The Shadow Woman (31 page)

This is one of the spookiest things I’ve ever experienced, thought Winter.

In the back of his mind was something else that he had noticed as he’d sorted through the drawings over the past half hour—something recurring, something he hadn’t reacted to, like a spot in a corner that you only vaguely register but don’t ascribe any importance to.

He went back to one of the desks with the sorted drawings. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven . . . There. It was the path that went from the bottom of the page to the top. It was possible that it was a road, since it gently wove its way past a few trees before ending up at a house that had a door and a window but no roof.

The pages felt stiff in his hands as he sifted on. There: The road leading up from the bottom of the page. The house with no roof, a window to the left of the door. To the right of the house—like a vertical rectangle with an
X
at the top—was a double cruciform.

Winter looked at the first drawing again. The same little barely visible box in a dead corner, with diagonally crossed lines.

A windmill, he thought. It could be a little windmill that she’s drawn.

Both drawings were signed “jeni.”

 

“I brought along a basket,” Angela said, and held it up for him to see.

“Is it Friday?” Winter asked.

“Friday evening, eight o’clock.”

“Then I can’t leave you standing out here on the doorstep.”

“You could come outside.”

“And miss the trumpet solo? Here it comes now.”

“Sweet.”

“Well, come inside, then, before it’s over.”

“You weren’t surprised, were you?”

“No, it’s just that I was—”

“Sitting and working? Or thinking? Forgot that I was coming?”

He didn’t answer, took the basket and set it down on the floor and helped her with her coat, which was heavy and smelled divinely of her and pungently of the street along Vasaplatsen.

“I haven’t been here for a long time,” she said as they stood in the living room.

“Me neither.”

“So I’ve realized.”

“May I?” Winter grabbed hold of her and pulled her out onto the wooden floor, which bounced varnished reflections from the glow of a lamp over by the windows.

She bent her face a little backward and looked at him. “What’s this?”

“Donald Byrd.”

“I mean
this
. This dance. It’s a surprise.”

“Life’s full of surprises.”

“What’s gotten into you? Have you been drinking?”

“Quiet now and follow my lead,” Winter said.

He swung her around, in a right turn, when Trane came in after Byrd’s solo, and then Byrd came back and he drew her more tightly to him and continued the right turn.

They danced. She couldn’t remember when they had last done that. It was nice. It was just a good way to start a Friday evening. Dancing and the wine she had brought along and the langoustine and white . . .

They continued to dance until the music ended, then moved to the kitchen. She took out the food while Winter prepared dry martinis in a shaker.

“When did you last have a dry martini?” she asked.

“Was it five years ago?”

She looked at him. His face seemed sort of chipped along the edges, paler than the last time they had seen each other. His shirt was open at the collar, and she could see the sinews in his neck. He looked up from his shaking and smiled.

“Are you celebrating something, Erik?”

He stopped moving the ice-colored cylinder and set it down on the kitchen counter.

“More the opposite really.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I felt that I needed something else.”

“Something other than that awful case you’re working on?”

“Well, yes, something that glittered and sparkled a little differently. Like that,” he said, and nodded at the shaker.

“Well, pour it up,” she said. “Here are the glasses.”

He poured and they drank.

“Shall we set the table and sit down and talk about this past week?”

“Let’s do yours,” Winter said.

“You’re probably the one who most needs to talk,” she said.

IT WAS SUMMER AGAIN WHEN HE STEPPED OUT THE FRONT DOOR
before eight o’clock, the shadows from the houses still bearing traces of the past night’s darkness. A street cleaner dragged itself along the asphalt on the other side of Vasaplatsen and sucked the last of the morning haze into its rotating bristles. A van delivered fresh bread to the Wasa Källare restaurant. Winter took in the smells. He was hungry. He’d drunk a cup of coffee and that was it. Angela had continued sleeping.

He walked across Kungstorget. The market stalls were being set up for the day. Crates of vegetables and fruit were carried out from trucks to their spots on the stands. He went into a shop on the other side of Kungsportsplatsen and ordered a café au lait and two French rolls with butter and cheese. He sat down by the window and watched the tabloid paper’s city office across the square opening for the day. A young lady had put up headline posters. He couldn’t read them from where he was sitting, but he could guess what they said. Up to now the media reports had brought in hundreds of tips, perhaps thousands. Winter had worked with them as much as he could bear and tried to take seriously anything that seemed worth being taken seriously. There was a desire to help but also a fear of what had happened. Of what might happen again, what might happen to me.

He got up and walked north to Brunnsparken and stood at the number 2 stop. Jennie had drawn a streetcar with a 2 at one end. It was likely she had ridden on it, most likely together with her mother, Helene.

They’d questioned the streetcar drivers, but no one recognized the faces of the people they drove through the city. Perhaps it was a form of security. It was an insecure job. They had also shown photographs around North Biskopsgården but nobody knew anything; no one recognized anyone.

A series of photos of the girl had been taken in a studio at Vågmästarplatsen a year ago. The photographer remembered doing it but nothing more. The few other photos of Jennie they’d found in Helene’s apartment were taken with one or more cameras that they hadn’t found.

Someone had taken the photos of Helene and of Helene with her daughter.

There were seven or eight that had been taken relatively recently, in addition to the studio photos. Two had dates printed on them and that could prove helpful.

