The Shadow Woman

“I don’t know,” Ringmar said. “I don’t fish.”

“And the boat stayed out there while you were standing by the car?” Winter asked.

“It seemed to be lying there completely still.”

“Can we just go over the times again, as precisely as possible?” Winter said.

22

THE PUBLIC APPEAL BORE FRUIT. PEOPLE CALLED IN AND JANNE Mollerstrom was one of the ones who took the calls. Many had seen something, but no one had been in the vicinity. That’s just how it was. “There’s somebody out there somewhere,” as Mollerstrom expressed it. Winter liked that kind of optimism. It was in line with his spirit.

Winter had drawn up the text, and they’d printed posters that would hang in the residential neighborhoods until they were ripped down. No photograph. The caption read, “Police seeking information!” The copy explained that a murdered woman had been found on Thursday, August 18, at 4:00 a.m., in the vicinity of Big Delsjo Lake and Black Marshes. It gave a description of her and the standard, “The police are interested in speaking to anyone who…,” et cetera; and a little farther down, “If you have any further information, please call the telephone number listed below.” And farther down still: “Let the police determine what may be of interest.” A strange sentence, if taken out of context, but Winter left it there. He signed it, “District CID, homicide department,” in order to avoid any misunderstanding, and at the bottom added, “Grateful for any tips!” The prose had an exuberant quality to it, which he disliked. But maybe that meant the poster would have an effect.

“Find anything in the boat?” Halders asked.

“Beier says it’s the same kind of paint,” Erik Borjesson said. “And it could have been daubed there at approximately the same time.”

“Anything else?” Winter asked.

“No footprints in the bilge water, but a hell of a lot of fingerprints, which it’s going to take time to go through. And that’s putting it mildly, as Beier expressed it.”

“Prints from many hands?”

“Seems the boys were only too happy to lend out their boat. Or rent it out, but they’re not telling.”

“I’ll talk to them again,” Winter said.

“There were a lot of fish scales too,” Halders said. “Seems there are fish in that lake.”

“They haven’t found any footprints up along the gunwale of the boat?”

“What’s that?” Borjesson looked at Winter.

“When you jump ashore, you step off the edge or gunwale. Sometimes anyway.”

“I’m sure Beier has checked that.”

“Speaking of checking,” Halders said. “Stockholm hasn’t been in touch? From missing persons?”

“Nothing from Stockholm,” Ringmar said. “No report that fits the description.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Halders said. “There ought to be loads of them right now. Thirty-year-old housewives who’ve had enough.”

“Had enough?” Sara Helander said.

“Who’ve left the stove,” Halders said. “Who’ve gone off to find the meaning of life.”

Winter and Ringmar had been sitting in Winter’s office, talking cars, and they returned to this when their colleagues left. Ford Escort 1.8i CLX three-door hatchback, a ’92 or ’93. Or possibly a ’94. Or a ’91, a 1.6i. The Road Administration had done a plate search via the National Police Board’s central office, beginning with the letters HEL or HEI. It took twenty-four hours. They’d received lists of all Ford Escorts with those letter combinations, as well as the earlier models, the primitive, flatter ones that were revamped and made more bulbous after ’91. They’d also requested a search of all Escort models that didn’t have those letter combinations. Beier wasn’t certain about the letters-he’d spoken of a possible “optical illusion.” No one was certain, not even the kennel guy as it turned out.

If they limited the Gothenburg area to Greater Gothenburg plus Kungsbacka to the south, Kungalv to the north, and Hindas to the east, there were 214 Escorts from between ’91 and ’94; that is to say, cars that closely resembled each other. That was a lot of cars.

“As always, it’s an issue of priorities,” Ringmar said.

“You mean this isn’t the top priority? Thanks, I know.”

“But you feel strongly about this?”

“It is a good idea, admit it.” Winter looked up from the lists that lay in shallow piles on his desk.

“It could be worse,” Ringmar said. “We could be looking for one of the most common models of Volvo.”

“It could be a lot better too,” Winter said. “A Cadillac Eldorado.”

“Why not a Trabant?”

“Fine by me.”

“We can put two guys on it,” Ringmar said after a pause. Two police officers could go into the vehicle registration database and pull up every single owner. “And we’ll start with all the ones currently on the road.”

“Who steals a Ford Escort nowadays?”

“We could always ask Fredrik. His specialty is stolen cars.”

“We can take the rentals first.”

“And the company cars.”

“A Ford Escort? You gotta be kidding me.”

“Small businesses,” Ringmar said, and Winter smiled. “Sole proprietor.”

“And after that, the private individuals,” Winter said.

“Of course, there are some you can discount right from the start.”

“We’ll assign two investigators,” Winter said. “Okay. Let them get started.”

Winter was thinking of nothing when he knocked gently and stepped inside the office of the district chief.

The asphalt in front of Ullevi Stadium was empty, a sea of black glittering from all the bits of trash that had been chucked from the cars along Skanegatan.

“I just thought I’d find out how things are going,” Wellman said. “Or how things are, rather.”

“We’re doing everything in our power,” Winter said, and considered whether he should mention the search through the vehicle registration database.

“Have you read this?” Wellman reached for the newspaper before him. “ ‘Police have no leads,’ it says.”

“You know how it is, Henrik.”

“You-We do have some leads, don’t we?”

Winter saw a big bus drive across the sea of asphalt and come to a stop. No one got out. He couldn’t tell whether the engine was turned off. “Absolutely,” he said. “Surely I don’t have to submit a report on that, do I? To you.”

“No no. But there’s a press conference this afternoon.”

“As if I didn’t know.”

“And of course it’s really all bullshit,” Wellman said. “All this damn commotion.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t like it when we don’t have a name. When we have a name, it’s a hell of a lot easier to manage everything. Like a straightforward drug deal or an aggravated assault or a hit-and-run driver.”

“You much prefer that kind of thing?”

“You know what I mean.”

“If we have more answers from the start, it’s easier to come up with leads.”

“W-What?”

“You mean that it’s easier if everything is easier from the start.”

“Now you’re parsing words, Erik.”