unable to tie him to the one at Jonkoping.
The man’s name was Sven Johansson. That’s the Swedish equivalent of John Smith, Winter thought when he read through the pile of documents from Mollerstrom.
Sven Johansson. He died of lung cancer seven years ago. Was he Helene’s father? Why was her name Andersen? There was no Andersen in the files, but he was still missing the name of one of the foster families.
The mother had disappeared and never returned. Brigitta Dellmar. That’s how it was. History repeated itself. It was peculiar but not unheard of. The daughters of single mothers sometimes have children with men who then disappear. Disappear. You can’t simply disappear. We find everyone we go looking for. We found Helene and now we’ve found her mother and we’re going to find her father and her husband. Jennie’s father.
We’re going to find Jennie.
“It’s a long way down to the street,” Halders said, and peered out the window in the living room. “I can see all the way to the army drill hall.”
“Does it make you feel dizzy?”
“Yeah. I always feel dizzy when I see the Heden recreation grounds.”
“Bad memories?”
“Bad ball control,” Halders said, and turned back in toward the room. Aneta Djanali was crouched in front of the CD player.
“What sort of music do you listen to when you’re relaxing at home?”
“I don’t relax.”
“What do you listen to when you’re not relaxing?”
“I borrowed a few jazz albums from Winter, but I grew sick of it. He doesn’t ever get sick of it.”
“No.”
“I saw him sitting in a bar with Bulow the other week. Suspicious.”
“Bulow?”
“The journalist. At the
“Like you, then.”
“Exactly. Just like me.”
“What were you doing at that bar?”
“Relaxing,” Halders said. “I don’t relax at home. I relax at the bar.”
“Must cost a bit.”
“Winter didn’t look like he was relaxing.”
“So tell me what you like, Fredrik.”
“Does it make any difference?”
“I’m curious.”
“You think it’s gotta be white power music?”
“Yeah.”
“WAR stuff, huh?”
“Only when you’re relaxing.”
“You really are curious, aren’t you?”
“I’m interested in widely diverse cultures,” she said. “Yours. And mine.”
“Bruckner,” Halders said.
“What?”
“Bruckner. That’s my kind of music. Te Deum.”
“My God, that’s worse than I thought.”
“Wagner. I’m a Wagner man.”
“Don’t say any more.”
Halders looked out across the city again. “It’s a long way down. The people look like ants.”
“More like beetles.”
“Cockroaches. They look like cockroaches.”
“Fredrik. Try to relax for a moment.”
“I told you I only relax at the bar. Wanna go out?”
“Get away from that window, Fredrik.”
“You afraid I’m gonna jump?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But the thought crossed your mind?”
“It did occur to me, yes.”
“You’re right.”
Winter parked in front of Benny Vennerhag’s house. A dog barked like crazy from the neighboring yard, and he heard the rattle from the running leash.
The entrance lay in shadow. He rang the doorbell and waited, then rang the bell again, but no one opened. He went back down the steps and turned left and started along the plaster wall.
There was no longer any sun reflected in the water of the swimming pool. Nor was there any water. The pool was a hole of blue cement, and if anyone dived into it, they’d kill themselves.
Benny Vennerhag was trimming bushes. He turned around in half profile and saw Winter but kept on trimming. Scattered at his feet lay piles of branches and twigs. He wiped his forehead and put away his loppers. “I thought I heard something.”
“Then why didn’t you answer the door?”
“You came in anyway.”
“I could have been somebody else.”
“That would’ve been nice.”
“Don’t you have the impression we’ve had this conversation before?”
“Sure,” Winter said. “But now it’s even more serious.”
“I agree.”
Winter moved in closer.
“You’re not planning on becoming violent again?” Vennerhag said, and raised the loppers.
“Do you know a Sven Johansson?”
“Sven Johansson? What kind of name is that? You might just as well ask me if I know John Smith.”
“Bank robber. Among other things. Died of cancer seven years ago.”
“I know who he was. I was just thinking. It was a bit before my time, so to speak, but Sven wasn’t unknown. Not to you either, so I don’t understand why you’re coming to me.”
“He may have had a relationship with a woman named Brigitta Dellmar. Does that name mean anything to you?”
“Birgit. Dell… No. Never heard it before.”
“Brigitta. Not Birgitta. Brigitta Dellmar.”
“Never heard it.”
“Are you being totally honest now, Benny? You know what this is about?”
“Broadly speaking, but not what these names have to do with your murder.”
“And the little girl’s disappearance.”
“Yes. The child is missing, I hear.”
“Brigitta Dellmar is the dead woman’s mother.”
“Uh-huh. So, what does she have to say?”
“She’s disappeared, Benny. Gone.”
“Well I’ll be damned. That’s a lot of disappearances.”
“Two disappearances.”
“Disappeared, huh? Guess you’ll have to put out an APB.”
