“Where did you hear that?”
“I must have read it somewhere.”
“Ada has never heard about that.”
Winter stole a glance at Bergenhem. The detective was ten years younger than him. Or was it eleven? Right now it felt the other way around. Lars has knowledge in a field where I don’t even qualify as a trainee. Lucky thing Angela isn’t along.
Winter set the child gently on the ground.
“See you this afternoon,” he said.
The desk in Birgersson’s office glistened. The department chief was smoking with the window open, but Winter left his cigarillos where they were, inside his jacket pocket.
Birgersson’s face looked fried in the sunlight coming in, as if he’d held it over a fire. “The dragging of the lake has attracted every journalist in the country,” he said.
“That may be a good thing.”
“Now you’ve got more material than you can shake a stick at.”
“Better make sure I don’t get too conscientious, then.”
“Are you still upset about that?”
“Yes.”
Birgersson smiled and tapped his cigarette into the ashtray that he had taken from his drawer.
Same old procedure, thought Winter.
Birgersson cocked his head like a dog that’s just detected a sound. “Hear that? The bikers are out in force.”
“They’re fewer now that the heat’s gone.”
“But it’s come back, hasn’t it?”
“Not to the same degree.”
“This damn shoot-out at Hisingen. What’s his name? Bolander. Can’t we nail him somehow? I don’t like how he got off scot free.”
“You know how it is, Sture.”
“They can just stay put over in Denmark,” Birgersson said. “It’s a Danish phenomenon. Maybe southern Swedish.”
“American,” Winter said.
“The Danes have the worst of it,” Birgersson said. “I heard about Alborg. They shot at each other outside the station. Outside the railway station!”
Mollerstrom met up with Winter at the situation room. He was excited.
“Sahlgrenska Hospital issued an appeal for information,” he said. “In 1972, October. They’re a little unsure of the exact date.”
Winter thought about Angela in her white coat in a ward where someone lay in bandages.
“About a child?”
“About a girl who came in. Alone, somehow.”
“Sahlgrenska?”
“Yes, apparently the child was in a pretty bad way.”
“And that was Helene,” Winter said, and at once Mollerstrom looked disappointed that Winter had interrupted his chronological account.
“Yes,” he said tersely.
“What happened?”
“What I know now is that they put out an appeal for her… no, I mean for her family, asking them to come forward, and that someone recognized the girl quite soon afterward.”
“But no family,” Winter said, and Mollerstrom looked disappointed again.
“No.”
“It’s the same pattern,” Winter said. “That’s what I’m saying.”
“Neighbors from Frolunda recognized her.”
“And that’s when she got a name?”
“Yes. Helene. Helene Dellmar.”
“Dellmar?”
“She lived with her mother in an apartment in Frolunda, and their name was Dellmar.”
“But it wasn’t her mother who’d gotten in touch?”
“No.”
“So where is she?”
“I don’t know,” Mollerstrom said. “Nobody seems to know.”
Winter held the copy of the slip of paper between his fingers. The young Helene and the grown-up Helene had both held the original. Those were the conclusive prints. Had the child’s sweaty hands caused those specific prints to leave a more indelible impression behind than the others?
“So it was found in the dress in the box in the basement?” Ringmar asked. “The same one she was wearing when she was brought into the hospital?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t say here.”
“Is there anyone who’d know?”
“I don’t know, Bertil. That’s yet another question that needs an answer.”
“I’m just thinking about the dress, if she was wearing it. What happened to it afterward?”
“Yes.”
“It’s unlikely she asked for it back herself. From the hospital.”
“Well, that’s a good question.”
“So, questions: Where did that slip of paper come from? When did it end up in the dress pocket? How long has it been lying there? Who put it there?”
“Another question,” Winter said. “What does it mean?”
The apartment smelled of garlic and herbs.
“I’ve cooked dinner,” Angela said, with a glass of wine in her hand. “A proper housewife.”
“Apart from the glass of wine,” Winter said.
“Want some?”
“No. I’d prefer a gin and tonic, seeing as you’ve started the drinking. No, scratch that. I don’t want any right now.”
She followed him out into the kitchen.
“You were right.”
“Right? About what?”
“A little girl named Helene something was brought in for some reason years ago. There was a record of it.”
43
THEY HAD SLEPT TOGETHER, AND WINTER FELT THAT DIVINE fatigue in his body, like a creative fatigue that took over from the destructive one. His body was supple, rejuvenated. The last few days it had been a tool, easily abused.
“You’re thinking about the girl,” she said.
“Yes. But not like before.”
“How do you mean?”
