The Shadow Woman (33 page)

Halders looked out across the city again. “It’s a long way down. The people look like ants.”

“More like beetles.”

“Cockroaches. They look like cockroaches.”

“Fredrik. Try to relax for a moment.”

“I told you I only relax at the bar. Wanna go out?”

“Get away from that window, Fredrik.”

“You afraid I’m gonna jump?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But the thought crossed your mind?”

“It did occur to me, yes.”

“You’re right.”

 

Winter parked in front of Benny Vennerhag’s house. A dog barked like crazy from the neighboring yard, and he heard the rattle from the running leash.

The entrance lay in shadow. He rang the doorbell and waited, then rang the bell again, but no one opened. He went back down the steps and turned left and started along the plaster wall.

There was no longer any sun reflected in the water of the swimming pool. Nor was there any water. The pool was a hole of blue cement, and if anyone dived into it, they’d kill themselves.

Benny Vennerhag was trimming bushes. He turned around in half profile and saw Winter but kept on trimming. Scattered at his feet lay piles of branches and twigs. He wiped his forehead and put away his loppers. “I thought I heard something.”

“Then why didn’t you answer the door?”

“You came in anyway.”

“I could have been somebody else.”

“That would’ve been nice.”

“Don’t you have the impression we’ve had this conversation before?”

“Sure,” Winter said. “But now it’s even more serious.”

“I agree.”

Winter moved in closer.

“You’re not planning on becoming violent again?” Vennerhag said, and raised the loppers.

“Do you know a Sven Johansson?”

“Sven Johansson? What kind of name is that? You might just as well ask me if I know John Smith.”

“Bank robber. Among other things. Died of cancer seven years ago.”

“I know who he was. I was just thinking. It was a bit before my time, so to speak, but Sven wasn’t unknown. Not to you either, so I don’t understand why you’re coming to me.”

“He may have had a relationship with a woman named Brigitta Dellmar. Does that name mean anything to you?”

“Birgit. Dell . . . No. Never heard it before.”

“Brigitta. Not Birgitta. Brigitta Dellmar.”

“Never heard it.”

“Are you being totally honest now, Benny? You know what this is about?”

“Broadly speaking, but not what these names have to do with your murder.”

“And the little girl’s disappearance.”

“Yes. The child is missing, I hear.”

“Brigitta Dellmar is the dead woman’s mother.”

“Uh-huh. So, what does she have to say?”

“She’s disappeared, Benny. Gone.”

“Well I’ll be damned. That’s a lot of disappearances.”

“Two disappearances.”

“Disappeared, huh? Guess you’ll have to put out an APB.”

“She disappeared twenty-five years ago.”

“That shouldn’t make her much more difficult to find.”

“Really?”

“People tend to leave traces behind. Especially if they’ve been together with Sven Johansson.”

“You’d better tell me everything you know.”

“Will that be enough to satisfy you?”

“I have a few more names,” Winter said.

DRAGGING DELSJÖ LAKE HAD PRODUCED RESULTS. WINTER
left the moment he got the call, and it was as if he were blind to the traffic, the sky was so clear. Once he could see parts of the road again he grabbed for his sunglasses.

A child’s shoe lay in the grass along the water’s edge. The shoe was filled with rocks, as if the intention was to make it sink. It could have been lying in the water for a month or more, or less. It could belong to anyone and no one, but Winter knew.

They had found a lot, but nothing belonging to a child until now. The discovery had been made north of the promontory that narrowed into a finger that pointed out the spot where they should look.

Winter felt a dread, frozen sensation that took partial control of his faculties. They ought to break off the dragging before they all went insane. What would the shoe be followed by? He saw the faces of the men and women, and they all said the same thing: that the girl lay down below.

 

Louise Keijser was sixty but looked older.

“I’m grateful you could come, Mrs. Keijser,” Winter said.

“It was the least I could do. If I had known . . .”