There were no photographs of Helene as a child.

Winter looked around. A dozen or so people were waiting for the streetcar. The number 2 arrived, and on an impulse he boarded, together with four men who might have been Ethiopians and a drunk who was Swedish.

He got off at Friskväderstorget, and the sun filled the ears protruding from the sides of the buildings. The satellite dishes seemed to swivel back and forth, homing in on sounds from a native land. He heard music, coming from somewhere, which sounded like John Coltrane with a hookah and a fez. Turkish jazz, he thought. It really swings.

Ernst Lundgren was out with the children in the playground outside the building that housed the pensioners’ day-care center. The tall old man bent down in a way that would either strengthen his back or soon snap it in two.

“Anything new?” he asked when Winter said hello.

Winter told him the latest.

“Well, we still don’t have anything here,” Lundgren said. “She didn’t belong to our little flock.”

“And none of the other parents recognize her?”

“The mothers? No, not a one.”

“She seems to have been one of the loneliest people in the world,” Winter said.

“There’s nothing strange about that. Nothing surprises me.”

“I didn’t take you for a cynic.”

“I’m not cynical. I’m just not surprised.”

“About the loneliness?”

“She wasn’t the only one,” Lundgren said. “There’s a whole bunch of them. You could safely say that they’re in the majority.”

The apartment smelled of wood and wind.

“I’ve cleaned the house,” Angela said, holding 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.”

“You’re the one who’s started. You never used to drink, but now you’ve started.”

“It’s never too late.”

She followed him out of the kitchen.

“I’ve been here all day,” she said.

“That’s more than I’ve ever managed.”

“It’s quite a nice place. If you like, I can show you around.”

“Where’s dinner?”

“What?”

“Dinner’s supposed to be on the table!” Winter shouted, and pointed at the round table by the window.

“Let’s eat out,” she said.

“Spoken like a true housewife. But if we’re going out, I want to jump in the shower first.” He started unbuttoning his shirt.

She’d been busy over by the sink and now brought him his gin.

“How’s it going, Erik?” She helped him off with his shirt and held it between her hands.

“Well, how’s it going? It’s moving forward, I guess, but I’m worried as hell about the little girl. You know as well as I do what the chances of finding her are.”

“I’ve been thinking a bit about what you said about her. Have you checked with all the ERs?”

“What exactly are you asking, here, Doc? If we’ve checked the hospitals? Well, of course we have.”

“Helene? I mean, the mother.”

“Helene? What are you talking about?”

“If she doesn’t have family—if no one has been in touch—she still must have grown up somewhere.”

“As soon as we got her name, which was just recently, we contacted all the institutions and agencies under the sun. That includes foster homes, orphanages, and stuff like that too.”

“Okay. I was sitting here today thinking about Helene as a child. When she was little, like her own girl. Jennie, is it? Okay. Maybe she isn’t at some hospital, Jennie that is, or you don’t know yet. But maybe the mother was admitted to the hospital when she was a child. Or was brought in to the ER for some reason. Helene, I mean. I know you’ve been thinking about that name. Andersén.”

“Yeah,” Winter said. “Keep going.”

“Well, say a little girl named Helene something was brought in for some reason years ago. If she was, then there must be a record of it.”

WINTER MET BERGENHEM IN THE PARKING LOT OUTSIDE POLICE
headquarters. He was on his way in, and Bergenhem, who had the afternoon off, was carrying his daughter on his back. Winter walked behind Bergenhem, and Ada looked at him wide-eyed.

“We’ve met before,” he said.

“As recently as yesterday,” Bergenhem said.

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Oh.”

“How’s it going?” Winter ran his finger along the baby’s cheek. It felt like something soft that he couldn’t remember.

“It’s going good,” Bergenhem said.

“I’m still not talking to you.”

“She’s lost her power of speech,” Bergenhem said. “You’ve made an impression. Could you lift her out, by the way?”

Winter raised his hands toward the infant. Ada began to squeal.

“She doesn’t want me to.”

“She’s just testing.”

“Okay.” Winter lifted her up, and Ada stopped her screaming. “What do I do now?” He held her close.

“Nothing,” Bergenhem said.

Winter kept his unpracticed grip in place, and the little girl ogled him.

“I’ve heard that kids like Ada here can get it into their heads that it’s no fun to go to sleep at night,” he said.

“Where did you hear that?”

“I must have read it somewhere.”

“Ada has never heard about that.”

Winter stole a glance at Bergenhem. The detective was ten years younger than him. Or was it eleven? Right now it felt the other way around. Lars has knowledge in a field where I don’t even qualify as a trainee. Lucky thing Angela isn’t along.

Winter set the child gently on the ground.

“See you this afternoon,” he said.

 

The desk in Birgersson’s office glistened. The department chief was smoking with the window open, but Winter left his cigarillos where they were, inside his jacket pocket.

Birgersson’s face looked fried in the sunlight coming in, as if he’d held it over a fire. “The dragging of the lake has attracted every journalist in the country,” he said.

“That may be a good thing.”

“Now you’ve got more material than you can shake a stick at.”

“Better make sure I don’t get too conscientious, then.”

“Are you still upset about that?”

“Yes.”

Birgersson smiled and tapped his cigarette into the ashtray that he had taken from his drawer.