helene Andersén’s private life? Maybe she wanted to be left in peace. That was normal. And the girl wasn’t old enough that she had to be in school.

It occurred to her that she could ask around to find out if the girl had been attending day care or nursery school in the area. But was that her job? Or was she just curious?

“You can sign it with your own name if you want,” Ester Bergman said.

“Why would I do that, Mrs. Bergman?”

“You’ll do a better job of talking to the police when they come here in their cars.”

“But you’re the one who’s most convinced that they’ve been gone a long time.”

“I still say you’ll do a better job of talking. And I don’t like it when too many people come here in their cars and with their dogs. Or horses, for that matter.”

“I don’t think there’ll be that many. Maybe just one or two, asking a few questions. And it might take a while before they come. If they come at all.”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

Sohlberg didn’t know what to say. She looked outside, as if hoping the mother and her red-haired girl would walk past holding hands. “How about we say that I’ll be with you when you speak to the police? I can sit next to you, Mrs. Bergman.”

“I guess we could say that.”

“Then I’ll seal this and send it.”

“Read it to me again.”

As she read she thought about how it would end up at the bottom of some pile. The police must receive hundreds or thousands of tips like this about missing people.

 

Winter pulled a report from the increasingly voluminous preliminary investigation, a pile of papers that grew on his desk. He sat wearing his blazer and worked with the window open.

There was a grand total of 124 white Ford Escort 1.8 CLX three-door hatchbacks dating from ’91 to ’94 with license plates beginning with the letter
H
in the districts of Gothenburg, Kungälv, Kungsbacka, and Härryda. Peculiarly, none began with
HE
.

He’d sat again for a long time in front of the blurred video footage and was sure the first letter on the plate was an
H
. There was no doubt in his mind.

One of the cars on the new list was the car on the screen. What had it been doing there?

It really wasn’t a manageable number, 124, even if he had, along with the plate numbers, the name, address, and personal identity number of all the owners.

Of the 124 cars, 2 had been reported stolen at the time of Helene’s murder. One had been found, badly parked with a bone-dry gas tank, in the parking lot in front of Swedish Match. There was no sign of the other.

Questioning people about their whereabouts at certain times in their lives was always a process of elimination—of listening and, on the basis of what was said, deciding who was lying and how much and, possibly, why.

The most problematic were those who lied, not because they had done anything illegal—their actions may well have been immoral, unethical, or deceitful toward someone close to them, yet nothing that was against the law—but because under no circumstances did they want to reveal what they had done in secret. They’d rather let murderers go free.

He felt restless. He wanted to wander out into the field again but instead played Coltrane on his portable Panasonic perched on a bench by the window. Still, “Trane’s Slo Blues” brought him no peace. He tapped the rhythm against the edge of the desk with the middle finger of his left hand and looked through the files while Earl May busted out his bass solo from a studio in Hackensack, New Jersey, on August 16, 1957. Winter had never been there. You have to save some things for later.

His thoughts drifted to “Lush Life,” and for a few seconds he became absorbed by the powerful melody. Janne Möllerström stepped into the room just as Red Garland began his piano solo.

“Well, isn’t this cozy,” Möllerström said.

“Yes.”

“What is it?” Möllerström nodded toward the CD player.

“The Clash.”

“What?”

“The Clash. A British rock—”

“That’s not the Clash, for Christ’s sake. I’ve got the Clash.”

“Just yanking your chain. Can’t you hear who it is?”

“All I hear is some nice piano. And here comes a trumpet. Must be Herb Alpert.”

Winter laughed.

“Tijuana Brass,” Möllerström said. “My dad liked it too.”

“Really.”

“Just yanking your chain,” Möllerström said. “Since you’re the one listening to it, I’ll hazard a wild guess that it’s John Coltrane.”

“Naturally. But I don’t suppose that’s why you stopped by.”

“I have a letter here that I think you should look at,” Möllerström said.

“Okay.” Winter took the Xerox and read it, then turned his gaze back to his registry clerk. “What makes you think this might be something?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because they’re two of them—that older lady and the girl writing on her behalf, so to speak.”

“There’s something hesitant about it.”

“Exactly. Or restrained, as if they’re doing their duty or something. Not trying to get attention.”

“Not wackos, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“The one who wrote the letter—Karin Sohlberg—she’s added that we can call her if it’s worth investigating. That’s what she writes, ‘worth investigating.’ ”

“I saw that.”

“What do you think, Janne?”

“About what?”

“Is this letter worth investigating? Should we call her?”

“That’s why I came by.”

“Good.” Winter reached for the telephone.

It wouldn’t be the first time in the past week they’d gone out to speak with the family of someone who’d been reported missing, only to discover a natural explanation for the “disappearance.” The most natural one being that no one had disappeared. In the most drastic instance, a young woman had been in the hospital without her neighbors knowing about it.

“Hello? Karin Sohlberg? This is Inspector Erik Winter at district CID, homicide division.” He waved at Möllerström to turn down the volume. “Yes, we received the letter. That’s why I’m calling. Leave that for us to decide. It’s never wrong to be vigilant. But Ester’s the one who’s particularly concerned? That could be a good thing. Yes. One should always care about others.” Winter nodded to Möllerström to turn off the music completely.

“Helene Andersén actually hasn’t been seen for a while,” Karin Sohlberg said on the telephone from Hisingen.