Winter said nothing. He waited for her to sit down in the chair.

“If I had known. I’m almost glad that Johannes isn’t alive.” She took out a handkerchief and dried the corners of her eyes. “I was so sad on the train.”

“How old was Helene when she moved out?” Winter asked.

“Eighteen. When she came of age. We didn’t want her to go, but what could we do?”

“When did you last hear from her?”

“It was—it was several years ago. Before she had a child.” She took out her handkerchief again. “I didn’t know about it. But perhaps I already mentioned that.” She blew her nose cautiously. “The little girl looks like Helene. Not the same hair, but otherwise you can see that it’s the sa—How awful. You know nothing more? About the girl?”

“No,” Winter said. “We can talk about that later, but right now I’d just like to ask you about Helene. Is that all right?”

“Yes. Certainly. Excuse me.”

“How long did she live with you, as part of the family?”

“It was just Johannes and I—but nearly three years. I’ve brought records with me, if you’d like to see them. From social services and the like.”

“Three years,” Winter repeated. “And not much contact after?” He made his voice stable, calm. “You said it’s been a number of years since you last heard from her.”

“Yes. It sounds strange, of course—awful—but that’s how it was. We tried but she, she didn’t want anything to do with us.” She raised her handkerchief to her face again. Winter could see small specks of black in the corner of her eyes where the thin mascara was being dissolved by her tears.

“Can you describe your relationship with Helene when she was living with you? How did you get along?”

“Well, I always thought she was a very special girl, with her background and everything. But we always got along well. She was very quiet, of course, and sometimes Johannes tried to bring up, well, what had happened, but she wasn’t up for it, really. It was mostly Johannes who tried. For me it worked better to have that silence in the house.”

“First she moved to Malmö,” Winter said. “That much we know.”

“Yes. It’s not that far away, and we saw each other a few times. But it was never very good. We tried to invite her over, but she didn’t want to come. She came once, but it was as if she had never been in the house. It was strange—or it sounds strange anyway—but somehow that sort of fit in with how she was.”

“She then moved here, to Gothenburg,” Winter said. “She lived at three different addresses in Gothenburg.”

“We never received a moving card. Not when she moved away from Malmö. We tried to call her, but she didn’t have a telephone.”

“No.”

“She didn’t like telephones. She didn’t want to speak on the phone. Don’t ask me why, I’m no psychologist, but you might find something about it in the files there.”

“What files?” Winter asked.

“The evaluation that the child psychologists carried out on her, or, rather, that they started to. I don’t think they ever really followed through with it.”

“We’re waiting for that material.”

“You won’t find it under Andersén,” Louise Keijser said.

“No.”

“Her name was Dellmar back then. Did you know that?”

“Yes.”

“Her name was Dellmar when she lived with us too. I don’t know when she suddenly became Andersén. Do you know? Do the police know?”

“A few years ago. She changed her name four years ago.”

“Why?”

“We don’t know.”

“Maybe when she had her baby? Is the father’s name Andersén? I mean the father of Helene’s little girl. Her name’s Jennie, isn’t it?”

“We don’t know that either,” Winter said. “That’s why we’re asking so many questions.”

“The father’s unknown? How awful. And he hasn’t been in touch with you?”

“Not yet.”

“How terrible. That’s just what happened with Helene. She had to grow up without knowing who her father was.”

“Did you talk to her about it?”

“About her father? No. She didn’t want to, or else she couldn’t. I don’t know how much you know about her problems—her clinical picture or whatever you call it.”

“I’m listening,” Winter said.

“As I recall, Johannes and I were the third foster family. I’m suddenly a little unclear on that point. But she had gaps in her memory from when she was little, and when she would recall something it would cause her a great deal of distress, and then it would disappear again, as if it had never been there. She was very much alone in that sense. Alone with herself, or however you want to put it. We tried to help her, but it was as if she was surrounded by gauze.”

“Didn’t she ever talk about what had happened to her when she was little?”

