The Shadow Woman

“Tell us what you know, then,” Winter said.

“What a fucking piece of work,” Ringmar said.

“One among thousands.”

“Man is a weak vessel.”

“So now we have a disappearance connected to the murder,” Winter said. They were sitting in Ringmar’s office, drinking black coffee that scalded the mouth.

“Could she have seen something?”

“Could she have seen it?”

“Could she have surprised someone?”

“Could she have sat there in the car, thinking about her future?”

“Would someone have turned into the parking lot if there was someone sitting there in a car?”

“Would they have been able to tell?”

“Could she have tried to drive off but been too afraid?”

“Could she have gotten curious?”

“Could she have been assaulted?”

“Could she have been abducted?”

“Could she be involved?”

“Could she be guilty?”

“Could she have taken the first bus in the morning?”

“Could she have had other reasons for not taking the car?”

“Could she really be who she is?”

“Could she just be a fabrication by that von Holten character, you mean?”

“Can we find that out within half an hour?”

“Yes,” Winter said. “And it’s already done. There is an Andrea Maltzer at the address that von Holten gave us, and there is a telephone number and nobody answers when you call. Or opens the door when you knock. Borjesson went by there and knocked.”

“We’re going in then, right?”

“I’d like to wait until tomorrow, if she hasn’t gotten in touch, that is.”

“What for?”

“There’s something that doesn’t add up here.”

“You can say that again.”

“She doesn’t fit in,” Winter said. “We have to concentrate.”

“What do we call what you’re talking about? Nonwishful thinking?”

“I’ll read through everything again,” Winter said. “She’ll get in touch tomorrow at the latest.”

“What makes you so sure about that?”

Winter didn’t answer. His gaze moved from the paper in front of him to Ringmar. “Have we finished running the fingerprints from von Holten’s car yet?”

“No. Quite a few people used it. It was his company car, and he lent it to others as well.”

“Other women?”

“That’s not what he says,” Ringmar said. “Other people. Work related.”

19

FROM WHERE SHE WAS LYING, THE WORLD SEEMED FAR AWAY through the tinted windows. The day looked the same from early morning till nightfall, but the evening came more quickly now, and for half an hour the grayness lifted, and before it turned black outside, the sinking light sliced into her room and blazed on the wall. For just a short moment it flared up and then disappeared into the wallpaper without a trace. In that sense they were beautiful evenings. Aneta Djanali started to feel whole again. The long periods of languor became fewer, the hours when she’d sort of drift in and out of dreams. She began to long for voices. She listened to the orderly who spoke an exciting mixed language.

She sat in bed and Winter sat next to her. She pointed at the wall and mumbled.

“Yeah, very nice,” Winter said.

She nodded and pointed at the portable CD player that lay next to her on the bed.

Winter took out a little bag from his inside pocket. “It was the last one they had at the record store. They didn’t have that Dylan album you wrote down, so I took the liberty of buying a record by a new band that’s really got something special.”

Aneta Djanali pulled out London Calling from the bag and looked at Winter quizzically. “U Wrascch?”

“Yes, the Clash.”

“Ew and?”

“New band? No, I guess it’s not a new band.” Winter smiled.

Aneta Djanali wrote “1979!” on a pad of paper and handed it to Winter.

“Time flies,” he said. “But they’re new to me. Macdonald told me about them. In fact, he even sent me the album. Guess he didn’t think we had stuff like this over here among the glaciers.”

While he spoke, Aneta Djanali slipped the disc into the CD player, pressed play, and pulled on the earphones: “London calling to the underworld…” She moved her body back and forth to the music and beat the rhythm with her fist against the covers to show Winter that she understood how good it was and how happy she was to be able to sit here and relish something she had left behind centuries ago.

“Have you listened to any of the other songs on the album?” she wrote on her pad.

“Not yet,” Winter said. “That first one requires a lengthy evaluation.”

“Here’s one called ‘Jimmy Jazz,’” she wrote.

“Really? Let me see.”

She handed him the disc and wrote, “That ought to suit you.” Then she handed him the earphones and Winter listened.

“That’s not jazz,” he said.

Aneta Djanali gripped the head of the bed firmly so as not to laugh her reconstructed jaw out of joint.

“But you haven’t seen the other album in the bag,” he said. “That’s real jazz, and a good album for someone who hasn’t listened to much music from the underworld.”

She pulled out a CD with a close-up of a black face on it and then held up the album cover and wrote, “Wow, a compact mirror!” on her pad.

Winter burst out laughing while Djanali pretended to study herself in the face on the album cover.

“Lee Morgan,” Winter said. “Search for the New Land.”

She put down her mirror and wrote, “How’s Fredrik doing?”

“Not too good without you. Apparently, the two of you have some kind of chemistry that feeds on mutual animosity.”

“Hit the nail on the head,” wrote Djanali. “Between a darky and a skinhead.”

“He’s a good skin.”

“Keep an eye on him.”

“What?”

“He could go off the rails. Not doing too well.”

“He’s not the only one.”

“Shouldn’t be writing this. But he’s,” she hesitated with her pen, “nervous, desperate.”

“You know Fredrik best of all,” Winter said.

I’m not so damn sure about that, she thought. And now my hand hurts. I’ve been talking too much.