Winter thought at first that he had misheard. That it was his own thoughts he had perceived, that the old dreams were suddenly back again. He saw his Helene, her face in the obscene light over the gurney. “Excuse me?” he said. “What did you say her name was?”

“Helene Andersén. She’s the one we’re concerned about, but I didn’t want to wri—”

“So this woman that you haven’t seen for a while, her name is Helene?” Winter felt that the incredulity in his voice was far too obvious. He had spoken gruffly, his throat constricted.

“Is there something wrong? Was it a mista—”

“No no,” Winter said. “It’s just fine. We’ll be happy to come out and talk with you about this. Could we meet,” he looked at his watch, “in half an hour? In the courtyard you referred to in your letter?”

“Do you always proceed this way?”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you always investigate things this promptly?”

“The important thing is to meet up and talk about it.”

“In that case we can do it at my office,” she said. “It’s just next door. You’ll see it when you come up from the parking lot.” She gave them an address. “Should I ask Mrs.—Ester Bergman to come here?”

“No. We’ll come by and talk with you, and then we can go to her house together.” Winter thought for a moment. “Could you let her know that we would like to ask her a few questions today? It won’t take long.”

“She’s probably a little anxious about that. That a lot of people might come, for example.”

“I understand. But it’ll just be me.”

“She has this image of uniforms and dog leashes. And dogs too, for that matter.”

“It’ll just be me,” Winter repeated. “A nice young man who’d love to come in for a cup of coffee.”

 

Halders tried not to think about whether the man sitting in front of him was lying because he was just nervous in general or because he had something to hide. It was nothing big, just little lies that flickered in the corner of his eye every time he shifted his gaze. It was easy to see. Each time he told a little lie, he looked away. Halders wondered if they should be clearer in their questioning. Have a clearer intention.

“I haven’t been part of that gang for ten years.”

The man had come straight here from his auto repair shop, and Halders noticed thin strips of oil and other crud underneath the man’s nails, and that was a likable quality. Overall, he was a likable guy, apart from his furtive gaze.

“What gang?” Halders asked.

“You know. You’ve spoken about it before.”

“I didn’t say anything about a gang.”

“Then it was somebody else. But I’m clean. I keep my head down.”

“Can you ever really steer clear?”

“Of course you can. There’s so much fear propaganda.”

“You’re saying it’s propaganda?”

“I’m saying it’s exaggerated.”

“But you still keep your head down.”

“It sounds like I’m under suspicion for something.”

Halders didn’t answer the man, whose name was Jonas Svensk.

“Am I?”

“I just want you to tell me about Peter Bolander,” Halders said.

“He works in my repair shop, and that’s all I can tell you about him. You’ll have to ask him.”

“He, on the other hand, is under suspicion,” Halders said.

“I know that he’s been arrested in connection with that shoot-out on Vårväderstorget, but I also know that he says that he wasn’t there,” Svensk said.

“He was seen there. Holding a rifle. And when we came to see him at his house, his Remington was gone.”

Svensk shrugged his shoulders. “Rifles can get stolen. That’s what he says too. And he looks like a hundred other guys. But I don’t know either way. I’m not here to defend him for something I don’t know if he’s done or not. He was off work that day, I already told you. And I certainly wasn’t there. I’ve got an alibi.”

Halders didn’t answer.

“It’s not a crime to hire people,” Svensk said.

“No.”

“I used to be a member of Hells Angels. Peter might also have been. But you can’t accuse me of anything. I’m not a member anymore. It was a sin of my youth.”

“Okay.”

“And if you think this is a gang showdown, then you’re mistaken.”

“Why would we think that?”

“Isn’t that what you think?”

“That it was a showdown between gangs?”

“Yes.”

“Or an internal showdown?”

“Well, I don’t know.”

“It’s hardly a secret, even for someone who keeps his head low, that there have been showdowns within the Hells Angels in Gothenburg.”

“I may have seen something about it. But wasn’t that the Bandidos?”

Halders wondered once again why Svensk was playing dumber than he was.

“You might want to check out the Arabs.”

“The Arabs?” Halders said.

“Check out the Islamists,” Svensk said. “I think they’re the ones who were shooting at each other. They’ve been a bit restless this summer. You know that too. And just look at what’s happening in Algeria now.”

RINGMAR DROVE ACROSS THE GÖTAÄLV BRIDGE. THE RAILROAD
cars stood enveloped in fog along the Frihamnen docks.

“I have a feeling we’ve driven this way before,” he said.

“It wasn’t that long ago,” Winter said. He was tense with thought about what might be awaiting them in a little while. He needed a cigarillo and stuck a Corps in his mouth without lighting it.

They approached Vårväderstorget. The fields alongside Rambergsvallen Stadium appeared to be floating above the ground like an extension of the Lundbybadet swimming complex. Everything Winter saw was enclosed and fenced off, as if enormous walls of water had been lowered from the sky and surrounded his field of vision, held in place by clouds.

Vårväderstorget was barely visible.

“It feels like years ago,” Ringmar said, and nodded to the left. “Like another age. Or another country.”

“It very nearly is,” Winter said. “Or was.”

“It’s a weak lead.”

“They’ve behaved themselves for a long time. Maybe the pressure has to get released somehow.”

“Maybe it was because of the heat.”