The Shadow Woman

“We’ve got something on the sign,” he said.

“The sign?”

“The marking on the pine tree. The red mark, the sign above the body.”

“Okay, I’m with you now.”

“Did you check with the forestry service?”

“Just a second.” Winter put down the receiver and looked through the thin pile of papers on his desk. “Has anyone checked with forestry and everyone else about that marking on the tree yet?”

Ringmar didn’t know.

“Not everything has come in yet,” Winter said into the phone. “So the answer to your question is still no.”

“Anyway, it was fresh.”

“How fresh?”

“Could be from last night.”

“Don’t tell me it’s blood.”

“No. Paint, acrylic, one of the hundred or so shades of red.”

“And it’s only on that one tree?”

“Seems that way.”

“What’s it supposed to be?”

“We’re looking into that now, but, to be honest, I have no idea. It could be a cross, but that’s pure speculation.”

“How many photos do you have of it?”

“Quite a few copies, if that’s what you mean.”

“Distribute it to all the departments. Could be some gang, youth gang or something.”

“Or satanists. Delsjo Lake is not unknown to satanists.”

“Delsjo Lake is a big place.”

“Let me know when you’ve checked with the forestry service,” Beier said. “If service is the proper term under the circumstances.”

“Send over a few photos,” Winter said. “I was just about to call you, by the way. I have a couple of videotapes that I want you to take a look at.”

“Send them up,” Beier said, and hung up.

The phone rang again, and Ringmar watched Winter as he listened intently and jotted something down. After he said good-bye he looked up again.

“The guy who owns the kennel over by the bog was woken up last night by a couple of his dogs barking. He went outside and saw a car turn around in front of his spread and drive back out toward the road and the highway on-ramp, or at least toward that recreation area.”

“Could he see the car?”

“He had a light on down at the gate, and he’s sure it was a Ford Escort.”

“That’s our car. What time was this?”

“Just before we saw it on the videotape,” Winter said, and nodded at the mute TV screen. “He even mentioned what year it was.”

“Is that possible?”

“He saw the car in real life,” Winter said.

“Now he can see the replay.”

“Sometimes I feel like it’s the replay you want to be part of,” Winter said. “Not the first live recording but the replay.”

11

THE NATIONAL CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION DEPARTMENT HAD contacted Winter. He sat with the photo of the dead face in front of him. There were missing women who bore some resemblance to the dead woman, but the similarities weren’t enough.

A courier arrived with the photographs from Beier’s forensics department. Winter studied the marking painted on the bark. He tried to associate movements with the images. Closing his eyes, he thought about messages: a whole collection of them on file. Sometimes somebody wants to tell us something. Or just mislead us.

Someone knocked, and Winter said come in, and a young detective stepped through the door with a report in hand.

“What is it?” Winter asked.

“I’ve spoken to the municipal authority and that mark-”

“Thanks.” Winter stood up. He recognized the boy but couldn’t remember his name, only that he’d joined the unit a month or two ago. This must be his first murder investigation, Winter thought.

The detective held out the report.

“Tell me yourself instead. Have a seat.”

The boy sat down in front of the desk and tried to look unperturbed. His forehead was all sweaty and he knew it. The blazer he sported was thin and looked cool but was insane to wear in this weather.

Winter wondered what the boy thought about his vacation-wear cutoffs and T-shirt, his customary dress code having so obviously rubbed off on even the youngest member of the unit. “Can you think in that blazer?” he asked.

“What?”

“Take off your jacket and untuck your shirt. You look hot.”

The detective smiled as you might to a joke you didn’t understand. He crossed his legs.

“I mean it,” Winter said. “One of the perks of working as a detective is that you can dress however you want.”

The boy looked like he had decided to be a little tough after all. “That all depends on the assignment, doesn’t it? On the investigation?”

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes you’ve got to blend in.”

“Then you’re doing a good job of that now.”

The boy smiled and took off his jacket. “It’s damn hot out there.”

“So, what do the authorities and agencies say?”

“They haven’t been there-at the dump site. Nobody’s marked any trees lately. The land belongs to the municipality.”

“What do they mean by that?”

“By what?”

“Lately. When were they last there?” Winter bent down and lifted the two sheets of paper his rookie detective had laid on the desk. “What’s your name again?”

“Uh, Borjesson. Erik Borjesson.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Winter said, as he scanned the report for the answer he’d just sought. “A month ago. They haven’t carried out any forest maintenance around Delsjo for a month.”

“No,” Borjesson said. “No work like that.”

“Have you thought about what it might be, then?”

Winter noticed the boy was surprised by the question.

“Who might have put it there?”

“Yes.”

“Fishermen? The fishing club?”

“Have you had a chance to check it out?”

“No, not yet.”

“Any other ideas?”