The Shadow Woman

came over on the boat. When they had driven onto the boat it made such a terrible clanging sound, and some men waved to them to drive deeper into the boat’s belly. Then she had walked in the sand-it wasn’t long after-and Mommy had sat with her awhile, and then she had gone swimming, and Mommy had stood there at the edge of the water, and then Mommy had gone and bought something to drink from a man who was standing on the beach. It was a funny small bottle and the drink tasted like lemon.

It was ugly down here, she could tell. There were no tables or chairs, and she sat on a mattress that smelled bad. She had first tried to hold her nose up and turn away, but that had been hard, and now it didn’t smell anymore, or only when she thought about it.

Now she crinkled the slip of paper a little inside her pant pocket. She didn’t dare take it out and look at it but she had it, like a secret, and that was scary but it was good too.

Then she thought that her mommy was dead. She’s dead and I’ll never get to see her again. Mommy would never be away for this long without saying anything, or calling, or writing a note that the men could show her and read to her.

Her whole body gave a start when the door up above creaked open.

Now she saw the legs of the man as he came down the stairs. She kept her head down and only saw his legs even when he came up to her and the mattress.

“We’re leaving.”

She looked up but she couldn’t see the man’s face because the light was shining right on him. She tried to say something, but it came out like a squawk from a crow.

“Get up.”

She pushed off the blankets and first rose to her knees and then stood, and one of her legs hurt because it had been underneath the other one and had fallen asleep.

Now she tried to say something again. “Are we going to Mommy?”

“You don’t need to bring that with you,” the man said, and took away the blanket that she had under her arm. “Let’s go.”

He pointed toward the stairs, and she started walking, and he followed behind her. She had forgotten how high the steps were, and she almost had to use her hands and feet to ascend them, like a mountain climber. Her eyes hurt from the sunlight that poured through the open door. She closed them and then looked again, and it became darker and easier to see because someone was standing in front of the light in the doorway.

17

STURE BIRGERSSON HAD BEEN DISCREET. HE’D STAYED IN THE background, as usual, and directed his gaze upward, for vertical contact with the powers above. But now the department commander was calling on his deputy.

Winter knew Sture had delayed his trip into the unknown: when he took off on vacation he always disappeared somewhere, but nobody knew where. Many wondered, but Birgersson himself never said a word. Winter had a telephone number, but he would never even consider using it.

With the window open, the boss’s smoke drifted outside and polluted the area all the way to the Heden recreation grounds. His face was carved out of stiff cardboard, spotted by the sun where the light came in from the left. His desk was empty except for the ashtray. It’s just as fascinating every time I come here, Winter thought. Not a single shred of paper. The computer is never on. The cabinet looks like it can’t even be opened anymore. Sture sits there smoking and thinking. It’s gotten him far.

“I’ve finished reading it now,” Birgersson said. “There are a lot of leads.”

“You know how it is, Sture.”

“I can only remember one previous case where we didn’t know the victim’s identity within the first twenty-four hours.”

Winter waited, pulled out his cigarillos, lit one, and took a first drag while Birgersson looked like he was searching through memory files in his brain. You can’t fool me, Old Man, Winter thought. You know damn well if there’s been one case or more than that.

“Maybe you know better than I do?” Birgersson said, looking his immediate subordinate in the eyes.

Winter smiled and leaned forward over the desk and tapped off the ash from his Corps. “There’s only one case, as far as we can tell.”

“In living memory, I mean,” Birgersson said.

“If we’re both thinking about that guy at Stenpiren, I hope that was a one-of-a-kind event,” Winter said.

A man had fallen into the water and drowned, and when they tried to find out who he was, they discovered he hadn’t been reported missing anywhere in the country. He’d been wearing a tracksuit, had no money in his pockets, no keys, no ID card, no ring with an inscription-nothing. They barely managed to get his fingerprints after all the time he’d spent in the water, but that didn’t do them any good either. He was, though buried now, still unknown to the world.

“That one also took place during the Gothenburg Party,” Birgersson said. “Reason enough alone to pull the plug on the damn thing, stop the madness.”

“Some quite enjoy the party.”

“Don’t give me that, Erik. You detest the sight of big groups of people drinking beer out of plastic cups and trying to convince themselves they’re having a good time. Or letting themselves be convinced they’re giving a good time. And look what happened to our Aneta. The Gothenburg Party! How’s she doing, by the way?”

“She’s having a little difficulty chewing, I guess.” Winter had tried to block out any thoughts of Aneta. But that was the wrong way to go about it. “I’m planning to pay her another visit soon as I can.”

“Humph. I hope she comes back soon, for the sake of morale. Her own, that is. And I like her. She’s not easily spooked, especially not by me, and that shows moxie.”

“Yeah, you’re pretty scary, Sture.”

“What’s all this about a mysterious symbol?” Birgersson was a boor about changing the subject.

“I don’t know.” Winter perched his cigarillo on the edge of the ashtray. “I really don’t know. Earlier I guess I had pretty much set it aside, but then Fredrik and I were down by the lake, and, well, you read the report.”

“That must have strengthened your belief in the importance of intuition when working on an investigation,” Birgersson said. “That you were on the scene when the boys appeared.”

“I literally was on the scene. I had a sudden impulse to head out there and it led me to the right spot.”

“How do you explain, then, that Halders went there too? I don’t think our good friend Fredrik can even spell intuition.”

“It’s not an easy word to spell. Have you ever tried it yourself?”

Birgersson smiled and waved it off. “So you were on the scene. But what good did it do you?”

“What do you mean?”

“The daub of paint in the boat doesn’t prove anything.”

“Of course not. But it’s the same paint as on the tree.”

“Maybe the boys did it themselves.”

“Then they’re good liars.”

“More and more people are getting better at lying. That’s what makes police work so variable, so fascinating. It keeps you on your toes at all times, don’t you find? Everyone lies.”

“The boys may have done it,” Winter said. “Or more likely other boys, or anyone at all who wanted to leave a sign behind. Or someone who’s just pulling our leg.”

“Or else it’s something a hell of a lot more sinister.”

“Yes.”

“Then it’ll be either a lot more difficult or a lot easier,” Birgersson said. “Know what I mean?”

“A maniac.”

“Either a maniac with a purpose, who’s satisfied and lost interest and is waiting for us, or a maniac who has only just gotten started.”