“Never. And nothing about what happened afterward either—that is, after she ended up in the care of others.”

“She never asked about her mother?”

“Never. Not that I heard, or Johannes either. Of course, you can ask someone else, but we never spoke about it. I don’t know if she knew.”

“Excuse me?”

“Did she know? What did she know? Do you know that?”

“No. Not yet.”

“And now it’s not possible anymore,” Louise Keijser said, and covered her eyes with her handkerchief. “It’s too late.”

“Maybe we can uncover a few answers,” Winter said.

“Just so long as you find the little girl,” Louise Keijser said. “I feel somehow like a grandmother.” She looked straight at Winter. “Is it wrong of me to feel like that?”

 

“My God,” Ringmar said. “You mean to say that Brigitta Dellmar’s name has come up in connection with this case?”

“Yes. Möllerström dug up everything there is on her, and an APB was put out on her back then,” Winter said.

“Sven Johansson too?”

“He was questioned but they couldn’t tie him to it in any way. He had a watertight alibi.”

“But her name was in there?”

“Several witnesses were able to identify her from the photographs. A few of the robbers were Swedes—that much they knew. And one of the employees had seen a child.”

“What the hell are you saying? You mean they brought a kid along? For the actual robbery?”

“I don’t know for sure, but several witnesses testified to that fact. It’s all in there.”

“Good Lord. Where’s this taking us?”

“To a solution,” Winter said. “It’s yet another complication that will lead to a solution.”

“Or a dissolution,” Ringmar said. “She had the child with her?”

“It’s possible.”

“It boggles the mind,” Ringmar said.

“Do you remember the case?”

“Yes, but only vaguely. Now that you mention it. An officer was killed, if I remember correctly. That’s probably why I remember it at all.”

“An officer and two of the robbers.”

“Jesus Christ. Yeah, that’s right.”

“At least three of them got away. Along with the child, if the information is correct.”

Ringmar shook his head and picked up the incident report but held it without reading it. “You don’t bring a child along on an armed robbery.”

“Maybe something went wrong,” Winter said. “Could have been anything. Maybe the mother was supposed to be the driver and had to go anyway when nobody came to look after the child. I don’t know.”

“Danske Bank in Ålborg,” Ringmar read. “Monday October 2, 1972. Danske Bank, on the corner of Østerågade and Bispensgade. At five past five in the afternoon.”

“Yeah,” Winter said. “No customers but plenty of staff inside the bank, working with money.”

“Plenty of money.”

“Seven million.”

“A big haul in Ålborg.”

“Big anywhere. And there’s more.”

“What?”

“Helene was there.”

“What?”

“At about the same time we learned all this stuff, we also got everything else connected to the name Brigitta Dellmar.”

“Obviously.”

“It was the name that suddenly opened everything up for us. We had nothing on Helene Andersén, but we do on Helene Dellmar.”

“What do you mean, she’s been here? Helene has been here?”

“She was prepped for questioning and then questioned, when she was Helene Dellmar.” Winter fixed his gaze on Ringmar. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Bertil.”

“Just heard about a ghost, more like.”

“It’s just that I learned about this a few minutes before you did.”

“What did you get to know, for Christ’s sake?”

“We’ve got the files here. When the girl ended up at Sahlgrenska Hospital, or afterward, I’m talking about the four-year-old Helene now, right? There were suspicions coming from Denmark and they managed to tie her to her mother—who may have disappeared in connection with the robbery.”

“How did they identify her?” Ringmar asked. “At the hospital, I mean, or afterward, when she was questioned, or whatever. How could they make the connection with her mother?”

“They put out a description. And it appears some neighbors got in touch.”

“We’ll have to get that confirmed. Anyway, so they spoke to the girl here, at this station? Who was the interrogating officer?”

“Sven-Anders Borg, it says.”

“He went into retirement about five years ago.”

“But he’s still alive, right?”